Читать книгу Postcards From Rome: The Italian's Pregnant Virgin / A Proposal from the Italian Count / A Ring for Vincenzo's Heir - Lucy Gordon, Lucy Gordon - Страница 13
ОглавлениеESTHER FELT LIKE she was dreaming. She had a strange sense of being detached from her body, of looking down on the scene below her, like it was happening to somebody else and not her. Because there was no way she was standing in the middle of a historic mansion, looking at the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her entire life, his proposal still ringing in her ears.
Beautiful was the wrong word for Renzo, she decided. He was too hard cut. His cheekbones sharp, his jaw like a blade. His dark eyes weren’t any softer. Just like the rest of him, they were enticing, but deadly. Like broken edges of obsidian. So tempting to run your fingers over the seemingly smooth surface, until you caught an edge and sliced into your own flesh.
It struck her just how ridiculous it was, fixating on her mental use of the word beautiful. Fixating on his appearance at all. He had just stated his intention to make her his wife. His wife.
That was her worst nightmare. Being owned by a man again. She couldn’t stand it. Never. Yes, Renzo was different from her father. Certainly this was a different situation. But it felt the same. It made her feel like her throat was closing up, like the walls were closing in around her.
“No,” she said, panic a clawing beast scurrying inside her. “That’s impossible. I can’t do that. I have goals. Goals that do not include being your... No.”
“There is not a single goal that you possess that I cannot enable you to meet with greater ease and better style.”
She shook her head. “But don’t you see? That isn’t the point. I don’t want to stay here in Rome. I want to see the world.”
“You have been seeing the world, have you not? Hostels, and dirty bars. How very romantic. I imagine it is difficult to do much sightseeing when you are tethered to whatever table you are waiting at any given time.”
“I have time off. I’m living in the city. I have what I want. Maybe you don’t understand, but as you said, you had very much of what you possess given to you. Inherited. My legacy is nothing. A tiny little house with absolutely no frills in the middle of the mountain range. And that’s not even mine. It’s just my father’s. And it never would’ve passed to me. It would’ve gone to one of my six brothers. Yes, six brothers. But not to any of my three sisters. You heard that number right, too. Because there was nothing for us. Nothing at all for women. Though, I’m not entirely certain that in that scenario the boys have it much better.” She took a deep breath. “I’m proud of this. Of what I have. I’m not going to allow you to make me feel like it’s lacking.”
“But it is lacking, cara.” The words cut her like a knife. “If it were not lacking, you would not have goals to transcend it. You wish to go to school. You wish to learn things. You wish to see the world. Come into my world. I guarantee you it is much more expansive than any that you might hope to enter on your own.”
The words reverberated through her, an echo. A promise. One that almost every fiber of her being wanted to run from. Almost. There must have been some part of her that was intrigued. That wanted to stay. Because there she was, as rooted to the spot as she had been when he entered the bar earlier that night. There was something about him that did that to her, and it seemed to be more powerful than every terrified, screaming cell in her brain that told her she should run.
“That’s insanity. I don’t need you, I just need the payment that was agreed upon, and then I can better my circumstances.”
“But why have a portion of my fortune when you can have access to the entire thing?”
“I wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with that. Frankly, having anything to call mine is something of a new experience. What you’re talking about seems a little bit beyond my scope.”
“Ah, but it does not have to be.” His words were like velvet, his voice wrapping itself around her. Her mother had been right. The devil wasn’t ugly. That wouldn’t work when it came to doling out temptation. The devil was beautiful. The devil—she was becoming more and more certain—was Renzo Valenti.
“I think you might be crazy. I think that I understand now why your wife left you.”
He chuckled. “Is that what she told you? One of her many lies. I was the one who threw that grasping, greedy shrew out onto the streets, after I caught her in bed with another man.”
Esther tried not to look shocked. She tried not to look as innocent and gauche as she was. The idea that somebody would violate their marriage vows so easily was foreign to her. Marriage was sacred, in her upbringing. Another reason that what Renzo was suggesting was completely beyond the pale for her.
“She cheated on you?”
