The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (Italian Billionaires #1)(19)
Three women sat waiting on the upper level, not far from the luncheon table beneath its bower of grape vines. The eldest was white-haired and elegant, with a fortune in pearls at her throat. The next was dark-haired, dark-eyed, voluptuously rounded and beautifully groomed in a chic, middle-aged fashion. The third was younger, and sat half-hidden behind the other two.
“Nonna — Grandmother — and Aunt Filomena, may I present our guest, Miss Amanda Davies.” Nicholas paused in this formal introduction while Amanda shook hands. Then he turned to draw the younger girl to her feet. “And this is Carisa.”
Amanda drew a silent breath of surprise. Carita’s twin was pretty in a gentle, almost fragile manner, with a softly rounded body, fine textured hair that curled on the ends, childish mouth and sweet expression. She also carried upon her small features the unmistakable imprint of Down’s syndrome.
Amanda glanced at Nicholas, but he was smiling down at his sister. His face held such warm and gentle affection that it made Amanda’s throat ache to see it.
It was so unexpected, this accident of birth when everything about Nicholas de Frenza, from his looks and manner of dress to his home and lifestyle, were so near perfection, exactly as he’d decreed they should be arranged. The tragedy of it seemed doubly poignant now, while Carita lay in a hospital bed with a head injury from which she might or might not recover.
Amanda summoned a smile, taking the girl’s small, soft hand in her own as she acknowledged the introduction. But Carisa, staring at her with downturned lips and hardly a blink of her colorless lashes, did not return her greeting.
“Shall we?” Nicholas gave his hand to his grandmother to help her rise, and then walked beside her to seat her at the table.
Amanda saw no need to wait, but pulled out her own chair and sat down. That independent gesture earned a quick frown from Nicholas, who had turned to seat her next as his guest. Swinging away, he saw his aunt and his sister into their chairs then took his place at the head of the table.
The food was wonderful, fresh and savory. Amanda ate slowly, trying to find appetite for it. It wasn’t easy, considering the knot of nerves in her stomach.
The others ate with every appearance of relaxed enjoyment of each other and the food. They talked non-stop, waving their forks and hands for emphasis, and leaning to include her in frequent asides. Now and then they offered some choice morsel to tempt her appetite, commenting upon it with gusto, or else pointed out some bird or feature on the horizon they thought might interest her. If a somber expression crossed their faces now and again, it soon passed. More than once, they leaned back in their chairs to gaze around them with contentment.
A pottery jug of chilled white wine sat in front of Nicholas. He lifted it as the meal advanced, topping off everyone’s glass as a matter of course. He paused as he came to her full one.
“You don’t care for the wine? You would prefer another vintage?”
“No, no, I just don’t drink it.”
He lifted a brow. “I noticed you left it untouched on the plane. You are perhaps allergic.”
“By no means. It’s simply a choice.” The look she gave him held finality.
“But it’s one of life’s rare pleasures, and has been proven to have benefits for the health.”
“Nevertheless.”
“To have a glass or two is far better than taking tranquilizers.”
“I am aware.”
“Just a drop then?”
Exasperation touched her that he felt it necessary to turn everything into a challenge, especially after accusing her of the same thing. “I don’t want it, all right?”
“Possibly she is what they call in the States a teetotaler, Nico,” Aunt Filomena said, looking at Amanda with a charming smile. “This is the word, no?”
“Yes, but that isn’t it,” she answered, aware that his grandmother and Carisa had also stopped eating to watch the by-play.
“It’s an excellent vintage,” Nicholas coaxed, “made here at the villa from our own grapes.”
She could feel her resolve slip a notch. That added fire to her resentment. “My mother died from mixing drugs and alcohol. I promised myself I would never chance—”
“Ah, certo,” he interrupted, his face clearing. “Mi dispiace, I apologize.” Turning to Erminia who had emerged from the house with more bread, he ordered mineral water to be brought for her.
“I’m sorry to be extra trouble,” she murmured in her turn. Nicholas de Frenza became more Italian when moved by emotion, she thought, whether anger, desire or, as now, chagrin. It was an interesting discovery.
His grandmother leaned forward at that moment, asking a polite question that allowed the conversation to return to normal. Her English was polished yet formal, as if it had been learned at some finishing school decades ago. Aunt Filomena, by contrast, spoke with an American accent, one she had apparently gained in the States while married to her second husband — or was it her third? — who had been from California. She had apparently been unlucky in her marriages, though it was unclear whether death or divorce had ended them.
Carisa did not join the conversation but watched closely, dividing her attention between Amanda and Nicholas for the most part. Now and then a small, secret smile touched her lips, as if she might comprehend a little more of what was being said than Nicholas or the others seemed to think.