Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
New Year’s Eve seven years ago, Oxford
S ANTO COULDN ’ T HELP HIMSELF . He didn’t know whether to be impressed or outraged by Edward Carson’s arrogance. Supposedly on the back foot after one of the most shocking scandals ever seen by the group of twelve families that met each New Year’s Eve, the man was hosting this year—at his own home—as if it were equal, nay, even superior, to the exquisite locations of previous years.
It irritated Santo that this was, in fact, the case. It might have been called Roughbridge House, but the damn thing was a castle. It hadn’t escaped Santo’s notice that the greater the wealth, the greater the likelihood that they would downplay it. As if calling a sprawling Jacobean estate of nearly one hundred acres a ‘house’ was a private joke amongst the higher echelons.
Guests were welcomed into the large entrance hall, squarely positioned beneath more rows of mullioned windows than Santo had ever seen before. Staff dressed in black and white uniforms led those invited through to various exquisitely decorated rooms with names like ‘the salon’ or ‘the drawing room’, quaint references to rooms with much less grandeur than the Carsons had on full display that evening. Santo scanned the faces of the guests, acknowledging and ignoring whoever he chose, but in truth he sought only one person.
Although Pietro had not expected him to keep tabs on Eleanor beyond these annual events, knowing that it would be too much of a risk to draw attention to himself in that way, it would have been nearly impossible to miss the headline news of the ending of her engagement. And once again Eleanor had surprised him, because seeing the way she’d run back to her mother last New Year’s Eve, he’d thought she’d buckle, just like his mother had. But she hadn’t. And while there had been much speculation on the reason behind the split, both camps were insistent that it was mutual and amicable.
Of course, behind the scenes it was a completely different story. The stock market changes read like a roadmap of retribution. Things had been quiet for the first few months, presumably while Eleanor was being convinced to maintain the engagement. And presumably, Eleanor proving immovable on the matter, Carson had gone on the offensive before the Fairchilds could do so. All of this was conjecture, of course. However, the jagged, angry slashes across shareholder prices and through the ownership signatures of both families’ companies looked like a bloodbath. Rumour had it that the other families had been forced to intervene, bringing Edward and Archibald Fairchild to the table for peace talks.
Santo retrieved a glass of whisky from a passing waiter as he moved slowly from room to room. Antony’s betrayal of Eleanor Carson had cost the Fairchilds billions. But what had it cost Eleanor?
She had interrupted his thoughts more than he liked over the course of the year. The way she’d looked up at him, so shocked and hurt.
‘My father wouldn’t do that.’
Santo shook his head. Cristo , he wondered what lessons she’d learned this year.
As he looked around the impeccably decorated ballroom, there was a heady sense of expectation amongst the gathering. It reminded him of some spectator event, as if it were the Colosseum, and the audience were waiting to be entertained. They were practically baying for blood.
He peered into the crowd, seeing the way that certain groups had gathered together. It seemed that in the aftermath of Eleanor’s broken engagement, lines had been drawn and sides taken.
He caught sight of Antony Fairchild, his ruddy health only slightly dimmed by the events of the past year. Of Dilly Allencourt, Eleanor’s so-called friend, there was no sign at all. Her father was here and her grandmother, but only those two. They had positioned themselves as far away from both the Carsons and the Fairchilds in the ballroom. He doubted they’d stay for more than an hour.
He was reluctantly impressed. Eleanor had singlehandedly achieved what no other person had done in the near five-hundred-year history of these gatherings; she had created divisions. And a ruthless person, a truly calculating one, could use that to their advantage.
If it had been any other year she might have got away with not attending, but as it was Edward’s turn to host it would be painfully obvious if she were absent. He thought of the girl he’d first met two years before and wondered if she had the strength to stand up to the scrutiny she was sure to be under. And for just a moment, he found himself wishing it could have been different for her.
‘It’s really quite something, don’t you think?’
He turned to find Eleanor standing beside him on the fringe of the crowd.
‘All these people, all this power. Money,’ she clarified.
