Читать книгу Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 13

PART of her wanted to die of shame. But another, and more realistic part of her knew that a life in which she’d never again feel his arms round her or taste his kisses would be total desolation anyway.

I could survive that—just, she thought. What I can’t bear is that very soon I’ll be leaving here—and I’ll never see him again. Never hear his voice, or see his mouth curve into that slow, amused smile.

It was as if she’d been afforded a glimpse of Paradise, then had it taken away for ever. And that was the most devastating realisation of her entire life.

It was useless to argue that she and Guido Bartaldi had known each other only a matter of days, and that all she was suffering from was a severe case of physical attraction, which could soon be cured.

Her heart told her unequivocally that for her it went much deeper than that. That she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him—laughing with him, fighting the occasional battle with him, making him happy as she knew only she could.

Except that wasn’t the way life worked out. Because Guido had his own plans, and they did not include herself. Unless she was content to exist on the margin of his life, like the woman in Siena.

Clearly he saw no reason why his private life could not be conducted on two levels. Which was why he planned to marry a pretty girl with whom he hardly shared a thought, while conducting other more fulfilling liaisons at a safe distance. The cynicism of it—and the sadness—made her want to weep, even though she knew she should really despise him.

But she couldn’t.

‘Fool,’ she lambasted herself. ‘Sad, pathetic idiot.’

She’d found a secluded bench under a flowering hedge a long way from the house, and she crouched there, her arms hugged protectively round her body, deathly cold in spite of the sun’s heat.

Telling herself that Guido would not repeat his ‘terrible mistake’ and that she’d be safe from any further advances from him was poor comfort. It would not save her from hungering for him, she thought drearily. But at least it might leave her with the tatters of her self-respect.

She glanced at her watch and got reluctantly to her feet. She’d been missing for nearly two hours, and lunchtime was approaching. She didn’t want search parties being dispatched for her.

She’d been in too much emotional turmoil to take note of the exact route to her refuge, but it hardly mattered as all the paths in the grounds would lead back to the villa.

But not necessarily to the part she knew, she discovered, as she emerged into a narrow cedar-lined avenue which took her only to a small Romanesque building with a campanile beside it, which she supposed must be the Bartaldi family chapel.

The house, she saw, was some distance away to her right, and she’d come out at the rear of it.

She checked, shading her eyes as she looked up at the elaborate stone frontage of the chapel. Some of the figures of saints that ornamented it looked as if they had seen better days, and some guttering was hanging loose.

Wondering what it was like inside, she tried the handle of the heavy wooden door, half expecting it to be locked, but it opened easily and she went in.

The interior was dark, most of the light coming from a round stained glass window above the altar which had been partly boarded up. The smell of incense lingered in the air, along with the more pungent odour of dust, but none of the candles were lit, and there was a down-beat air of disuse about the place which disappointed her.

She was turning to go when a door at the side of the sanctuary opened and Tonio Lerucci came into view, carrying a sheaf of papers.

He paused in obvious astonishment when he saw Clare. ‘Signorina Marriot—what are you doing here?’

Clare shrugged. ‘I like old churches. Am I trespassing?’

‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘At least not if circumstances were normal. But you see the chapel and, even more, the campanile were damaged during the last earthquake, and we cannot be certain how safe they are.’

‘But you’re here,’ Clare pointed out.

He laughed. ‘Yes, but I am not an honoured guest of the Bartaldi. I’m here to make a preliminary inspection before the architect comes next week to assess what will need to be done to restore the chapel again.’

‘So it’s going to be repaired.’ Clare looked round again. ‘I’m glad. It doesn’t look too bad. Just neglected.’

‘I hope not, but we cannot tell until the actual structure is examined. The campanile, I think, will have to be demolished, but perhaps the repairs here will not be too extensive.’ He grinned. ‘If they are, I can see Guido becoming very impatient.’

Clare followed him out, and waited while he locked the door. ‘I didn’t realise he was so religious.’ She tried to keep her tone light.

‘As to that, like most of us, he does his best,’ Tonio said, shrugging. ‘But the restoration of the chapel is close to his heart as he intends to be married there, and soon.’

‘Oh,’ Clare said in a hollow voice, as sudden pain transfixed her. ‘I—didn’t know.’

‘Not many people do. It is quite a recent decision.’

‘Does Paola know?’ Clare strove to keep her voice calm. ‘Because I’d have thought his bride should have some say in the matter.’

A couple of Tonio’s papers fluttered to the ground, and he bent to retrieve them. ‘No doubt he will choose his own moment for that,’ he said vaguely. ‘Maybe it would be best to mention nothing.’

‘Of course.’ Clare smiled tautly. ‘I hope she’ll find it a pleasant surprise.’

‘The Marchese Bartaldi’s wife will always have every reason for happiness,’ was the formal reply.

Oops, thought Clare. Avoid any hint of criticism when speaking of revered employer. I expect I already have a black mark for steaming in there this morning. It must have been obvious I was spoiling for a fight.