“Yes, she did. As I said to you earlier, I, for my part, was faithful to my wife. I will not lie and say that I chose Ashley out of any deep love for her, but initially our connection was fun at least.”
Esther turned that over for a moment. “Fun?”
“In some rooms, yes.”
The exact meaning of what he was saying slipped past her slightly, but she knew that he was implying something lascivious, and it made her face get hot. “Well, that is... I don’t... I’m not the wife for you,” she finished. Because if she couldn’t exactly form a picture to go with what he was trying to imply here, she knew—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that she could never be in that kind of relationship with him.
She had never even been kissed. Being a wife... Well, she had no experience in that area. Not only that, she had no desire to be. Oh, probably eventually she would want to be with someone. It was on the list. Way far down.
Sex was a curiosity to her. She’d read love scenes in books, seen them in movies. But she knew she wasn’t ready for it herself, not so much because of the physical part, but the connecting-to-another-person part.
And for now, she was too busy exploring who she was. What she wanted from life. She had never seen a marriage where the man was not unquestionably in control. Had no experience of male and female relationships where the husband did not rule the wife with an iron fist.
She would never subject herself to that. Never.
“Why is that? Because you harbor some kind of childish fantasy of marrying for love?”
“No. Not at all. I harbor fantasies of never marrying, actually. And as for love? I have never seen it. Not the way that you’re talking about it. What I have seen is possession and control. And I have no interest in that.”
“I see. So, you are everything that you appear to be. Someone who changes with the wind and moves at will.”
He spoke with such disdain, and it rankled. “Yes. And I never pretended to be anything else. Why should I? I don’t have any obligation to you. I don’t have any obligation to anyone, and that’s how I like it. But I got myself into this situation, and I do intend to act with integrity. At least, as I see it. I wanted to make sure you knew about the baby, I wanted to make sure that your wishes were being met.”
“And yet, you saw no point in checking in with me in the first place?”
She let out a long, slow breath. “I know. I should have. But that was part of why I came to find you after Ashley said she no longer wanted the baby. Because she had made it so clear that you wanted a child desperately in the first place, and I could not believe that you would suddenly change your mind. Not based on everything she had said.”
“A convincing liar, is my ex-wife.”
“Clearly. But I don’t want to be tangled up in any of this. I just want to have the baby and go on my way.”
“That... That can be discussed. But for all intents and purposes, we are going to present you to the world as my lover. What happens after the birth of the child can be negotiated, but we will conduct ourselves as an engaged couple until then.”
“I don’t understand... I don’t want...”
“I am a very powerful man. The fact that I’m not throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you off to the nearest church, where I have no doubt I could bring the clergy around to my way of thinking, shows that I’m being somewhat magnanimous with you. I am also not overly enticed to jump back into marriage, not after what I have just been through. So, it is decided. You will play the part of my fiancée, at least until the birth of the child, at which point your freedom—and the parting price—can be negotiated.”
“We will be in the news?” The idea of her parents seeing her with him... It terrified her.
“Tabloids most likely. Perhaps some lifestyle sections of respectable papers. But that will mostly be contained to Europe.”
She let out a slow breath, releasing some of the tension that had built in her chest. “Okay. Maybe that isn’t so bad.”
He frowned. “Are you hiding from someone? Because I need to know. I need to know what might put my child in danger, cara.”
“I’m not hiding from anyone. And, trust me, I’m not in danger. I mean, I’m kind of hiding. But not because I’m afraid somebody will come after me. My parents were...strict. And they don’t approve of what I’m doing. I just don’t want them to see me written about in the paper, with a man. Pregnant. Not married.” In spite of the fact that she had long since given up hope of pleasing her parents—in fact, she had come to terms with the fact that her leaving home would mean cutting ties with them forever—she felt sick shame settle in her stomach.
“They are traditional then.”
“You have no idea.” The shame lingered, wouldn’t leave. “They never even wanted me to wear makeup or anything.”
“Well, I fear you will be defying that rule, as well.”
“Why?” She had the freedom to wear whatever she wanted now, but she hadn’t bought makeup yet. There had not been an occasion to.
“Because my women look a certain way.”
That forced a very specific image into her head. A certain kind of woman. The kind of woman her mother often talked about. Fallen, scarlet.
