by Andie Brock
There was a long moment when their eyes clashed, before Orlando reached for his glass and took a deep slug. ‘Very well, if that’s the way you want it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Getting up, he went to refill his glass, waving the heavy decanter at Isobel. ‘D’you want to join me? You may need it.’
Isobel shook her head. As Orlando loomed before her again, looking down at her with eyes as black as midnight, she felt a shiver of dread at what he was about to reveal, felt her hands beginning to tremble as he sat down beside her.
‘I have already told you that my father—the last Marchese di Trevente—was the lowest possible form of human life.’ Orlando began his character assassination of his father with all the calmness of a contract killer, staring straight ahead, avoiding Isobel’s searching gaze. ‘A dishonourable, cheating liar who abandoned my mother when she needed him most and refused to even acknowledge my existence.’
Despite the grim acceptance, the facade of indifference, Isobel could hear the rawness in his voice—could sense how hard it was for him to talk about this. She wanted to take his hand in hers, offer some sort of comfort, but instinct—or self-preservation—kept them firmly twisting in her lap.
‘But it wasn’t until I was seventeen, when I foolishly decided to seek him out, that I saw for myself what a monster he truly was. He used me, Isobel, and then betrayed me—the same way he had my mother...the same way he did anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross his path.’
‘How did he do that?’ She posed the question tentatively, conscious that Orlando might clam up any moment, refuse to reveal any more.
‘He told me he had a plan—something that I could help him with.’ Orlando shifted in his seat. ‘And, being the reckless youngster that I was, I went along with it—at least until I came to my senses. He said he needed money—a lot of it and fast—which wasn’t surprising, considering he’d managed to gamble and drink his way through his inheritance and let the entire estate go to ruin. His plan was to burn down the Cassano wine warehouse on the docks here in Trevente and claim on the insurance. I’d get my cut. Tempting to a young man like me who literally had nothing.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘So initially I agreed.’ He took another slug of whisky, turning to face Isobel full-on. ‘A big mistake.’
Isobel bit down hard on her lip. ‘But you said you came to your senses... You didn’t actually go through with it?’
‘No. I told him I’d changed my mind. So he set about doing it himself. Razed the place to the ground.’
Isobel saw Orlando’s throat move, his knuckles white on the hand that gripped the glass. Everything about his stiffly held body, his tortured expression, told her that something bad—something very bad—had happened. She waited, both willing him to continue and dreading what she might hear.
‘There was someone in the warehouse...a girl. Sophia—the daughter of a wine merchant.’ His voiced dropped low. ‘She was overcome by smoke. I managed to drag her out but it was too late. They couldn’t revive her.’
‘Oh, God, Orlando, that’s awful.’ Isobel’s hand flew to her throat. ‘But to accuse your father of murder, Orlando...that’s a very strong word.’ Isobel found herself desperately—stupidly—trying to lessen the shock for herself and ease the anguish for Orlando. ‘Surely it was a tragic accident? He had no idea she was in there.’
‘Murder, manslaughter—call it what you like. The fact is he killed Sophia as surely as if he’d plunged a knife into her chest.’
Orlando’s tormented expression ripped through Isobel.
‘And the courts agreed.’ Collecting himself now, he continued. ‘He got fifteen years. That was despite his best efforts to pin the blame on me, of course.’
‘He did that?’
‘Yep. Honourable to the last, my father.’
‘How dreadful for you.’ Isobel flinched against the idea that a man could do such a thing to his son. ‘Did he die in prison?’
‘No. He was released a few years ago, but he knew better than to try and make contact with me. He never returned to Trevente either. He’s back here now, of course—in a coffin.’
There was a long pause.
‘I’m so sorry, Orlando.’
‘What is there for you to be sorry about?’ Suddenly rough, Orlando scowled at her. ‘None of this is any of your concern. The man is dead now. His wretched past can be buried with him.’
