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‘I’m guessing that’s how they make it?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Oh. Well, I’ll get some and try.’

Then, and she could not know how rare this was, he conceded, he just offered a little more than the bare minimum. ‘I think the lemons go in the water the pasta is cooked in.’

‘Really?’ She seemed delighted and smiled at the information but then she cocked her head, and her eyes narrowed a touch. ‘You think?’

‘Okay, I know.’

She smiled at the snippet and so, too, did he. Such an odd thing to withhold, but then he had shared…and her teeny victory made them both smile.

It was then he decided to tell her who he was. ‘Sir Charles is, or was, a friend of my grandfather’s—he still speaks of him at times.’

‘Your grandfather?’ She frowned, and he watched as realisation started to dawn.

‘You thought I was a security guard.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But I thought the Count’s grandson was…’ She swallowed, wishing she hadn’t said anything because it was such the wrong thing and his sharp eyes missed nothing.

‘You thought I was damaged.’

‘Well, from my research…’ She was blushing so horribly that even in the dusky light she might have glowed a little.

‘Research?’ He calmly cut his steak. ‘Now I know that you lie. Believe me, the press say plenty about me, none of it good, but that rumour I was damaged was from a long time ago. It’s been thoroughly debunked now.’

‘Clearly.’

He took a sip of his drink and held it on his tongue and looked at her. He knew when someone was playing him, and when they were not.

Stella had truly had no idea who he was.

And that was somehow very freeing.

‘Also, I was never mute,’ he said. ‘Well, except when it came to the press and perhaps some of the investigators, who had their own agendas.’ He looked at her then. ‘I choose carefully who I speak to. Even back then.’

‘Then I feel very…’ she was blushing again, but in a different way ‘…very privileged that you’re speaking to me.’

‘And if you’re wondering, he didn’t.’

Stella paused mid-twirl of her spaghetti then looked up and frowned.

‘If you’re going by those old reports, then you would assume my father drove us off the cliff. He didn’t. We were having a wonderful day. The press were just being their usual bastard selves.’

‘That must hurt so much.’

‘You get used to it. They love to make a drama out of a crisis.’

‘No, I meant…’ Her breath hitched, unsure she should even say what she’d meant.

‘Go on.’

‘It must hurt dreadfully—that you were having such a wonderful day.’ She saw the swallow in his throat, wondered if he understood what she meant, or if she should go on. ‘It makes it worse, somehow.’

‘Worse?’ he checked.

‘Well, if they’d been fighting…’ She didn’t know how to explain. ‘My parents fought all the time. But to lose something…’ she chose the word he’d given ‘…wonderful…’