A Law Unto Himself

Someone asked Francesca when she had first become interested in Italian history, and Beatrice, not aware of how she had introduced herself to Oliver, interrupted quickly, ‘Oh, I expect it was the first time you realised the significance of your family’s place in Italy’s history, wasn’t it, Chessie? The first Duca was a captain in the army of Lorenzo the Magnificent, wasn’t he?’

Try as she might, Francesca couldn’t stop herself from looking at Oliver Newton. He was sitting there regarding her with a narrow, derisive smile, as though he knew quite well what had led her into concealing her family title.

‘Now I begin to understand the arranged marriage,’ he told her contemptuously in a low voice that reached only her ears. ‘And the beautiful, if artificial manners…’

Francesca bit back a sharp retort. She was suddenly weary of sparring with him. He exhausted her, draining her mental energy and challenging her so much at every turn that he seemed to suck her very life-force from her.

The guests didn’t linger long after dinner. Francesca excused herself as they were leaving, feeling that Beatrice and Elliott would appreciate some time to themselves. No one could have made her more warmly welcome, but she was conscious at times that she was an intruder in their home, and that Elliott in particular must resent not having his wife completely to himself.

The only person who had not yet left was Oliver Newton, and she gave him a cool nod, refusing to allow herself to be drawn into any further challenging exchanges with him.

From the hallway Oliver watched her climb the stairs.

‘Oliver, have you found a researcher yet?’ Beatrice asked him, once she was sure Francesca was in her room.

‘No, it’s proving far harder than you would believe. No one I’ve interviewed so far has much more knowledge of the period than I have myself. I wish to God I’d not accepted this American deadline, then I’d have time to do the research myself.’

He was frowning heavily, the austere planes of his face thrown into relief by the hall lights.

‘Francesca is an expert on Italian history,’ Beatrice told him quietly, and then darted a quick look at Elliott, asking for his support.

He gave it to her, albeit a trifle drily. ‘Beatrice is right, Oliver. Francesca certainly has the historical expertise you need, but whether or not it would be wise to induce her to give you the benefit of it, I shouldn’t like to say.’

‘You won’t be called on to do so,’ Oliver returned hardily. ‘You know what I think of women in the workplace, especially career women: they’re motivated by two things. Either they’re playing at being men, all aggression and ambition, or they’re using their supposed careers as a means of finding themselves a meal ticket for life.’

Upstairs, Francesca, who had realised that she had left her handbag in the drawing-room, gave a smothered gasp of outrage, but it was left to Beatrice to say quietly, ‘Oliver, you’re letting your prejudices show. I’m sure Francesca doesn’t fall into either of those categories. Elliott’s quite right,’ she added lightly. ‘Even if you were to offer Francesca the job, I don’t think I could advise her to accept it. You were very hard on her this evening. It isn’t her fault she was born into a wealthy aristocratic family… nor that her fiancé jilted her practically at the altar. I admire her for what she’s trying to do. It can’t be easy for her.’

‘Why should it be?’ Francesca heard Oliver Newton reply savagely. ‘Why should life mete out to her advantages it doesn’t mete out to anyone else? So she’s been jilted. So what? Her family will find her another husband and she’ll go home and marry him as readily as she was prepared to marry the other one, and you won’t hear another word about this supposed career. Will they?’ he challenged, stepping back slightly so that he could look up the stairs.

He knew she was there. He had known it all the time… Francesca went rigid with mortification, refusing to move from where she stood in the shadow of the landing. How had he known she was there?

She heard him laugh sourly and then walk towards the front door.

By the time Beatrice and Elliott had returned from seeing him to his car, she was safely inside her bedroom with the door closed.

Never before in all her life had she come up against such a man. He was more powerful, more challenging even than her grandfather, albeit in a very different way. Her grandfather’s autocracy came from generations of ancestors who had believed in their absolute right to do as they wished because of their birth, and to ensure that the family name was upheld as a name to be revered, while Oliver Newton’s arrogance came simply from his own belief in himself. She had never come across anyone like him before, and she shivered as she undressed, remembering the dry heat of his palm against her own; the hardness of the bones beneath the flesh… the lightning sensation of power that his touch had conveyed.

As she showered she had a momentary and vivid mental image of his hands on her body, and she stood tensely where she was, riveted to the spot, snapping her eyes open to dispel the unwanted vision, ignoring the fierce spray of the shower.

How on earth had it happened, that fierce surge of awareness so completely unfamiliar to her and yet so shockingly explicit? And she didn’t even like the man.

Hurriedly she stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, rubbing herself dry.

Forget him, she told herself, After all, it was hardly likely that she would see him again. Not if he had anything to do with it, she reflected wryly.

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