Santo nodded, something in his chest turning over at the realisation that she was finally beginning to see the truth about the people around her. And when he looked at her he could see the lines of maturity marked in her face. Slightly thinner cheeks, a knowing glint in her eyes, slightly harder than the sparkle that had been there in previous years.
‘You survived,’ he observed, relieved in a way he didn’t want to examine.
Something passed quickly across her eyes. ‘Just about,’ Eleanor replied. A thin smile pulled at lips that deserved better. ‘Can I borrow you for a moment?’ she asked hesitantly.
He shouldn’t, not really. There were too many eyes on her, but a connection had been formed between them. A connection that would only help him achieve the promise he’d made to Pietro. Severing it now could make it much harder for him in the future. And Santo would do nothing to jeopardise his vow to Pietro.
Santo nodded slowly and gestured for her to lead the way. Relief flooded through Eleanor, a strange and unfamiliar feeling these days, and she began to weave through the crowd towards the part of the house that was off-limits to the guests.
It had cost her more than she would ever admit to hold to what Santo had told her the year before. It had taken some of her innocence, a lot of her naivety and more strength than she’d thought herself capable of.
But finally, Santo was here. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d waited for. Through all the months following the awful argument that had broken out between her, Tony and her father, shortly after New Year. Through all the horrible predictions that Santo had made coming true, she’d clung to one single thought: that at least she’d see him again.
She wasn’t quite sure how, but he had become the point on her map that was fixed, allowing her to find her North Star. She had told herself that if she could just get here, just see him again, that maybe things would be okay. Because somehow last year he had become her armour. Her protection. She’d reminded herself of his words and had clung to them with a ferocity that had surprised both Tony and her father. It had surprised even herself.
A familiar laugh resounded from the living room, casting a shiver across her skin. It was edged with cruelty—Tony, as if he were taking pleasure in the fact that he was here, in her home, despite all that had passed between them. The last time she had seen him had been horrible for her. The things that were said, the anger she had seen in him had shocked her terribly.
She had believed that this was someone she loved, someone she would spend the rest of her life with. It was unimaginable to her now. So much so that sometimes she wondered if she’d gone a little mad.
But she hadn’t. Nor had she forgotten what Santo had said. Without that, Eleanor honestly thought that she might have actually taken him back. Tony and her father had persisted in their near constant attempts at persuasion for months, until Eleanor had sent the photographs to Tony’s father, informing him that if he didn’t take his son in hand, the images would appear on the front cover of several internationally respected newspapers.
The fallout had been devastating. Not because Tony’s father had ignored her, because he hadn’t. It was her father who had been the cause of her greatest hurt. She had never disappointed him before, and the sharp sting of it had been brutal. As if she’d lost the warmth of the sun from her life, the coldness harsh and visceral.
She turned back to the party to make sure they weren’t spotted, before leading him up the back stairway to the library on the second floor. She could have laughed at herself, feeling as if she were sneaking around her own home. But these days she felt like a stranger here. Uncomfortable. Aware of everything. Trying not to put a toe out of line, when she wasn’t the one who had done something wrong.
Behind her, Santo’s presence felt solid, constant. He wasn’t tiptoeing around, yet moving through the house as if it were more natural to him than her. His confidence...it was something she yearned for. Admired.
She reached the door to the library that had become her refuge in the last months. Her father was rarely home these days, and her mother let her have the space Eleanor had desperately needed. She hovered on the threshold, aware of how... intimate it felt to have Santo, a near perfect stranger who had changed her life so dramatically, in her personal space.
She opened the door and stood back to let Santo in, following him with her eyes as he walked to the middle of the room, lit solely by the gentle flames in the open fireplace. Shelves of books framed an old writing desk in front of a large bay window that, during the day, looked out over the manicured garden and the hedgerow maze. But now deep green, thick velvet curtains were closed against the wintry night. Santo scanned the photographs on the desk, one of her and her brother, one of her and her parents. The one of her and her father there to remind herself of the hope that things would return to the way they had been before.
