Will He Ask Her to be His Bride?. Trish Wylie

I am at the Castello for a while.’

      ‘Have you met Hester?’

      ‘We introduced ourselves, yes,’ said Luigi, smiling at her. ‘Are the Andersons here?’

      ‘No. Just Hester, myself and my daughter.’ Connah took Hester’s hand. ‘Darling, would you be an angel and ask Flavia to bring us some coffee?’

      Darling? Hester gathered up her belongings. ‘I’ll get Lowri up while I’m there.’

      Grateful for the long, filmy shirt which veiled most of her from the Italian’s appreciative gaze, Hester went quickly up the garden and into the house to announce, as best she could, that they had a visitor.

      ‘Caffè, per favore, Flavia, per signore Martinelli.’

      The name had a dramatic effect on the plump little woman. ‘Il Conte? Maddonnina mia—subito, subito!’ Flavia went into overdrive as she began laying a silver tray with the Andersons’ best china.

      Amused, Hester went upstairs to find Lowri already changed for her swim. ‘Your father has a visitor, so put a shirt on top. I won’t be a moment. I’m going to change.’

      The glowing face fell. ‘But you said you were going to swim with me!’

      ‘And I will, later, but right now I’m going to get dressed.’

      Lowri gave an admiring look at the sea-green bikini. ‘Do you have to?’

      ‘Yes, I do. Go on down and meet the visitor, if you like. I’ll be five minutes.’

      ‘I’ll wait for you,’ offered Lowri.

      ‘Flavia’s making coffee for the visitor. Why not run down and ask if you can carry something to the pool for her?’

      ‘OK. But don’t be long.’

      Hester pulled on a white cotton jersey shift at top speed, the word ‘darling’ reverberating in her head. At last, her hair caught up in a careless knot, gold thong sandals on her feet, dark glasses in place, she went downstairs to the kitchen where, with many apologies and much hand-waving, Flavia explained that the cakes meant for dessert after supper had been served to Il Conte with his coffee.

      ‘Non importa,’ said Hester airily, and took the ice-filled jug of lemonade Flavia handed to her.

      As she strolled down the descending tiers of flower beds towards the pool, Hester watched the two men standing together, with Lowri between them like a small referee. They were both dark, mature men, but Signor Martinelli, or Il Conte as Flavia called him, was unmistakably Latin. He wore elegant casual clothes, as expensively cut as his glossy black hair, and had an air of swagger about him even in repose. Connah’s darkness of hair and eye were, at least to Hester’s eye, unmistakably Celt. He was the taller of the two, with a hint of toughness and power about his broad-shouldered physique which appealed to Hester far more than the grace of the urbane Italian.

      ‘Ah, Hester,’ Connah said, smiling, as he took the jug from her. ‘Perhaps you’ll pour for us while Lowri hands round the cakes?’

      ‘Certainly.’ She looked enquiringly at Luigi Martinelli, who promptly took the seat beside her as she sat down. ‘You like your coffee black?’

      ‘Grazie.’ He eyed her with open appreciation. ‘And how do you like my homeland, Miss Hester? You have travelled here before?’

      ‘Not here exactly. I’ve been to Venice, but this is my first time in Tuscany, which is so beautiful, how could I not like it? Please, have one of Flavia’s cakes.’

      He took one from the plate Lowri was offering, smiling fondly at the child. ‘And how old are you, carina?’

      ‘Ten,’ she said quietly, shy in the presence of this exotic visitor.

      ‘You are a tall lady for ten,’ he said with admiration.

      ‘Is Sophia with you?’ asked Connah.

      ‘No. My wife is in Rome. Where else? She does not care for the campagna! Luigi shrugged. ‘But from time to time I experience la nostalgia for the tranquillity of my old home. When I heard that Casa Girasole was occupied I assumed that the Andersons were here and came to invite them to dinner tonight. But I would count it a great privilege, Connah, if you and your ladies would honour me with your company instead.’

      Connah shook his head decisively. ‘Sorry, Luigi. We keep early hours here to suit my daughter. Another time, perhaps.’

      ‘Of course.’ Luigi drained his cup and stood up. ‘It was a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Hester, also you, Miss Lowri. A charming name,’ he added. ‘I have never heard it before.’

      ‘It’s Welsh for Laura,’ she volunteered shyly.

      He startled the child by bowing gracefully over her hand before bidding the others goodbye. ‘I hope to see you again soon. Ciao.’

      Luigi Martinelli strolled off the way he’d come, knowing—and probably enjoying the fact—that three pairs of eyes watched him go.

      ‘What a nice man,’ said Lowri, taking the chair next to Hester. ‘Can I have some limonata, please?’

      Connah raised an eyebrow at Hester as she poured it. ‘What did you think of our local sprig of nobility? I should have introduced him as Count Pierluigi Martinelli. The local Castello has been in his family for centuries.’

      ‘Flavia mentioned the title as she rushed to make coffee for him.’ Hester smiled. ‘You note that the Andersons’ best china was produced for Il Conte.’

      ‘Flavia has lived here all her life. In her mind, she numbers God, the local priest and Luigi as most important in the local pecking order—though not necessarily in that order. As a girl she was a maid up at the Castello, and Nico, her husband, is Luigi’s gardener.’

      ‘Is it a real castle with turrets and things?’ asked Lowri, fascinated. ‘I would have liked to see it, Daddy.’

      He smiled ruefully. ‘Sorry, cariad, I should have consulted you before turning Luigi down.’

      ‘We couldn’t have gone tonight anyway,’ she reminded him. ‘We’ve got Flavia’s special chicken dinner.’

      ‘So we have.’ Connah picked up the tray. ‘I’ll leave the lemonade, but I’ll take the rest in for Flavia, then I think I’ll change and have a swim.’

      ‘Me too,’ said Lowri promptly, stripping off her shirt. ‘Are you going to change back into your bikini, Hester?’

      ‘I don’t think so. You can have your swim with your father,’ said Hester, avoiding Connah’s eye.

      ‘Spoilsport,’ he murmured as his daughter jumped into the pool.

      Hester was happy to sit where she was, watching as father and daughter played in the pool. Connah’s muscular body was broad in the shoulder and slim-hipped, also deeply tanned, probably, thought Hester, by some other foreign sun, in striking contrast to his daughter, whose fair skin was already acquiring a glow, courtesy of the Tuscan sun, but it was a different tone from her father’s. Lowri’s eyes and skin obviously came from her mother and, as she often did, Hester wondered about the woman Connah had cared for so deeply. After the one startling incident when he’d showed his emotions on the subject, he hadn’t mentioned her again. And why should he? Theirs was a professional, working relationship, she reminded herself. On Connah’s side, anyway.

      Eventually, after much splashing and laughter, father and daughter went in the house to shower and dress. When Connah announced that he was going to do some work before dinner Lowri asked him if she could walk to the village with Hester.

      ‘Flavia says they have good gelato in the shop there,’ she said eagerly.

      ‘How you do love your ice cream,’ he mocked. ‘But I’d