So that was it—the reason Orlando was so determined to renounce the title of Marchese di Trevente and sell the estate. Isobel scanned the taut features of his face, trying to make sense of what he had told her. Because something didn’t add up. Orlando was a planner, a strategist—surely he would have decided long ago what he was going to do with the Trevente estate when he inherited it. Why did his reaction feel so immediate? So raw?
She decided to risk another question. ‘You must have known that this would be your inheritance. Did you always plan to sell it?’
‘I knew nothing of the sort. When I defied my father he took great delight in telling me that I would get nothing. Like I cared. Nothing would have been infinitely preferable.’
‘And yet he left it to you anyway?’
‘I can only think it was his way of having the last laugh.’ Orlando roughly raked a hand through his hair. ‘Leaving me an estate that he had managed to bring to its knees and a title that’s synonymous with an alcoholic, gambling murderer.’
‘I see.’ In the chilling quiet of the room an idea suddenly formed in Isobel’s head. ‘Will you take me there?’
‘Scusi?’
‘Will you take me to the Trevente estate to see the castello? If you really are determined to sell it, this will be my only chance.’
‘Why on earth would you want to see it?’
‘So I can get some sense of the history of your family before it’s lost for ever. So I can describe it to our child in the future, when he or she asks about their heritage.’
‘Spare me the violins, please.’ Getting to his feet, Orlando looked down on her with merciless scorn. ‘Much as I hate to burst your rosy bubble, there is nothing about the place that you would want to describe to our child. The castello has been lying empty for the last seventeen years. It was in an appalling state then—I dread to think what it looks like now.’
‘I want to see it, Orlando.’
Isobel watched as her fierce determination met his wall of resistance. She saw his eyes flicker, then narrow, his throat move as he deliberated.
‘Very well. If you insist.’
‘Can we go tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow...whenever—it makes no difference to me.’
‘Thank you, Orlando.’ Isobel gave him a genuine smile. ‘I appreciate it.’
* * *
Isobel stared up in awe at the majestic old building that towered before them. With its single turret flanking rows of shuttered windows it was like a fairy tale castle, standing tall and proud against the cobalt blue of the evening sky.
But it was certainly in one hell of a state. Ivy scrambled across the honey-coloured stone, creeping over the shutters and the ornate iron balconies. Large chunks of masonry had fallen away and the row of architectural balustrades high above them were tipping drunkenly against one another. The shallow flight of steps that Orlando was marching up now was almost covered with weeds and tangled undergrowth.
Picking her way carefully to join him, Isobel stood under the crumbling portico of the massive front door, taking in the peeling, sun-bleached paint and the circular bronze knocker as Orlando forced the heavy iron key into the lock.
Inside the castello it was dark and musty-smelling. Isobel stood in the hallway, waiting for her eyes to acclimatise, but Orlando had already made for one of the many doorways, striding towards it and flinging open the door. She could hear his footsteps echoing across the wooden floor, and her eyes followed him as he crossed the cavernous room, tugging at the metal catch that opened the shutters and pushing them back with an unnecessary for
ce that saw them creaking against their rusty hinges.
Moving to the doorway, she watched as he went over to the next set of shutters, flinging them open in the same aggressive way before marching over to the third.
‘We need to get some light in this place.’ His voice was a growl over his shoulder.
Feeling a switch beside her, Isobel flicked it down, looking up hopefully at the two enormous, dusty chandeliers that hung high above them from a ceiling gaping with holes. But there was nothing. And despite Orlando’s feverish attempts, even with the shutters open, little of the setting sun’s light permeated and the room was still bathed in a dusky grey twilight.
Narrowing her eyes, Isobel tried to take in the scene around her. Dust sheets of various shapes and sizes concealed pieces of furniture like weary ghosts, and massive portraits in crumbling gilt frames adorned the walls—along with darkened rectangles on the ripped silk wallpaper where others had hung. The far end of the room was dominated by a carved marble fireplace, its grate blackened by centuries of roaring fires.
When her eyes finally came back to Orlando, Isobel realised he had been watching her intently, a look of grim satisfaction on his face.