‘That’s Freddie. My brother,’ she said, coming to stand beside him, a smile on her lips as she looked at her little brother staring up at her with nothing but love. ‘He’s a terror. He’s ten and thinks he knows everything.’
‘I’m sure you have absolutely no idea what that feels like,’ Santo observed wryly.
‘He’s the best thing in my life,’ she replied with all the love she felt. ‘Do you have siblings?’ she asked, the smile on her lips dissolving as the air between them cooled, remembering too late the scant bits and pieces of his life she’d managed to find out online.
‘No,’ he said, the absence of inflection more damning and powerful than any emotional declaration could have been. And somehow she instinctively knew that whatever kind of relationship she had, or would have, with this man, it would never be one for small talk.
He took one glance back at the photographs, pausing on the one of her parents before turning to lean back against the table, his arms crossed as if impatiently waiting. He probably wanted to get back to the party. She should just say what she wanted to say and let him leave.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
‘For?’ he asked, the Italian inflection in his clipped words harsher than she remembered.
‘For what you did for me last year. I... My entire life would be vastly different if you hadn’t said what you did.’
‘You don’t regret it?’ he asked. She felt the impact of his observation, the touch of his gaze as soft as feathers, as if he were looking for signs of dishonesty.
‘No,’ she said, allowing him to read the truth in her face. ‘But... I was ashamed that you were right,’ she said, looking down at the floor. ‘About everything.’ She’d been so sure that he was wrong that night—the warnings he’d given her—but he hadn’t been.
‘I hated you for that at the beginning,’ she admitted, thinking of those first few months when everything was still so raw. ‘A part of me wanted it to just go away. To pretend it hadn’t happened. But I couldn’t. Because of the pictures.’
Santo’s gaze never left her once, his expression unreadable in the dim light cast by the fire.
She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t know my father could be like that,’ she confessed.
Her sigh shuddered out from her chest and Santo felt it deep in his soul. It was a strange thing to hear because Santo had always known. He’d grown up knowing, as if it were instinctive—as if it were an awareness that he’d opened his eyes to from the very beginning. It had made it almost impossible for him to believe that she couldn’t see Edward Carson for what he truly was.
Yet in Eleanor he could still see the child that was desperate for her father’s love. Whether or not she could instinctively sense that love was conditional, he could hardly guess. But it wouldn’t help her or him to burst that bubble—it was something that could only be discovered for herself.
But something had eased in his chest to hear her admit that she didn’t regret her decision to end the engagement. A breath he hadn’t realised he’d held almost through the entire year released, replaced by satisfaction that he had been right to do as he had done last year. Satisfaction that he had fulfilled something of his promise to Pietro, even if it had come much sooner than either of them had imagined. Santo didn’t believe that his vow was fulfilled though. Eleanor was still very much influenced by the people under this roof and, as such, not entirely as safe as she believed. But it would do for now.
She was watching him closely and he was content to let her for the moment. What he had to hide from her was hidden too well for her to discern, and what he didn’t, he was content for her to see. He nearly smiled at how easy it was for him to read her, seeing the expressions shifting across her pretty features—curiosity, hesitancy...something more that he didn’t quite want to name. She would need to learn to hide her emotions much better.
‘Spit it out,’ he said, not unkindly, but he could feel delicate strands reaching out to bind them together and he couldn’t afford it. And Eleanor, whether she knew it or not, most definitely couldn’t afford it.
‘How did you know?’ she asked. ‘How did you know that they would do what you said they would?’
If Santo was honest with himself, he’d known that she would ask it eventually. The scales had fallen from her eyes over this last year and he could tell she wasn’t the na?ve girl he’d first met two years before.
‘Because that’s what they told my mother,’ he replied on an exhale, turning away from Eleanor and stalking towards the fire, the crackle and pop of the wood at odds with the pull of memories tugging him back to dark places. ‘When she was having last-minute doubts, they lied to her and told her that he would change once he was married. When he settled down . They lied, Eleanor, because her marriage benefitted them financially. They do it time and time again. Anything to make money. Anything to keep that money.’
