Читать книгу His Reluctant Bride: The Marchese's Love-Child / The Count's Blackmail Bargain / In the Millionaire's Possession - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 12

‘SO,’ TERESA said, ‘in two days you will be married. It is exciting, no?’

‘Wonderful,’ Polly agreed in a hollow voice.

She didn’t feel like a bride, she thought, staring at herself in the mirror, although the hugely expensive cream linen dress which Teresa had persuaded her to buy, and which would take her on to the airport and her new life after the ceremony, was beautifully cut and clung to her slenderness as if it adored her, managing to be stunning and practical at the same time. While her high-heeled strappy shoes were to die for.

It wasn’t just the usual trappings of tulle and chiffon that were missing, she thought. It was radiance she lacked.

And at any moment, Teresa would be ordering her to relax, because otherwise the tension in her body would spoil the perfect line of her dress. But the other girl would never understand in a million years that this was not merely bridal nerves, but sheer, blind panic.

Since their confrontation on her first night in the hotel Sandro had taken her at her word and left her strictly to her own devices, except when they were with Teresa and Ernesto, when he continued to play the part of the charming, attentive bridegroom.

On the other occasions when they encountered each other, he was polite but aloof. But these were rare. Except for the sacrosanct hours he devoted to Charlie, he spent very little time at the hotel.

Well, she could not fault him for obeying her wishes, she thought. But she alone knew that she was lonely, and that her sense of isolation would only increase once she reached Comadora.

‘Now take the dress off and hang it away,’ Teresa cautioned. ‘Sandro must not see you in it before the wedding.’ She paused. ‘Is all well with you, Paola? You are quiet today.’

Polly stepped out of the dress, and slipped it onto a padded hanger. ‘Well, for one thing, there’s Julie.’

‘Oh?’ Teresa’s eyes twinkled. ‘Has she fallen in love with Alessandro?’

‘No, of course not,’ Polly said. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’

Teresa giggled. ‘They all do. I had a nanny from Australia when the twins were born, and each time Alessandro came into the house she would go pink—like a carnation—and refuse to speak for hours.’

Polly’s brows lifted. ‘And how did he react?’

‘Ahime, he did not even notice.’ Teresa shrugged. ‘It is endearing how little vanity he has in such matters.’

‘Well, his arrogance in other ways more than compensates for that,’ Polly said crisply, zipping herself into a pretty blue shift dress.

‘You would not think so if you had known his father, the Marchese Domenico,’ said Teresa. ‘Now, there was a supreme autocrat. And of course that old witch he brought to the house after his wife died encouraged him to think he could do no wrong. She and Bianca, her secret weapon.’

Polly put her wedding dress away in the wardrobe. She said, ‘What was she like—Bianca? Was she beautiful?’

‘An angel.’ Teresa waved a languid hand. ‘A dove. Submissive and so sweet. I longed to bite her and see if there was honey in her veins instead of blood. And taught by nuns,’ she added darkly. ‘She wore her purity like a sword—every inch of her being saved for the marriage bed.’

She sighed. ‘No wonder Alessandro looked for amusement elsewhere.’ She stopped dead, clapping a hand over her mouth, looking at Polly in round-eyed horror. ‘Dio, Paola. My mouth will be my death. Forgive me—please.’

Polly sat down at her dressing table, and ran a comb through her hair. She said quietly, ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I’m really under no illusion about Sandro—or myself.’

‘Cara,’ Teresa shot off the bed where she’d been sprawling, and came to kneel beside Polly. ‘Listen to me. Ernesto—myself—every friend Sandro has—we are so happy that you are together. And that you have given him a son that he adores. Let the past rest. It does not matter.’

‘Bianca died,’ Polly said. ‘That makes it matter.’

‘You think he wished to marry her?’ Teresa demanded. ‘No, and no. It was the contessa, who saw to it that Bianca had the old marchese twisted round her little finger. With Sandro, he was always harsh, but Bianca was his sweetheart, his darling child. And Bianca wanted Alessandro.’

‘Yet you say they weren’t lovers.’

Teresa gave her a worldly look. ‘But whose choice was that? Ernesto, who has known Alessandro since they were children, told me that she used to watch him constantly—try always to be near him. He said—forgive me, this is not nice, and Ernesto is never unkind—that she was like a bitch on heat.’ She shrugged. ‘And for her, he was unattainable.’

‘Then why did he agree to marry her?’

