Читать книгу Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 8

THE headache drops which Angelina had duly brought must have done the trick, because Clare found she had been able to sleep a little, and woke feeling calmer and more composed.

A long, scented soak in a warm tub helped restore her equilibrium still further. Afterwards there was the usual array of body lotion, eau de toilette, and scents in the personalised crystal flasks that Violetta favoured.

Clare uncapped the body lotion, sniffing it luxuriously, then smoothing it into her skin with sensuous pleasure, breathing in the aroma that the warmth of her body released.

Usually she chose very light fragrances, but this one was different—almost exotic with its rich, seductive tones of lily and jasmine. But a little sophistication might make her feel better, she thought.

As she dressed, Clare reviewed with satisfaction the hours ahead. Unless guests had been invited, the evenings invariably followed the same pattern.

First, she would join Violetta for an aperitivo on the rose terrace which gave the villa its name. Then they would indulge themselves with one of Angelina’s long, delicious dinners. Afterwards, the lamps would be lit in the salone, and they would listen to music and chat while Violetta stitched her petit point.

She sighed happily, and skimmed through the clothes she’d brought with her. Her godmother enjoyed investing her evenings with certain formality, so she passed over her casual shirts and skirts, opting for one of her newer acquisitions, a simple ankle-length dress, with short sleeves and a vee neckline, in a silky crêpe fabric. Its deep ruby colour emphasised the paleness of her hair, and gave added warmth to the cream of her skin.

One of my better buys, she thought with satisfaction, taking a long and critical look at herself as she turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror.

She darkened her long lashes with mascara, and touched a dark rose colour to her mouth before she went down.

As she walked across the salone to the long glass doors which gave access to the terrace, she heard Violetta’s charming throaty laughter.

Oh, Clare thought, checking slightly, so she has invited guests after all. She didn’t tell me.

She found herself hoping it was the Arnoldinis, because that would mean cards instead of polite conversation after dinner, and she would not be expected to join in.

So I can let them get settled into the game, then plead tiredness and have an early night, she thought.

Smiling, she walked out on to the terrace, words of greeting already forming on her lips.

And checked again, because Violetta’s guest, seated beside her on the cushioned seat in the shade of a big striped umbrella, was Guido Bartaldi.

He saw her at once, and, rising, made her a slight bow, the formality of the gesture slightly belied by the spark of amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he observed her shocked expression.

And what was she supposed to do in return? Clare wondered, rendered momentarily mute with outrage. Curtsy?

At last she found her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, dispensing with any preliminary niceties.

‘Clare, mia cara,’ Violetta intervened with a touch of reproach. ‘The Marchese has called to make sure you completed your journey here in safety. So kind of him,’ she added, bestowing one of her dazzling smiles on their visitor.

She was wearing mist-grey chiffon, with a discreet shimmer of diamonds at her throat and in her ears. And the Marchese seemed to have guessed her views on appropriate dress, because the casual clothes he’d been wearing earlier had been replaced by an elegant charcoal suit, set off by an impeccable white shirt and a silk tie in sombre jewel colours.

Violetta, Clare realised crossly, was looking at him as if she could eat him.

Not that she could wholly be blamed for that, she admitted, her mouth tightening. Earlier that day, even when she’d been scared almost witless, she had been able to recognise that, without even trying, he packed a formidable sexual punch.

And this evening, for whatever reason, he seemed to be trying…

‘I have apologised to Signora Andreati for intruding in this way, but I had to set my mind at rest,’ Guido Bartaldi said smoothly. ‘You seemed—overwrought when we parted today.’

‘Really?’ Clare asked icily. ‘I thought I was perfectly calm.’

‘Yet your godmother has been telling me you retired with a headache. I hope you are fully recovered.’

‘My head is fine,’ she said shortly. The pain now seems to be in my neck.

‘Ring the bell for Angelina, dearest,’ Violetta said hastily. ‘The Marchese and I are enjoying a Campari soda. I know that is your favourite too.’

Clare would have given a great deal to say tartly that she didn’t want a drink, or any dinner, for that matter, and then withdraw in a marked manner. But that would only embarrass Violetta, who was clearly thrilled by her unexpected visitor, and Clare was far too fond of her to risk that.

