Ellery forced a polite smile. ‘Is your companion arriving soon?’ she asked, still holding the wretched woman’s coat. When Amelie had emailed the reservation, she’d simply said ‘and guest’. Ellery presumed this guest was the aforementioned Larenz.

‘Yes, he’ll be here for dinner,’ Amelie informed her idly. She turned around in a slow circle, taking in the drawing room in all of its shabbiness. ‘Good heavens, it’s even worse than the photos on the website, isn’t it?’ she drawled, and Ellery forced herself not to say anything.

She’d chosen photographs of the best rooms for her website, Maddock Holiday Lettings. The conservatory, with throw pillows carefully covering the threadbare patches on the sofa and the sunlight pouring in, bathing the room in mellow gold; the best bedroom, which she’d had redecorated with new linens and curtains.

It had set her back a thousand pounds but she’d been realistic. You couldn’t charge people to sleep on tattered sheets.

Still, Amelie’s contempt of her home rankled. This venture, letting the Manor out to holidaymakers, was new, and Amelie, in fact, was only the second guest to actually come and stay. The other had been a kindly elderly couple who had been endearingly delighted with everything. They’d appreciated the beauty and history of a house that had stayed in the same family for nearly five hundred years.

Amelie and her Italian lover just saw the stains and the tears.

‘And they’re making a few more while they’re at it,’ Ellery muttered under her breath now. She pictured the scarlet splash of red wine on the Aubusson once more and she groaned aloud.

‘Are you quite all right?’

Ellery whirled around; she’d been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the man—Larenz—enter the kitchen. He’d arrived only a few minutes before dinner had been served and Ellery hadn’t really had time to greet or even look at him properly. Yet she’d seen enough to form an opinion: Larenz de Luca was not the toy boy she’d expected. He was much worse.

From the moment he’d arrived, Amelie had flirted and fawned over him, yet Larenz had been impervious and even indifferent to the attentions of the gorgeous, if rather emaciated, Amelie, and every careless or callous remark or look had grated on Ellery’s nerves, which was ridiculous because she didn’t even like Amelie.

Yet she hated men who treated women like playthings just to be enjoyed and then discarded. Men like her father.

Ellery forced such negative thoughts away and nodded stiffly at Larenz. He lounged in the doorway of the kitchen, one shoulder propped against the frame, his deep blue eyes alight with amusement.

He was laughing at her. Ellery had sensed it before, when she’d been scrubbing at the stain. He’d enjoyed seeing her on her knees, working like a skivvy in front of him. She’d seen the smile curl the corner of his mouth—his lips were as perfectly sculpted as a Renaissance statue’s—and the same smile was quirking them now as he watched her pace the kitchen.

‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you,’ she said. ‘May I help?’

‘Yes, you may, actually,’ he returned, his voice a drawl with only a hint of an Italian accent. ‘We’ve finished the soup and we’re waiting for the next course.’

‘Of course.’ She felt colour flare in her face. How long had she been wool-gathering in the kitchen while they waited for their meal? ‘I’ll be right out.’

Larenz nodded but he didn’t move, his eyes lazily sweeping over her, assessing and dismissing all in one bored glance. Ellery could hardly blame him for it; she was dressed in a serviceable black skirt and a white blouse with a sauce stain on the shoulder, and the heat from the kitchen was making her sweaty. Still, his obvious contempt aggravated her, and was so typical of a man like him.

‘Good,’ he finally said and pushed off from the doorframe, disappearing back into the dining room without another word.

Ellery hurried to check on the chicken simmering on the stove. Fortunately, the tarragon cream sauce hadn’t curdled.

Back in the dining room, Amelie and Larenz sat unspeaking. Larenz looked relaxed, sprawled in his seat, while Amelie seemed tense, drumming her nails once more, the little clicks seeming to echo through the silent room. She had, Ellery saw, caused another divot in the ancient tabletop.

Amelie had barely touched her soup but Ellery saw, to her satisfaction, that Larenz had completely cleaned his bowl. As she reached for the empty dish, he laid a hand on her wrist, shocking her with the unexpected touch. His skin was warm and dry and it sent a strange, not unpleasant, jolt right down to her plimsoll-encased toes.

‘The soup was delicious,’ he murmured, and Ellery jerked her head in the semblance of a nod.

‘Thank you. Your main course will be out shortly.’ Nerves caused her hands to tremble and the bowl clanked against his wine glass as she took it, making her flush and Larenz smile lazily.