‘So.’ Standing with his back to the window, feet planted wide apart and arms folded, he addressed her with calculated ruthlessness. ‘Now you have seen my inheritance for yourself, has it shattered your romantic image?’
Isobel shook her head, slowly advancing towards him, still looking around her. ‘I think it’s beautiful, Orlando.’
‘Hah!’ Orlando’s scornful reply echoed around them. ‘Then you have a very strange idea of beauty, Isobel. I don’t see anything very beautiful about this—’ he kicked at a large piece of plasterwork that had fallen by his feet ‘—or this.’ Marching over to the fireplace he gestured at the remains of a blackbird, long dead.
Isobel shuddered. ‘What I mean is I can see that it was beautiful once and could be beautiful again.’
She watched Orlando walk away from the bird before he returned his punishing stare to her face. But she wasn’t going to back down. Filling her lungs to continue speaking, she could hear a small inner voice asking her just why she felt the need to defend this place so strongly—especially in the face of Orlando’s obvious hostility. For some reason she wanted to protect it—somehow it had already stolen her heart.
‘I think that with time and money and vision this place could be restored to its former glory and would make an absolutely stunning ancestral home.’
‘Do you, now?’ Sarcasm leached from his words.
‘Yes, I do. And if I had inherited this property—if it had been in my family for generations—I wouldn’t dream of selling it. No matter what...’ She hesitated, knowing she was straying into dangerous territory. ‘No matter what had happened in the recent past.’
‘Is that so?’
The sneer in Orlando’s voice scraped her skin as he closed the space between them, standing before her with blazing contempt in his eyes.
‘What is it with you, Isobel? Why are you so interested in this place? Do you fancy yourself as a marchesa? Is that it? I know the English are obsessed with their titles.’
‘No—it’s nothing whatsoever to do with that!’ Isobel smarted. ‘And may I remind you that in order to be the Marchesa I would have to be your wife?’
‘And so you will be.’ Orlando’s voice was a decisive lash across the quiet of the room.
‘Oh, you think so, do you? I wouldn’t be so sure.’
Bristling at his overbearing authority, Isobel tossed the contemptuous words at him. Then immediately wished she hadn’t. Because the murderous look on Orlando’s face, along with the dramatic drop in temperature, sent a trickle of ice through her veins, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. In the dying light even the shrouded furniture seemed to have awoken to her reckless words, as if the spirits beneath were shifting.
‘You gave me your word, Isobel...’ Orlando’s voice was a low, deadly, growl.
As he leant forward Isobel felt her breath shudder to a halt, only to be released in a gasp when he reached for a lock of her hair.
‘I wouldn’t recommend changing your mind now.’ He let the silky softness of her hair slip between his fingers, watching as it fell to frame her face. ‘I think that would be a very bad idea indeed.’
‘I didn’t say I had changed my mind.’ With his eyes mercilessly tracing every inch of her startled face, Isobel fought to stand her ground. ‘But neither will I give in to threats.’
‘Well, that makes two of us, Isobel. Because if you think you can use marriage as some sort of bargaining tool, to give you some sort of hold over me, then you are very much mistaken. For the sake of our child we are going to be married. And that’s an end to it.’
Isobel stared back at him, refusing to be cowed. But he was too close, too alive—just too hypnotically, magnetically Orlando. As his gaze probed hers, his breath soft and warm on her face, all her thoughts of a clever comeback were lost. Instead she had to fight the electrifying jolt of awareness that was hammering through her. Silently cursing herself, she lowered her head.
‘So.’ Taking her silence as a sign of victory, Orlando placed a finger under her chin and raised her face to meet his again. ‘If not for the title, tell me why you are so keen to protect my inheritance?’
Isobel blinked against his stare. She really had no idea.
‘Why does this crumbling ruin of a place excite you when my attempts to offer you a beautiful home in New York are shot down in flames?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I...’