And at that moment Angelina, all smiles, came bustling out with her Campari, and a plate of tiny crostini which she placed on the wrought-iron table in front of Violetta.

So, Clare would just have to make the best of things. Carefully she chose a chair on the other side of her godmother, deliberately interposing Violetta between herself and Guido Bartaldi, who resumed his own seat with a faint, infuriating smile.

He said, ‘I also wished to assure you that your raincoat will be returned to you as soon as it has been cleaned.’

Clare gulped some Campari. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing.’ He paused. ‘Paola was sorry not to be able to thank you in person for your care of her.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ Clare hesitated, unwilling to prolong the conversation, but not wanting to earn herself black marks from Violetta for being discourteous. She cleared her throat. ‘How—how is she?’

He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Not happy, but that is natural.’

‘Entirely,’ Clare said with emphasis.

‘But she is young,’ he went on, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘She will get over it. Indeed, I intend to make every effort to see that she does.’

‘Lucky Paola.’ Clare kept her voice expressionless and her eyes on her glass.

‘I doubt she would agree with you,’ he said softly. ‘But I can appreciate that her social contacts locally are limited, especially when I am away on business so much. And, as I was explaining to the Signora, that is another reason for my visit. I hope you will both be our guests at dinner at the Villa Minerva tomorrow evening.’

‘And I have told the Marchese that we would be delighted, mia cara. Is it not so?’

Clare put down her crostini untasted. No, she thought furiously, it was not so, and Guido Bartaldi knew perfectly well that she’d rather be boiled in oil than go to dinner at his rotten house. In fact, there wasn’t enough space on the planet to separate them to her satisfaction.

I feel a subsequent engagement coming on, she thought grimly. Or at least a migraine. If not a brain tumour.

She fought to keep her voice level. ‘Thank you. I—shall look forward to it.’

He said gently, ‘You are too gracious,’ and turned his attention back to Violetta, whom he treated with a charming deference bordering on flirtation. And she, of course, was lapping it up with roguish decorum.

Clare sat rigidly in her chair, clutching her glass as if it was her last hold on sanity—or safety.

Because she was suddenly frightened again. Because she didn’t believe that he was motivated by any concern for her well-being, or remotely interested in restoring her raincoat to her. There was more to it than that.

Back in Barezzo, she’d experienced the power of this man. And she’d dared to antagonise him. The money he’d offered her was the merest drop in the ocean when compared with his total wealth. But that didn’t mean he’d enjoyed seeing it torn in pieces and thrown at him.

It had seemed a grand gesture at the time. Now she was afraid she might live to regret it. Because he was not a man to shrug off that kind of affront—especially from a woman.

Something warned her that behind the smile and the silken elegance was steel. And beyond the steel lurked pure pagan.

She knew it as well as she knew her own reflection in a mirror. And she hoped she would only encounter the steel.

Angelina appeared in the terrace. ‘The telephone for you, signora. It is Monsignor Caprani.’

‘I will come.’ Violetta rose to her feet, and Guido Bartaldi stood up too. ‘No, no, Marchese, please stay. I shall not be long. And in the meantime Clare will be glad to entertain you.’

‘Alas, I must get back.’ His regret sounded almost genuine, Clare thought, seething. ‘My uncle is expected from Venice some time this evening. But I shall look forward to welcoming yourself and the signorina to my own small world tomorrow. Arrivederci.’ He took Violetta’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Until then.’

When she had fluttered back into the house, he turned and looked down at Clare, who stared back inimically.

‘Per Dio.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I think if I was dining here tonight, I would ask to have my food tasted.’

She said huskily, ‘What’s going on? What do you want?’

‘As to that,’ he said slowly, ‘I do not think I have quite made up my mind. But when I have, Chiara, be assured you will be the first to know. Now, wish me goodnight.’

Before she could resist, he reached down and pulled her up out of the chair and on to her feet in front of him, and only a few inches away.

He bent towards her, his gaze travelling from her frightened eyes to her parted lips.

She heard herself breathe, ‘No.’