‘His parents’ marriage had been an arranged one,’ Teresa said. ‘It was made clear to him what was expected of him in turn. And perhaps he felt it was a way to please his father at last. He was only twelve when his mother died, and after that his relationship with the marchese became even more troubled. And Sandro was wild when he was younger,’ she added candidly.

She gave Polly a serious look. ‘But you can understand, cara, why his relationship with Carlino is so important to him. Why he wishes to make his own son feel loved and secure.’

‘Yes,’ Polly said quietly. ‘I can—see that.’

Teresa got to her feet, brushing the creases from her skirt. ‘But you were telling me of Julie. There is some problem?’

‘She’s having some time off this afternoon to go for a job interview.’ Polly sighed. ‘Apparently, she’s only on a temporary contract with us, which lasts until we get to Italy and then Sandro’s staff take over, and she flies back. I—I’m going to miss her badly, and so will Charlie. And she’s someone I can talk to in my own language.’

‘Then ask him if you may keep her on.’ Teresa shrugged. ‘It is quite simple.’ She gave Polly a wicked grin. ‘I am sure that you can persuade him, cara. Do as I do. Wait until you are in bed, and you have made him very happy. He will give you anything. And the rest of the servants will be pacified when they have your other bambini to care for.’

Polly’s blush deepened painfully, but she made herself speak lightly. ‘That’s the kind of cunning plan I like.’

The way things were between them, he was more likely to fire Julie instantly, she thought ruefully when Teresa had gone. But she could always ask, although it wouldn’t be in the way the other girl had suggested.

Not that she had the opportunity for the rest of the day. In the afternoon, she went to visit her parents in a last-ditch effort to get them to come to the wedding.

But Mrs Fairfax, still in her dressing gown and looking pale and wan, was adamant, insisting she wasn’t well enough to go, and needed her husband with her in case of emergency.

And she alarmed Charlie by hugging him too tightly, and weeping.

Polly got back to the hotel feeling as if she’d been run down by a train, her only comfort her father’s quiet, ‘She’ll come round, sweetheart. She just needs time.’

Sandro was out, and, although she planned to tackle him about Julie on his return, he was still missing by the time she eventually admitted defeat and went to bed.

He was spending the eve of his wedding with Teresa and Ernesto, who were going to act as their witnesses, so she would just have to catch him first thing in the morning before he left, she told herself.

Charlie had already been collected by Julie, and taken down to the dining room for breakfast, when she woke, so she had the bathroom to herself.

She bathed and put on one of her new dresses—primrose silk with a scooped neck, and slightly flared skirt. Nailing her colours to the mast, she thought with faint defiance as she crossed the drawing room to his door.

‘Avanti.’ The response to her knock was cool and casual, and Polly, drawing a deep breath, opened the door and went in.

The curtains were drawn back, filling the room with sunlight, and Sandro was in bed, lying back against the piled-up pillows, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee from the breakfast trolley beside him. His skin looked like mahogany against the pristine dazzle of the white bed linen.

He glanced up, his brows snapping together as he saw her.

‘Buongiorno,’ he murmured after a pause. ‘You will forgive me if I do not get up,’ he added, indicating the sheet draped over his hips which was quite clearly his only covering. ‘Would you like coffee?’

‘No, thank you.’ Polly shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, praying she would not blush, and wondering if it was possible to look at someone without actually seeing them. And certainly without staring. And particularly without feeling that treacherous excitement slowly uncurling inside her. ‘I’ve had breakfast.’

‘How virtuous of you, cara,’ he drawled. ‘They bring an extra cup each morning, presumably because they hope I will eventually get lucky. I think I shall have to tell them to stop.’ He refilled his own cup. ‘So—to what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure?’

Polly gritted her teeth. ‘I—I’ve come to ask you a favour.’

His brows rose. ‘You fascinate me, bella mia. Especially when you choose my bedroom to make your request.’

‘Well, don’t read anything into that,’ Polly said shortly. ‘It’s just that I seem to see so little of you these days.’

Sandro moved, stretching slowly and indolently, letting the concealing sheet slip a little. ‘You are seeing enough of me this morning, carissima,’ he drawled. ‘Or do you want more?’

She glared at him. ‘No.’

‘You disappoint me,’ he murmured. ‘But if it is not my body, I presume it is money. How much do you want?’