She had a difficult time wrapping her head around the idea that she would be presented to the world like that. Not because she felt ashamed, but because it just never occurred to her. The idea that she might be made up, and dressed up, on the arm of a man like Renzo Valenti.
“You go to... You go to a lot of events, don’t you?”
“A great many. As I said to you before, the world that I will show you is far beyond anything you could access on your own. If you want to experience, I can give you experiences you didn’t know to dream of.”
Those words made something hot take root at the base of her spine, wrap around low and tight inside her, making her feel both hot and empty somehow.
“All right,” she said, the words rushed, because they had to be. If she thought about it any longer, she would run away. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what exactly?” he said, his eyes hard on hers.
“I will play the part of your fiancée for as long as you want me to. And then after that... After the baby is born... I go.”
He took a step forward, reaching out and taking hold of her chin between his thumb and forefinger. His touch burned. Caught hold of her like a wildfire and raged straight through her body. “Excellent. Esther,” he said, her name like a caress on his lips, “you have yourself a fiancé.”
* * *
Renzo knew that he was going to have to tread extremely carefully over the next few weeks. That was one of the few things he knew. Everything else in his life was upended. He had a disheveled little street urchin staying in one of his spare rooms, and he had to present her to the world as his chosen bride soon. Very soon. The sooner the better. Before Ashley got a chance to drop any poison into the ear of the media.
He had already set a plan in motion to ensure she would not. A very generous payout that his lawyer would be offering to hers by the time the sun rose in Canada. She would not want to defy him. Not when—without this—she would be getting nothing from him due to the ironclad prenuptial agreement they had entered into before the marriage.
Ashley liked attention, that much was true. But she liked money even more. That would take care of her.
But then there was the small matter of his parents. And his parents were never actually a small matter.
He imagined that—regardless of the circumstances—they would be thrilled to learn that they were expecting a grandchild. Really, they would only be all the happier knowing that Ashley was out of the picture.
But Esther was most certainly a problem he would have to solve.
With great reluctance, he picked up his phone and dialed his mother’s number. She picked up on the first ring. “Renzo. You don’t call me enough.”
“Yes, so I hear. Every time I call.”
“And it is true every time. So, tell me, what is on your agenda? Because you never call just to make small talk.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at that. His mother knew him far too well. “Yes, as it happens, I was wondering if you had any plans for dinner.”
“Why yes, Renzo. I in fact have dinner plans every day. Tonight, we are having lamb, vegetables and a risotto.”
“Excellent, Mother. But do you have room at your table?”
“For?”
“Myself,” he said, amused at his mother’s obstinance. “And a date.”
“Dating already. So soon after your divorce.” His mother said that word as though it were anathema. But then, he supposed that was because for her it was.
“Yes, Mother. Actually, more than dating. I intend to introduce you to my fiancée, Esther Abbott.”
The line went silent. That concerned him much more than a tirade of angry Italian ever could. Then, his mother spoke. “Abbott? Who are her people?”
He thought of what she’d said about the mountain cabin her rather larger-than-usual family lived in, and he was tempted to laugh. “No one you would know.”
“Please tell me you have not chosen another Canadian, Renzo.”
“No, on that score you can relax. She is an American.”
The choking sound he heard on the other end of the line was not altogether unexpected. “That,” she said finally, “is even worse.”
“Even so, the decision is made.” He considered telling her about the pregnancy over the phone, but decided that it was one of those things his mother would insist on hearing about in person. She did like to divide her news into priorities like that. She had never gotten over Allegra’s pregnancy news filtering back to her through the gossip chain.
“So very typical of you.” There was no real condemnation or venom in her tone. Though, the simple statement forced him to think back to a time when it had not been true. When he had allowed other people to force his hand when it came to decision making. He tried very hard not to think about Jillian. About the daughter who was being raised by another man. A daughter he sometimes caught glimpses of at various functions.
Just one of the many reasons he worked so hard to keep his alcohol intake healthy at such things. It was much better to remember very little of it the next day, he found.