He laughed softly. With his free hand, he touched her cheek, running a questing thumb down the line of her throat, and she shivered and burned under his touch.

His fingers reached the neckline of her dress and hooked under it, urging the delicate fabric off her shoulder. Baring it. She felt his breath warm on her skin, then the brief, delicate brush of his lips along her collarbone.

He whispered, ‘You are temptation itself, mia bella.’

Then she was free, and her dress was gently replaced. And before she could move or speak Guido Bartaldi had gone, walking away down the terrace steps into the twilit garden.

Clare stood, her arms wrapped around her body, her pulses shuddering uncontrollably. He had barely touched her. Her brain had registered that fiercely. But she felt, just the same, as if she’d been branded. That her flesh now bore some mark of his possession.

And this, she knew, was only the beginning.

In response to some hidden switch inside the house, the shaded lamps on the terrace came on, and instantly moths appeared, drawn by the lights and flinging themselves against them.

She thought, I know how they feel…

Violetta returned. ‘Has the Marchese gone? Such a pity.’ She sighed. ‘If I were only twenty years younger. Sit down, cara, and Angelina will freshen our drinks.’

Clare sat, principally because her legs were shaking under her.

A thought occurred to her.

She said, ‘Violetta, what’s the scent that you put in my bathroom? The one I’m wearing?’

‘But I was telling you about it, dear one. It’s Bartaldi’s own “Tentazione”. Why?’ Her godmother gave her a shrewd glance under her lashes. ‘Did he recognise it?’

‘Yes,’ Clare said bitterly. ‘Yes. I’m afraid he did.’

Dinner was not the relaxed, comfortable meal that Clare had anticipated after all.

For all her very real sophistication, Violetta was clearly thrilled to have received an invitation to the Villa Minerva, and eager to discuss it exhaustively.

‘It is a very old house,’ she said. ‘Parts of it are said to date back to the time of the Etruscans, who, as you know, cara, fought the Romans for supremacy and lost.’

Pity, Clare thought, crumbling her bread. If they’d won the Bartaldis might never have seen the light of day.

‘You’ve never visited there before?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Violetta returned regretfully. ‘But here at Cenacchio we are not exactly near neighbours to Veraggio. We move in our own circles.’

‘Then it’s a pity we agreed to go,’ Clare argued. ‘Particularly if it’s a long way away.’

‘The Marchese is aware of the inconvenience, and is sending a car for us.’ Violetta sighed happily. ‘He thinks of everything.’

She sent Clare a twinkling look. ‘I think I have you to thank for this pleasant invitation, dear one.’

Clare bit her lip. ‘I can’t think why,’ she said constrainedly.

‘But naturally he wishes to make amends for all the confusion and unpleasantness of today.’ Violetta nodded. ‘He seems full of remorse for the hasty judgement he made.’

He’s full of something, Clare thought broodingly. But I don’t think it’s repentance.

‘Naturally, I have seen the Marchese at various social functions,’ Violetta continued. ‘But, as he says, he is not in the region very often. Perhaps when he marries, and has a family, that will change.’

She paused. ‘Although his estates are excellently run in his absence, I understand. His manager, Antonio Lerucci, is said to be a charming young man, and most loyal and efficient.’

She chattered on, and Clare responded with interested noises and the occasional nod of her head, while trying to mentally detach herself.

She’d planned to stay at Cenacchio for at least two weeks. That might need revision now, she decided unhappily. She’d ring her agency tomorrow, and ask them to find her a job which would necessitate her urgent return to England.

And she would let a very long time elapse before she took another job in Italy, she decided broodingly. First she’d had Signor Dorelli to deal with, but, in retrospect, that had been no problem at all compared with Guido Bartaldi.

Dorelli had simply been a lecher and a fool. But the Marchese Bartaldi had a very different agenda. She knew it, although she couldn’t even begin to make an educated guess at what it contained.

Every instinct, however, was shrieking at her to remove herself immediately from his sphere of influence.

I need to put the whole sorry mess behind me, and get on with my life, she thought. So I can’t afford to stay.

‘In the morning we will go into Perugia,’ Violetta planned. ‘And find a dress for you to wear. Something that will show you to your best advantage, carissima. It will be my birthday present to you.’