‘Money?’ Polly repeated in bewilderment. ‘Of course it isn’t. I haven’t spent half the allowance you made me.’

‘I would not grudge more.’ Folding his arms behind his head, Sandro studied her through half-closed eyes, frankly absorbing the cling of the silk to her body, a faint smile curving his mouth. ‘You seem to be spending it wisely.’

She flushed under his scrutiny. ‘Thank you—I think.’

‘Prego.’ He continued to watch her. ‘I hope you do not wish me to persuade your mother to attend the wedding. I should hate to disappoint you.’

She bit her lip. ‘No. I’ve accepted that it’s a lost cause. Besides, she wouldn’t listen to you. You—you seem to make her nervous.’

‘Mi dispiace,’ he returned without any real sign of regret. ‘I seem to have the same effect on you, cara mia. So—what is it?’

She swallowed. ‘I’d like Julie to stay in Italy with us, and go on looking after Charlie—please.’

Sandro moved slightly, adjusting the sheet to a more respectable level. He sent her a meditative look.

He said, ‘Paola, I have a houseful of staff who are dancing for joy at the prospect of looking after the future marchese. He will not lack for attention, I promise you.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But he’s used to Julie, and he likes her. Anyway, the others will speak Italian to him, and he might feel lost at first.’ She hesitated. ‘And I like Julie too, and I can talk to her in English. In spite of Teresa’s coaching, I’m going to feel pretty isolated.’

‘Davvero?’ His tone was sardonic. ‘You do not feel that you could talk to me, perhaps?’

That was what Teresa had said, she thought, biting her lip again. She looked at the floor. ‘That isn’t very likely,’ she said constrictedly. ‘After all, we’re not marrying for any kind of companionship, but for Charlie’s sake.’

‘Does one rule out the other?’ He was frowning slightly.

‘I think it has to,’ Polly countered, with a touch of desperation. ‘And after all, you—you won’t always be there,’ she added, feeling dejectedly that she was losing the argument. ‘You have your work—your own life to lead.’

‘No,’ he said, quietly. ‘That is true.’ He shrugged a naked shoulder. ‘Va bene. If that is what you want, I agree.’

‘Oh.’ Polly found herself blinking. ‘Well—thank you.’

‘Is that all? I am disappointed.’ The topaz eyes glinted at her. ‘I was hoping for a more—tangible expression of gratitude.’

Polly stiffened. ‘I don’t think I understand.’

‘And I think you do.’ He smiled at her, and held out a hand in invitation. ‘Is one kiss too much to ask?’

She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but there was too much riding on this transaction.

She said coldly, ‘You’re not as generous as I thought.’

‘And nor are you, carissima,’ he said gently. ‘Which is why I have so far asked for so little. Besides, you will have to kiss me tomorrow at the wedding. It is tradition.’ His smile widened. ‘And you certainly need the practice.’

There was a taut silence, then Polly trod awkwardly to the side of the bed. Ignoring his proffered hand, she bent to brush his cheek with swift, unyielding lips.

But before she could straighten, Sandro had grasped her wrists in an unbreakable hold, and she was being drawn inexorably downwards, losing her balance in the process. She found she was being turned skilfully, so that she was lying across his body, the outrage in her eyes meeting the mockery in his. Mockery mingled with something altogether more disturbing. Something that, in spite of herself, every pulse in her body leapt to meet.

He said softly, ‘But I will not settle for as little as that, Paola mia.’

And her instinctive cry of protest was stifled by the warmth of his mouth on hers.

He kissed her deeply and thoroughly, holding her imprisoned in one arm, while his other hand twined in her hair to hold her still, defeating any attempt she might make to struggle. Forcing her to endure the sensuous and unashamedly possessive invasion of his tongue, as his mouth moved on hers in sheer and unashamed enticement.

Robbing her, she realised numbly, of any real desire to fight him. Awakening very different memories—and longings.

The heat of the sun pouring through the window—the unforgettable scent of his naked skin—the pressure of his lithe, muscular body against hers sent the last three years rolling back, and they were lovers again, their bodies aching and melting to be joined together in the ultimate intimacy, yet deliberately holding back to prolong the sweetness of the final moments.

He had always wooed her with kisses, she remembered dazedly, arousing her with a patient, passionate tenderness that splintered her control, and sent her reason spinning, so that she clung to him mutely imploring his possession.

Why else had she been unable to see that bringing her to eager, quivering acquiescence was the work of a practised seducer?