In a hurried change of subject, she asked how many people worked on the Bartaldi estates, and was shocked by his answer.

‘That many?’ She swallowed. ‘And do you know them all?’

‘I hope so. You must understand, signorina, that many generations of the same families have worked here.’

‘I see.’ Her tone was thoughtful. ‘So, if I said Marco’s cousin, you’d know who I meant?’

He frowned slightly. ‘I might not be able to put a face to him at once. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, I came across him earlier today, working in the garden.’ She paused. ‘He’s quite—spectacular. You wouldn’t overlook him very easily.’

‘Then he does not resemble Marco, who is like a mouse,’ he said drily. ‘You disapprove of him, signorina?’

‘Oh, please, won’t you call me Clare?’ She smiled at him. ‘After all, we both work for the Marchese,’ she added with a touch of constraint.

He hesitated oddly, then made her a slight bow. ‘As you wish—Clare. But we were speaking of Marco’s cousin.’

‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘He was hanging round the pool area, and there was just something—although I expect I’m being unfair, and he’s a very good gardener.’

‘Yet he does not feature on the estate roll,’ Tonio said musingly. ‘Perhaps the head gardener hired him as casual labour. I shall enquire.’

‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed. ‘I hope I haven’t got him into trouble.’

‘No, no,’ he soothed. ‘At busy times there are always extra people working for the estate. It is nothing.’

I hope so, Clare thought, as he stood back politely to let her precede him into the house. And now for the next ordeal…

‘Carissima,’ Violetta exclaimed reproachfully as Clare entered the dining room. ‘Where have you been? We were beginning to think you were lost.’

Clare coloured faintly, sharply aware of Guido’s unsmiling scrutiny fixed on her from the other side of the room.

‘I was—enjoying the garden, and lost track of time,’ she returned, bending to kiss her godmother’s scented cheek before sliding into the chair next to her.

‘And not alone, I see,’ Violetta whispered, giving her an arch look as Tonio took his place further down the table with a quiet apology. She looked Clare over approvingly. ‘What a beautiful dress, my dear. I don’t think I’ve seen it before.’

‘It—it’s the first time I’ve worn it,’ Clare returned, helping herself from the tureen of vegetable soup.

‘So, cara, how goes it with the little Paola?’ Violetta was eating her own soup with evident enjoyment. ‘Well, it seems. She looks—radiant.’

Surprised, Clare saw that the younger girl was laughing and talking vivaciously to Cesare di Mantelli.

‘She’s not going to be my easiest assignment,’ she returned quietly. ‘She simply hasn’t any wish to learn any of the things I can teach her. I think she plans to rely on charm to see her through.’ She paused. ‘If I can’t persuade her to buckle down soon, I’ll give up the job. Otherwise I’ll be taking the Marchese’s money under false pretences.’

‘I think he has plenty to spare,’ Violetta said calmly. ‘So I would not worry too much.’ She gave Clare a measuring look. ‘How do you like working for him, mia cara?’

‘Not very much.’ Clare put down her soup spoon. ‘In fact I mean to keep out of his way from now on.’

‘I imagine he can be demanding,’ Violetta conceded. ‘But such charm.’ She cast her eyes to heaven. ‘And you have the future to think of, dear one. Any association with the Bartaldi would be bound to bring its own rewards.’

A lifetime of heartache was hardly a reward, Clare thought wretchedly, giving a constrained smile and murmuring something in reply.

When lunch was over, and Violetta was ensconced on the terrace with her coffee, and the Count di Mantelli for company, she sought out Paola.

‘I thought we might walk to the village,’ she suggested. ‘It will give us the chance to practise some English conversation.’

‘But there is nothing in the village,’ Paola objected instantly. ‘And it is too far to walk in the heat of the day. Besides, I am already getting a headache. I spent too much time in the sun this morning. I am going to take a siesta.’

‘I see,’ Clare said levelly. ‘In that case I’d better talk to the Marchese and tell him there’s no point in my remaining here.’

Paola’s eyes widened. ‘But you cannot do that,’ she muttered. ‘I need you. You know that.’

‘But my salary is being paid by the Marchese,’ Clare reminded her. ‘And I have to start earning it. Which I can’t do unless you co-operate.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Suppose we meet here on the terrace at four.’ She gave the younger girl an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll try and make our lessons fun. Not like being in school at all.’

Paola’s look said she was unconvinced, but she gave unwilling agreement to the plan.

‘But it is such a waste of time,’ she hissed as she departed. ‘When we both know these lessons will not be needed.’

Clare sighed, and turned back to find her godmother and offer to stroll round the gardens with her, only to see her walking off with the Count down one of the paths.

‘They make a handsome couple, don’t you think?’ Tonio came to stand beside her.

She stared at him. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘Why not?’ He spread his hands. ‘The Conte is an attractive, vigorous man—and a widower. The Signora is a beautiful, cultivated woman—and a widow.’