Clare was taken aback. ‘I’m sure I have something that will do.’

Violetta tutted. ‘When one is dealing with the Bartaldis, there is no question of making do. And you are too modest about your looks. We need something simple yet stunning.’ She looked arch. ‘The right setting for the jewel. Something the Marchese understands very well.’

‘Violetta.’ Clare was appalled. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking, but…’

Violetta shrugged. ‘I think only that it would be good for you to be admired by an attractive man.’ She paused. ‘Has there been anyone since—what was his name?— James?’

‘No,’ Clare said quietly. ‘Nor have I wanted there to be.’

‘But that is so wrong,’ her godmother protested. ‘You are a warm and lovely girl. You cannot close yourself off from life because one fool preferred someone else.’

‘I don’t shut myself off,’ Clare denied defensively. ‘I have a job I like—friends—and I travel all over Europe. A lot of people locked into stale relationships would envy me.’

‘I do not speak of those.’ Violetta waved her hand. ‘I speak of love, silly girl. Of overwhelming and complete love—like Dante felt for Beatrice, and Petrarch had for his Laura.’

Clare sighed. ‘And Romeo for Juliet, I suppose, and we all know what happened to them.’

‘Oh, when you are in this mood it is impossible to reason with you,’ Violetta said huffily.

‘That’s certainly true if you’re trying to pair me with the Marchese Bartaldi.’ Clare tried to speak lightly, but she could feel the shoulder he’d kissed burning through the soft fabric of her dress.

Thank God Violetta didn’t know about that, she thought ruefully.

She said. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but the Marchese is the last man in the world I’d ever get involved with. Simply crossing his path has been more than enough, believe me. I’ve no wish to attract any more of his attention.’

She paused. ‘Besides, you seem to forget that he’s already chosen Paola,’ she added carefully.

‘Pah,’ Violetta said. ‘There has been no announcement. No formal engagement.’ She gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘In your shoes, cara, I would not hesitate.’

‘A couple of hours ago, you seemed to think Paola would suit him ideally,’ Clare said with asperity.

Violetta gave her a beatific smile. ‘I had not met him then,’ she said simply.

In spite of her tiredness, Clare found sleep frustratingly elusive that night. Her comfortable mattress seemed to have been stuffed with sand, and the big feather pillows moulded from concrete.

She tossed from one side of the big bed to the other, seeking a restful spot, while her mind turned endlessly, denying her any peace. And every thought that plagued her seemed to lead inexorably back to Guido Bartaldi.

Something else to thank him for, she thought peevishly, punching a pillow into submission.

Consequently, it was a wan, rather shadowy-eyed girl who joined Violetta for a breakfast of cold meats, fresh fruit and coffee.

Not that she’d done anything to improve her appearance or disguise the ravages of her bad night. If the plan she’d formulated in the small hours was to work, she needed to look fairly deathly.

‘Are you unwell, cara?’ Her godmother, who’d been going through her morning mail, removed her reading glasses and gave her a concerned look. ‘You are so pale.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Clare, adding a brave smile for good measure.

‘You have not forgotten we are going to Perugia this morning?’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Clare, who had already decided that a refusal to go would only make Violetta suspicious. She would just have to make sure her godmother didn’t spend too much on the promised dress, or choose something out of keeping with her usual lifestyle.

They parked at the Piazza degli Invalidi, and rode the escalators up to the Rocca Paolina. Clare always felt it was like rising up from the bowels of the earth, and she found the remains of the Rocca, with its low-vaulted roof and maze of dark passageways, many of them with water dripping down the walls, a disturbing place. Like being in an underground cave, she thought.

But this labyrinth of foundations was all the Perugians had left of the mighty Papal fortress intended to subdue their arrogance, and they’d even put up a plaque to commemorate its destruction three hundred years later.

Arrogance seemed to be a common trait among the Umbrian population—especially the men, Clare thought broodingly as they emerged into the sunlight of the Corso Vannucci.

And tonight she planned to dismantle a few stones from the fortress of self-assurance that the Marchese Bartaldi had built round himself.