He had been sixteen when his parents had encouraged him to make that decision. And since then, he had changed the way he operated. Completely, utterly. He was not bitter at his mother and father. They had pushed him into making the best decision they could see.
And hell, it had been the best decision. He had proved that fifty times over in the years since. He had not been ready to be a father. But he was ready now.
“Yes, I am typical as ever. But will we be welcome at your table tonight, or not?”
“It will be an ordeal. We will have to purchase more ingredients.”
“When you say ‘we,’ you mean your staff, whom you pay handsomely. I imagine it can all be arranged?”
“Of course it will be. You will be there at eight. Do not be late. Because I will not wait, and the one thing you do not want, Renzo, is for me to be one glass of wine ahead of you.”
He felt his mouth turn upward. “That,” he said, “is very true, Mother, I have no doubt.”
He disconnected the call. Then, he made another call to the personal stylist his mother had used for years, asking that she clear her schedule and bring along a team of hair and makeup artists.
He was not sure if Esther had enough raw material to be salvageable. It was very difficult to say. The women whom he involved himself with tended to be either classic, polished pieces of architecture, or new constructions, as it were. He had no experience with full renovations.
Still, she was not unattractive. So, it seemed as though he should be able to fashion her into something that looked believable. The thought nearly made him laugh. She was pregnant. She was pregnant with his child. And while it may take a paternity test on his end to prove that to the world—or his parents—they would never ask for a test to prove maternity.
Therefore, by that very logic, people would believe their connection. But he would like to make it slightly easier.
When he went downstairs and found her sitting in the dining area, on the floor by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her face tilted up toward the sun, a bowl of cereal clutched tightly in her hands, he knew that he had made the right decision in bringing in an entire team.
“What are you doing?”
She squeaked, startling and sloshing a bit of milk over the edge of her bowl, onto the tile floor. “I was enjoying the morning,” she said.
“There is a table for you to sit at.” He gestured to the long, banquet-style piece of furniture, which had been carved from solid wood and was older than either of them, and was certainly more than good enough for this little hippie to sit and eat her cereal at.
“I know. But I wanted to sit by the window. And I could have moved a chair, but they’re very heavy. And I didn’t want to scuff the tile. And anyway, the floor is fine. It’s warm from the sun.”
“We are going to my parents’ house for dinner tonight,” he said, because it was as good a time as any to broach that subject. “And I trust you will not sit yourself on the floor then.” The image of her crouched in a corner gnawing on a lamb shank was nearly comical. That would upset his mother. Though, seeing as she had been prewarned that Esther was an American, she might not find the behavior all that strange.
He regarded her for a moment. Her hair was caught up in that same messy bun she’d had it in yesterday, and she had traded her black tank top for a brown one, and yesterday’s long, flowing skirt for one in a brighter color.
She frowned, her dark brows locking together. “Of course not.” He had thought her face plain yesterday, and now, for some reason, he thought of it as freshly scrubbed. Clean. There was something... Not wholesome, for this exotic creature could never be called something so mundane, but something natural. Organic. As if she had materialized in a garden somewhere rather than being born.
Which was a much more fanciful thought than he had ever had about a woman before. Typically, his thoughts were limited to whether or not he thought they would look good naked, whether or not they would like to get naked with him, and then, after they had, how he might get rid of them.
“Good. My parents are not flexible people. Neither are they overly friendly. They are extremely old, Italian money. They are very proud of their lineage, and of our name. I told them that we are getting married. And that you’re American. They are amused by neither. Or rather, my mother is amused by neither, and my father will follow suit.”
Her dark eyes went round, the expression on her face worried. It was comical to him that she might be concerned over what his parents thought. Someone like her didn’t seem as though she would concern herself with what other people thought.
“That doesn’t sound like a very pleasant evening,” she said, after a long pause.
“Oh, evenings with my parents are never what I would call pleasant. However, they are not fatal.”
“I have an aversion to being judged,” she said, her tone stiff.
“Oh, I quite enjoy it. I find it very liberating to lower people’s expectations.”
“You do not,” she said, “nobody does. Everybody cares about pleasing their parents.” She frowned. “Or, if not their parents, at least somebody.”
