She shrugged.
‘Who had the problem? Did they ever hurt you?’
Stefano’s voice was low and cool. It might have been soothing in a way, but it carried a steel edge that suggested he wanted to take on the role of avenging angel on her behalf. His cold certainty melted away her apprehension, replacing it with something softer, warmer. These conflicting feelings made no sense. Still, nothing much in her life did right now.
‘My father liked to drink. He never touched me, but...’
All those times he’d blamed someone else for his failures. Business ventures going wrong. Bets lost. As a child, she hadn’t understood it. As an adult, she’d come to learn that her father had trouble taking any responsibility for his actions or his life. He expected everything to be handed to him. Even her violin.
‘Your mother never really gave it to you. She only pretended it was yours to hide it from me. I won’t let her get away with it...’
The implication was clear. His alcoholism. His anger. It wasn’t his fault. It was her mother’s. Hers.
‘Words and actions can hurt more than fists,’ Stefano said, in a way that sounded far too knowing.
She wondered what could possibly have hurthim. He had everything. A title, power, a castle... There was a veneer of perfection about him that seemed hard to crack, although she’d glimpsed a few things. The apparent tiredness. Those moments when his gaze became unfocussed and distant.
‘My father’s a complicated man. He’s an only child and was doted on by his parents. They gave him everything—he just couldn’t seem to hang on to it. He likes drowning his sins too.’
Stefano pushed the bottle away from him with two long, elegant fingers. The look on his face was earnest and sure. ‘Whilst you’re in my home, this won’t happen again.’
Something inside her let go, relaxed the tiniest of fractions, and the exhaustion that had threatened all day began to wash over her again.
‘You’re safe here, Lucy. You have nothing to fear from me.’
After months of not knowing who or what to believe, for a few moments of relief she allowed herself to accept Stefano’s words to be true.
Stefano was certain that if he looked in a mirror he wouldn’t like his reflection much right now. He’d made Lucy worried, perhaps afraid. Her eyes had been wide, her body tense. What sort of persondidthat? No one good, he was sure.
Having this woman think less of him didn’t sit well. Huddled in front of the fire, beautiful and unkempt in the warm light of the room, she looked as if she needed a protector. Once, he’d have been that person. Caring, taking care. Now, he shouldn’t be entrusted with anything precious because he’d destroy it. Still, he loathed it that Lucy might believe she needed protection from him.
‘You can’t sleep here on the floor.’
She curled her arms round herself, fingers gripping the edges of the duvet. ‘It’s okay. Really.’ She grappled with something beside her—something angular.
Stefano frowned. ‘What do you have under there with you?’
She shrugged. ‘My violin.’
‘Yourwhat?’
Of all the answers, that was not one he’d expected her to give.
‘I’m not the first violinist who’s slept with one and I won’t be the last.
‘Why?’
‘It’s a three-hundred-year-old instrument, and if it gets too cold and dry the wood might crack.’
It dawned on him now why she was here, in this room with the large fireplace. He felt the sickening sensation of one more layer of guilt joining the rest.
‘You’re cold. I’m freezing you. Lucy, you should have called me. I’d have found you more blankets.’
‘I thought you’d be asleep. Anyhow, I don’t think more blankets will work. It’s the bedroom. The fireplace is tiny and the fire went out. Don’t worry about me—here’s comfortable.’
He was the devil who’d done this to her, and he’d make it right. ‘Take my room. It has a larger fireplace.’
‘I—I couldn’t. Where will you go?’