Like many women for whom money is not an object, Violetta was an exacting shopper, and, after two hours had passed, Clare began to wonder if she intended to visit every boutique in the city. She herself had seen several dresses which would have been a welcome addition to her wardrobe, but Violetta had dismissed them.

‘I know what I’m looking for,’ she had declared, as she’d swept to the door. ‘And that is not it.’

But eventually she said, ‘Ah,’ and nodded. ‘Try this, mia cara.’

It was a slim, fluid full-length sheath in black silk jersey, long-sleeved with a deep square neck.

Too deep, Clare thought, viewing with dismay how much it revealed of her small rounded breasts. In fact, it moulded itself completely to her figure, clinging to her narrow waist and slender hips, and the skirt was slashed at one side to well above the knee.

‘Violetta,’ she protested. ‘I can’t wear this. It isn’t—me. And what can I possibly wear underneath?’

But her words fell on deaf ears. Her godmother and the saleswoman merely exchanged speaking glances, and the dress was carried away to be reverently encased in tissue and placed in a carrying box.

By the time Violetta’s credit card had financed high-heeled black kid sandals and a matching evening purse it was almost time for the shops to close for the long afternoon break.

‘Most satisfactory,’ Violetta declared with a cat-like smile. ‘And now, mia cara, we will enjoy some lunch.’

But as they walked up the street, Clare was nudged by her godmother. ‘See—across the street? It is Bartaldi’s. Let us look.’

Unwillingly, Clare found herself propelled across the street to the shop. The window display was as expensive and glamorous as she could have imagined—a blaze of exquisitely fashioned gold necklaces, pendants, bracelets and rings, as well as a tempting range of etui and other small, desirable objets. She felt as if she should close her eyes to avoid being dazzled.

‘Beautiful, is it not?’ Violetta breathed.

‘Amazing,’ Clare agreed levelly. ‘If a bit overwhelming.’

Secretly, she preferred the adjoining window, which had a display of semi-precious stones. Her eyes strayed almost covetously from the glow of topaz to the mystery of aquamarine and the brilliance of jade and amethyst, again all set in gold.

‘Many of the designs are drawn from the Etruscan,’ Violetta explained, ‘while others have a truly Renaissance spirit, don’t you think? And they say Guido Bartaldi has been the guiding light behind it all. That he has the soul of a Renaissance prince.’

‘Really?’ Clare said in a hollow voice.

The soul of a condottiere, she thought smoulderingly. A robber baron.

She felt strange suddenly—uncomfortable—standing here outside these premises, staring at all this beauty that he’d had a hand in creating. As if she was intruding on something that was deeply personal to him.

It was time to act, she realised—in more ways than one.

She frowned unhappily. ‘Violetta, I’m not very hungry. Would you mind if we missed lunch and went straight home? I—I’m feeling a little giddy.’

‘Then we will not consider the escalators,’ Violetta said immediately, snapping her fingers for a taxi to take them down the long hill to the car park.

Clare felt like a worm on the drive back to Cenacchio, aware of the anxious glances being directed at her, but that did not stop her from making a strangled request for the car to stop at one point.

And when they arrived back at the Villa Rosa, she whispered a strained apology, and made an immediate beeline for her room.

She undressed, put on a cotton wrap, and lay down on the bed, watching the sunlight play through the shutters.

I’m a wretch, she thought penitently, but it’s in a good cause. Because there’s no way I’m going to the Villa Minerva for dinner tonight.

In the end, she dozed a little, only to be rudely awoken by the unexpected arrival of Violetta’s own doctor from Cenacchio.

Groaning inwardly, Clare submitted to having her pulse taken, her heart sounded, and her blood pressure checked.

‘I think perhaps it’s stress,’ she ventured in response to his questions, and gave a condensed history of the past thirty-six hours. ‘I had nightmares last night, and I can’t stop thinking about those men with guns.’ She shuddered and put her hands over her face.

The doctor made shocked noises, then prescribed rest, quiet, and a mild sedative. All of which Clare agreed to with outward meekness and inward jubilation.

‘Such a terrible pity,’ Violetta said mournfully, after the doctor’s departure. ‘I will phone the Villa Minerva, and tell the Marchese that we are unable to join him for dinner.’