‘Yes,’ Clare said. ‘And she values her independence—as I do.’

He laughed. ‘Then you have come to the wrong place, Clare. For hundreds of years men and women have courted each other here at the Villa Minerva. It is a place for love—for happiness. For coming together. And there is soon to be a wedding here,’ he added, smiling. ‘Such an occasion puts ideas into other people’s heads. Reminds them that it is not good to be alone.’

‘I don’t agree. Sometimes in your own company is the only safe place to be.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Clare saw a tall figure approaching. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she added hastily. ‘I have to go and make some notes about Paola’s English lesson.’

‘You really intend to teach her?’ He sounded astonished.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘There’s no other reason for me to be here.’

She turned away, intending to make for the house, only to be halted by Guido’s, ‘One moment Chiara. I wish to speak to you.’

Reluctantly, she turned and came back, noting that Tonio had already made a discreet exit.

‘Is this strictly necessary?’ She lifted her chin. ‘I have—things to do.’

‘Then they must wait.’ His voice held a touch of grimness. ‘We need to talk about this morning.’

‘I’d rather not.’ She stared down at the ancient flagstones.

‘There are still things that need to be said.’ He paused. ‘You must understand that I did not intend—that to happen.’ His mouth tightened. ‘I am not accustomed to having the conduct of my personal life challenged in that way. I—lost my temper.’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely audible.

‘It was—an error of judgement on my part—which I deeply regret,’ Guido went on, his voice low and intense. ‘When you came here, I offered you certain safeguards. I have failed to keep my part of the bargain, and for that I ask your pardon.’

‘You don’t have to apologise.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘You already made your position—perfectly clear. And I was also to blame. I lost my temper too.’ She even forced a small, bleak smile. ‘As you said, it was a mistake. But not a fatal one. We can put it behind us. Pretend it never happened.’

He said quietly, ‘Can you do that, Chiara? Can you deceive yourself—like that? Because I do not think it is possible. I do not believe my memory will allow itself to be cheated in that way.’

Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. ‘Please, signore, don’t take this so seriously. It’s really not important. Men make advances to women who work for them every day.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s an occupational hazard.’

‘Not,’ he said thinly, ‘in my organisation.’

She swallowed. ‘Then let’s agree that we both got angry, and behaved out of character, and resolve to operate on a more businesslike footing in future.’ She hesitated. ‘Unless you’d prefer me to leave?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not now. Not yet. Although I see it may become necessary sooner than I thought,’ he added quietly.

He held out his hand. ‘So—a new beginning, Chiara?’

After a momentary pause, she put her hand into his, and felt the swift, warm pressure of his fingers.

The kind of brief, impersonal contact which was all she could expect from now on, she acknowledged forlornly as he released her.

She said with forced brightness, ‘If you’ll excuse me now, Marchese.’

‘Go in peace, signorina.’ She could hear the undercurrent of amusement as he imitated her own formality.

As she turned away, his voice reached her softly, almost tauntingly. ‘But I do not apologise for the dress, Chiara. How could I, when you look so beautiful? A dream of desire for any man’s eyes.’

His words shivered through her being, tapping the turbulent well of emotion he had already created. Clare saw the sunlit day splinter into sparkling fragments as she fought back her tears. Battled with the yearning to go back to him, whatever the cost.

‘You don’t play fair, signore,’ she threw back huskily, keeping her back resolutely turned to him. ‘Has no one ever told you that?’

‘Many people, mia cara.’ There was a quietly implacable note now. ‘And they will also tell you I always play to win.’

She said coolly and clearly, ‘Then it’s fortunate that your prize is Paola, and not myself, signore, or you’d lose. Good afternoon.’

And, forcing her shaking legs to obey her, she walked into the house, and up to the fragile security of her room.

She tried to rest, to sink down into the softness of the big bed and close out the world for a while, but she couldn’t relax. Her mind and body were too much on edge. And even when she closed her eyes, Guido’s image seemed to be stamped inside her eyelids, offering her no escape.

But this was the wrong room in which to evade thoughts of passion, she realised unhappily, recalling what he’d said about his own parents, and their long-ago clandestine lovemaking.

She’d hung the blue dress in a corner of the wardrobe. She wouldn’t wear it again, but she couldn’t bear to throw it away either. At least not yet. One day there would be a time when she would look back on this Umbrian summer with nothing more than a rueful smile, and then she could get rid of it as just another unwanted souvenir. At least, she prayed it would be so.

In the meantime, she had to deal with the sultry heat of the afternoon, the heavy quiet which had descended on the entire household, admixed with the scent of the flowers from the garden below and the drowsy hum of insects.

It was not, she thought grimly, the kind of atmosphere for solitude. It was all too evocative of whispered words, stifled laughter, and the slow, languorous movement of bodies reaching a familiar and precious attunement. A time when love was reaffirmed, and babies were made…