‘Then let me elaborate.’ He pressed a fingertip to her lips. ‘You treat our relationship—whatever the hell that is—like some sort of business deal that you have to endure. You try and exclude me from being a part of my baby’s life. You deliberately construct barriers to keep me out. And if that weren’t enough you question every damned decision I make—whether it’s to do with the marriage or the baby or even this rotting pile of bricks. In short, you contest everything I say.’
‘No, I don’t.’
It was almost funny—it would have been funny if she hadn’t been pinned to the spot by Orlando’s punishing stare, aware of the angry rasp of his breath. Moving his head fractionally to one side, he raised dark brows in a gesture that showed how neatly she had fallen into his trap.
Isobel touched her tingling lip with the tip of her tongue—a gesture that saw his eyes blaze with fire, then narrow.
‘So what are you saying? That you expect me to take orders from you? Basically do as I’m told? Because, if so, I can tell you that is never going to happen.’
‘Evidently.’ Orlando rubbed at his eyes with a spanned hand.
‘Anyway, I could say the same of you. You insist on challenging all my decisions.’ Sensing that he was weakening, if not exactly on the ropes, and that he was tiring of this subject, Isobel went in with a final jab. ‘Maybe we are as bad as each other.’
‘Yes. Maybe we are.’ With one last telling stare Orlando jammed his hands into his pockets and turned away. ‘Come on. We are leaving.’
‘Leaving?’ Isobel repeated.
‘I’ve seen enough.’
‘But we’ve only just got here. We haven’t even been upstairs yet, or seen the grounds or anything.’
‘I said I’ve seen enough.’
Moving past her, he swept out into the hall, obviously thinking that the force of his black mood alone would be enough to sweep her along in his wake. Well, he could think again. She certainly wasn’t going to get into a car with him when he was behaving like this. It was too dangerous. He’d drive too fast. She was going nowhere right now.
‘I’m staying here.’ Conscious of her contrary image, Isobel thought she might as well live up to it.
‘Scusi?’ Orlando swung round to face her again, his features blackened by irritation. If he’d been wearing a cape it would have been swept across his body in a show of contempt.
&n
bsp; ‘I said I want to stay here a bit longer.’ Straightening her spine, Isobel refused to weaken under his blistering gaze. ‘I’ll get a taxi back to the hotel if you don’t want to wait.’
‘And how exactly do you intend to do that?’
‘Easy.’ She delved into her bag for her phone, but what Orlando’s smug silence suggested was soon confirmed by the screen—there was absolutely no signal. ‘Well, when you get back to the hotel you could arrange for a taxi to pick me up in an hour or so.’
‘I could.’ Orlando’s voice was now an infuriating growl. ‘But I have no intention of doing any such thing.’
Isobel balled her fists by her side. Why did he always have to call the shots? Why did everything have to be done on Orlando Cassano’s terms?
‘Look. If you go ahead with your threat to sell Castello Trevente this may be my one and only chance to have a look around. So if you don’t mind, since we’re here, I’m going to take the opportunity to see what’s upstairs.’
In a gesture of pure defiance she turned away from him, starting up the stairs before he had the chance to stop her.
‘Just as you like.’ Isobel didn’t need to see his face to know that Orlando’s tight words of concession were killing him. ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’
Ten minutes. As she continued her stately ascent of the stairs, picking her way over fallen masonry, she mentally told him what he could do with his ten minutes. She was going to stay here as long as she wanted. What could he do about it? Drag her out by her hair?
Isobel quickly banished that image from her mind before it sank its erotic claws into her skin.
‘And by the way...’ Orlando called up to her retreating back. ‘Selling this place is not a threat. Now that I’ve seen the state of it I can tell you—it’s a certainty.’
CHAPTER SIX
MARCHING AROUND THE overgrown gardens, Orlando checked his watch yet again. Isobel’s ten minutes had stretched into fifteen, twenty, and there was still no sign of her. He’d go in there and demand she came out if he had to—and that was looking increasingly likely—but throwing his weight around wasn’t his style. At least it never had been.