Clare lifted herself on to an elbow. ‘But there’s no need for that,’ she exclaimed. ‘You can go, darling. And I’ll just stay here quietly, as the doctor said.’

‘But I cannot possibly leave you.’ Her godmother was shocked. ‘You are ill. I must take care of you, cara.’

‘By sitting here watching me sleep? Because that’s what I shall do once I’ve taken these tablets.’ Clare shook her head. ‘Violetta, that’s just silly and I won’t allow it.’

Violetta protested, but Clare gently but firmly overruled her.

‘You know you’re dying to see the house,’ she said. ‘And you can tell me all about it afterwards. Besides, you can give the Marchese my sincere regrets,’ she added mendaciously.

‘Well, if you are sure,’ Violetta said reluctantly. ‘And, of course, Angelina will be here to keep an eye on you.’

And watch me stage a lightning recovery as soon as the Marchese’s car has departed, Clare thought with guilty relish.

When her godmother had gone to dress, Clare got off the bed and went and sat by the open window, watching the late-afternoon sunlight dance on the leaves of the flowering vine that grew up the side of her balcony.

She had a good view of the wide gravelled sweep in front of the house, and was able to see when the car from the Villa Minerva arrived, punctual to the minute.

What she did not expect was to see Guido Bartaldi emerge from the driving seat, casting an appraising glance at the façade of the house.

Hell’s bells, Clare groaned to herself, shrinking back behind the shutter. He’s come to fetch us himself. I hope he didn’t see me.

She flew across the room and got into bed, pulling the thin cover up to her chin, as if seeking some kind of sanctuary.

With luck Violetta, looking in to say goodnight, would think she was asleep, and leave her undisturbed.

But Fortune wasn’t disposed to smile on her.

A few minutes later she heard a tap on her door, and Violetta saying softly, ‘You have a visitor, mia cara.’

Clare wanted to shriek, No, but instead she kept her eyes closed, and her breathing soft and regular.

She heard footsteps approaching quietly.

‘Ah,’ Violetta whispered. ‘The sedative the doctor left must have done its work.’

‘So it would seem.’

Perhaps it was Clare’s imagination working overtime, but she could have sworn there was a note of irony—even amusement—in Guido Bartaldi’s deep drawl.

‘Poor little one. She was so distressed to have to excuse herself tonight. She wanted so much to pay this visit.’

‘I must make sure that there are other opportunities,’ the hated voice said softly. ‘You must let me know if she continues to feel ill. I have an interest in a good clinic near Assisi where she could be admitted for observation. As a precautionary measure, you understand. Now perhaps we should go, signora, and leave her in peace.’

Clare heard Violetta murmur her assent, and move away. A strand of hair was tickling her nose, and she wanted to brush it away, but something—some sixth sense—warned her to keep still.

Because Guido Bartaldi was still standing beside the bed, just waiting for her to betray the fact that she wasn’t asleep at all.

She could feel the warmth of him, absorb the fragrance of his cologne. The knowledge of his presence made her skin tingle.

‘A great actress has been lost to the stage, mia bella.’ His low-voiced sardonic comment confirmed her worst suspicions. ‘But I will not torment you any longer. Sleep well—and dream beautifully.’

To her fury, she felt his hand smooth away the annoying wisp of hair. Then his fingers took her chin, turning her head slightly on the pillow. And his mouth, briefly and sensuously, kissed her parted lips.

It took all the self-control she possessed to go on lying there, unmoving and unmoved, when she longed to leap up and slap him hard across that dark, mocking face. To call him all the names she could lay her tongue to.

Instead, eyes tight shut, she heard him walk away, and the bedroom door close behind him. Or had it? Maybe it was another trick.

It wasn’t until she heard the sound of the car moving off down the drive that she dared relax her new rigidity and sit up.

There were tears of anger in her eyes, and she scrubbed fiercely at her mouth with the back of her hand, as a child might do.

‘Tomorrow,’ she vowed aloud, her voice shaking. ‘Tomorrow I’m going home. And I’m making sure that I never—ever—have to set eyes on that bastard again.’