He turned to take in the room. The money in here was hidden well, but still there. The carpet beneath his feet, handmade silk from some far-flung corner of the world, bought by some unknown ancestor long ago. The desk, deep, rich wood and hand-carved. It would have been considered exquisite by many, but Santo couldn’t help but see it as something that his father would have lusted after. Gallo Sabatini had wanted nothing more than the legitimacy of Eleanor’s world. He’d hated his own family because ‘they came from nothing and they died as nothing’ , his father used to snarl—often as a warning to him and his mother. As if he could one day make sure that they suffered the same fate, should he want to.
Gallo had bullied, blackmailed, stolen, beaten and eventually married his way into his empire and had never been able to sand down the rough edges of that dirt. And the greatest pleasure Santo had ever had was burying the man beside a family he’d resented for being backward, illiterate and miserable.
‘You hate them?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he replied truthfully.
‘Then why are you here? Why do you still come to these parties?’
Words halted on his tongue, struck silent by the desire to answer her and the promise he’d made to the man who had protected his mother when he, himself, had not been able to.
‘She can never know, Santo. It would change her life irrevocably. It would put her in too vulnerable a position.’
But it wasn’t just his vow to Pietro that kept him bound to this group of people, that kept him bound to Eleanor.
‘Because while I gained an empire on his death, I am also shackled to it.’
She stared back at him, thoughts crossing her features like the turning of pages.
‘What was he like, your father?’
‘Violent, ugly and mean,’ he replied, refusing to sugar-coat it for her when clearly so much of her life had been cushioned and softened.
‘Is that where you got the scar?’ she asked, her hand lifting almost to touch the mark that cut through his eyebrow.
He leaned away from her touch, the sudden shocking memory of how it had happened taking him by surprise when his defences were down. He clenched his teeth together until his jaw ached.
‘Yes,’ he said, turning away from her, not wanting to see her reaction.
The puff of exhaled air was barely audible over the crackle of the fire taking hold, but he heard it.
‘I... I’m sorry.’
He huffed out a bitter laugh. ‘What for? The man was a bastard—that’s not your fault.’
Her silence filled the small room, pressing against him in ways he’d not experienced before. Finally, he looked up, only for the sympathy in her gaze to cut him off at the knees.
‘Your father shouldn’t have done such a thing.’
Her words turned over something in his chest that he didn’t want to see. He never talked to anyone about his father. Not his mother, not even Pietro. And yet here Eleanor was, smashing through all the barriers he tried to put around the subject.
‘Fathers are just men, Eleanor, nothing more,’ he said with a weight she wouldn’t understand yet. ‘Sometimes they make mistakes,’ he said, thinking not of his own, but hers.
‘Was that what your father did? Make a mistake?’ she asked, taking a step forward.
‘No. He knew what he was doing,’ Santo said with an honesty that he’d never revealed to anyone other than Pietro.
Anger and tension swirled headily in his chest, reaching for the back of his neck in an aching hold. But Eleanor held his gaze and her nod to herself as much as him, her gentle acceptance of the violence that had shaped his life, rather than shock at it or refusal of it, calmed him in a way he’d not experienced before, in a way that shouldn’t have been possible from the spoiled daughter of one of England’s richest families.
All along she had been a contradiction. From managing to replace the shirt she’d spilled her drink on, so smoothly and seamlessly, to her ability to empathise so easily. Santo had written her off as a spoilt heiress, but she was steadily proving herself to be a puzzle. One he wanted to understand much more than he should.
‘What will you do now?’ he asked, moving the conversation onto the kind of small talk he usually loathed.
Eleanor smiled, recognising his diversionary tactic. But it was probably for the best. They had skated too close to topics that were intimate in a way she wasn’t ready for. He made her feel things that were too familiar, yet utterly alien.
She knew enough to both recognise her attraction to him but to be wary of it too. It was probably some silly infatuation because he’d been there to rescue her when she’d needed it. And it was something she sensed he wouldn’t welcome.