“You said yourself, you left your parents. And that they weren’t happy with you. Obviously, you don’t worry overly much about pleasing your parents.”
“But I did. For a long time. And the only reason I don’t now is out of necessity. I mean, I would’ve never had any freedom if I hadn’t let go of it.”
There was a strange feeling in his chest, her words catching hold of something that seemed to tug on him, down deep.
About freedom. About letting go.
“Well, on that same subject, there is some work to be done if we are going to present you at dinner tonight.”
“What sort of work?” She looked genuinely mystified at that statement, as though she had no idea what he might be referring to.
As he stood before her in his perfectly pressed custom suit, and she sat cross-legged on the floor looking like she would be more at home at a Renaissance fair than in his home, it occurred to him that she really was a strange creature. The differences between the two of them should be obvious, and yet, she did not seem to pick up on them on her own. Or rather, she didn’t seem to care.
“You, Esther.”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“What did you plan on wearing to dinner tonight?”
She looked down. “This, I suppose.”
“You do not see perhaps a small difference in the way that you are dressed, compared with the way that I am dressed?”
“Did you want me to wear a tux?”
“This is not a tux. It’s a suit. There is a difference.”
“Interesting. And good to know.”
He had a feeling she did not find it interesting at all. “I have taken the liberty of having some clothing ordered for you.” He lifted his hand and looked at his watch. “It should be here any moment.”
Just then, his housekeeper came walking into the room, a concerned expression on her face. “Mr. Valenti, Tierra is here.”
His stylist went by only one name. “Excellent.”
“Should I have her meet you upstairs with all of her items?”
“Yes. But in Esther’s room, if you don’t mind.”
Esther’s eyes widened. “What exactly are you providing me with?”
“Something that doesn’t look like it came out of the bottom of a bargain bin at some sort of rummage sale for mismatched fabrics.”
She frowned. “Is that your way of saying there’s something wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“No. My way of saying that is to say what you’re wearing isn’t suitable. Actually, it’s perfectly suitable if you intend to continue to wait tables at a dusty bar crawling with tourists. However, it is not acceptable if you wish to be presented to the world as my fiancée, and neither is it acceptable for you to wear on the night you are to meet my parents.”
At that, his housekeeper’s face contorted. She began to speak at him in angry, rapid Italian that he was only grateful Esther likely wouldn’t be able to decode. “She is pregnant with my child,” he said. “There is nothing else to be done.”
She shook her head. “You have become a bad man,” she huffed, walking out of the room. That last part she had said in English.
“Why is she mad at you?”
“Well, likely because she thinks I impregnated some poor American tourist while I was still married. You can see how she would find that upsetting.”
“I suppose.” She blinked. “But doesn’t she work for you?”
“Luciana practically came with the house, which I purchased more than a decade ago. It’s difficult to say sometimes who exactly works for whom.”
She frowned. “And now what? You’re going to...buy me new clothes?”
“Exactly. And take your old clothes and burn them.”
“That isn’t very nice.”
He raised his brows, affecting his expression into one of mock surprise. “Is it not? That is regrettable. I do so strive to be nice.”
“I doubt it.”
“Don’t snarl at me,” he said. “And, remember, you have to pretend to be my fiancée. In front of Luciana, and in front of Tierra.”
She scowled, but allowed him to direct her up the stairs, depositing her cereal bowl on the dining room table as she went. He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she began to ascend the staircase. When she was in motion, her clothing seemed less ridiculous. In fact, the effect was rather graceful.
There was an otherworldly quality to her that he couldn’t quite pin down. Something that he had difficulty describing, even to himself. She was very young, and simultaneously sometimes seemed quite old. Like a being who had been dropped down to earth, knowing very little about the customs of those around her, and yet, somehow knowing more than any human could in a lifetime.
And that was fanciful thinking that he never normally allowed himself.
So instead of that, he focused on the rounded curve of her rear. Because that, at least, he understood.
When they reached the bedroom, the stylist had already unveiled a rack of clothing. She was fussing around with the hanging garments, smoothing pleats and adjusting the long, complicated skirts on the various gowns.
“Oh, my,” she said, turning and getting her first look at Esther. “We do have our work cut out for us.”