‘I started my degree in September. I’ll continue on with that,’ she said, thinking of the arguments she’d had with her father, who had wanted her to stay here at the house, rather than move into the halls of residence at her university.
‘What are you studying?’
‘Business,’ she replied, bracing herself against the derision he seemed to assume so quickly around her, but it never came.
‘It’s a good degree, with a lot of fundamentals that can be built on with experience. I found it useful.’
‘You did a degree?’ she asked, shocked.
His brow raised, eyes wry. ‘That surprises you?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But only in so much as not knowing where you found the time for it.’ She knew that he’d inherited the Sabatini Group upon his father’s death, and that it had been held in trust for the sixteen months it took for him to reach eighteen. But she’d always assumed that he hadn’t had time for something like a degree.
‘I studied at night,’ he admitted. ‘But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it,’ he vowed with mock seriousness.
His humour made her smile, but she recognised it as yet another diversionary tactic, keeping her at arm’s length. Despite that, she could still recognise the sheer amount of work he must have done to not only maintain his father’s business but grow it, all the while completing a degree.
‘Why did you do it?’ she asked, unable to keep her curiosity at bay. Every little piece of information made her hungry for more.
His pause made her wonder if he was debating how honestly to reply.
‘I wanted something that couldn’t be taken away from me,’ he said finally, the ring of truth in his words.
And there it was. The same desire she had. To have something fully for herself. Something that she would always have. After the shocking loss of the future she’d thought she’d have with Tony, her degree had become something that she’d clung to whenever she felt at sea. It was a need for something solid, something hers .
‘Did it work? Did it give you what you needed?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Yes...and no,’ he replied. Again, she appreciated his honesty, even as she found his answer disappointing. She’d wanted reassurance, even if it were fake. The promise that things would all be okay. But she would never get that from Santo Sabatini and she didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.
The flames in the fireplace were beginning to die down. It would be time to go back to the party soon. Eleanor knew she couldn’t stay up here for ever. Certainly, she couldn’t be caught up here with Santo. And her father would send someone looking for her eventually. But she didn’t want to leave just yet.
Santo was watching her, as if reading her thoughts in her expressions. It wasn’t intrusive in the way that she felt from many of the other guests, especially this evening. But it made her feel...lacking in some way. As if he were looking for something that wasn’t there in her yet.
She’d heard the rumours about him and Marie-Laure. The widow was beautiful, clever, sophisticated, powerful in a way that intrigued her, whilst also making her strangely jealous. It was a confidence, a self-belief that was so strong it was almost alienating. And Eleanor wondered whether she would ever be anything like the other woman.
‘I’m keeping you from the party,’ she said eventually, acknowledging the silence in the room.
‘Yes,’ he said simply.
She nearly huffed out a laugh, whether he’d meant it to be funny or not. She would always get the truth from him and she was thankful for that.
‘Well, Mr Sabatini,’ she said, returning to formality as if she could undo the intimacy of their exchange as easily, ‘thank you again.’
He nodded simply, the firelight taking slow, unfurling licks across his cheekbones, casting shadows across his powerful jaw line, across the hair curling ever so slightly at the collar of his shirt and jacket.
She held out her hand and in a flash she remembered their first handshake, the awkward mistiming of it, the trace of his hand at her fingertips. There was none of that this time. He took her hand in his, again, his gaze searching for something in her that she couldn’t help him find. His palm against hers was slightly rough but warm, his grip firm, but held just a second too long. Because in that time she yearned for something more. For something she didn’t dare name. For in her wildest dreams she couldn’t imagine this man wanting from her what she wanted from him.
‘Happy New Year,’ he said, taking his hand back and leaving the room without a backward glance.
‘See you next...’ The door closed on her words. ‘Year,’ she finished to herself.
Things would be different, she promised herself. People would have got over the gossip about her and Tony and would have found something else to talk about. Next year, she wouldn’t be defined by anything other than herself, she promised herself, hoping that perhaps then Santo would see in her what he’d been looking for.