Yet even now, it seemed, she was unable to resist him, or the sensual magic of his lips.

When he lifted his head she was breathless, her heart thudding unevenly against her ribcage—which he must have known, because his hand had moved and was gently cupping her breast, his thumb stroking her hardening nipple to a rapturous peak through the silk of her dress.

He looked down at her, his eyes glittering and intent, asking a question which she was too scared and confused to answer. She only knew that if he kissed her again, she would be lost. And as he bent to her once more, a soft moan, half-fear, half-yearning, parted her lips.

And then, swiftly and shockingly, it was over, as the telephone beside the bed suddenly rang, its stridency shattering the heated intensity within the room like a fist through a pane of glass.

Sandro swore softly and fluently, but his hold on her relaxed, and she forced herself out of his embrace and off the bed, and ran to the door.

She flew across the intervening space, snatching at the door handle to her own bedroom, but as she did so it opened anyway, and she half fell into the room beyond.

As she struggled to recover her balance, there was a cry of ‘Mammina’ and Charlie, looking angelic, came scampering towards her from the bathroom, with Julie close behind.

‘He had a little accident with his cereal this morning,’ she told Polly, trying to look severe. ‘I’ve just had to change his top and trousers. You wouldn’t believe how far he can spread one small bowl.’

As Polly bent to him, fighting for calm, the door opposite was flung wide, and Sandro came striding towards them, his face like thunder, tying the belt of a robe he’d clearly thrown on as an afterthought.

Polly scooped Charlie up in her arms, and turned to face him defensively.

He halted, staring at her, his ominous frown deepening. He said in Italian, ‘We need to talk, you and I. Now.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Polly said, nervously aware that Julie had vanished with discreet haste back into the bathroom. She reverted to her own language. ‘I should have known I couldn’t trust you.’

His mouth twisted contemptuously. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think, my beautiful hypocrite, that you realised you could not trust yourself. It is that simple. So why, for once in your life, can’t you be honest?’

He took a step towards her, and she recoiled, still clutching Charlie, who was beginning to wriggle. She said hoarsely, ‘Don’t touch me. Don’t dare to come near me. You—you promised to leave me alone.’

‘That will be my pleasure,’ Sandro hit back. ‘Now, be silent. You are frightening our son.’ Charlie was squirming round, his lip trembling, holding out his arms to his father, and Sandro took him from her, soothing the little boy quietly.

He said, ‘He will spend the day with me. I will telephone to say when he may be collected.’ He carried him back to his own room, where he turned and looked back at Polly, his eyes icy with warning.

He said too softly, ‘And, as long as you live, signorina, never—never again use our child as a barrier between us.’

The door closed behind them both, leaving Polly shaking and alone in the middle of the room.

‘Are you all right, Miss Fairfax?’ Julie was regarding her anxiously from the doorway.

Polly mustered her reserves. ‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘Fine. A—a misunderstanding, that’s all.’

‘I thought at first that the marchese had come to give you the good news,’ Julie said. ‘He spoke to me as I was going off duty yesterday evening, and suggested that I should go to Italy as well, to help Charlie to settle in. Isn’t that great? I was going to tell you myself, first thing, only his lordship there did his trick with the cereal.’

Polly’s hands slowly curled into fists. He knew, she thought, fury uncurling inside her. He knew exactly what I was going to ask, and used it against me. A ploy to get me into bed with him. And—dear God—I was almost fool enough to fall for it. To give in.

‘Miss Fairfax?’ Julie was looking puzzled. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Yes,’ Polly said, summoning a hurried smile. ‘I’m delighted. That’s—absolutely wonderful. Just what we both wanted.’

She paused. ‘And Charlie’s spending the day with his father, so you have some free time to go and pack for the Campania. Mind you take a couple of bikinis too,’ she added over-brightly. ‘Apparently the palazzo has a pool.’

Julie’s face lit up. ‘Well—if you don’t mind …’

When the other girl had gone, Polly walked over to one of the sofas and sat for a long time, with her face buried in her hands.

She was angry, but her anger was mixed with guilt too. It was wrong of her to use Charlie like that, but the truth was she hadn’t dared allow Sandro to touch her again. Or come within a yard of her, for that matter.

As it was, she felt sick with shame at how easily he’d drawn a response from her. And how her unfulfilled body now felt torn apart by frustration. Like the first time he had made love to her, she thought wretchedly, when she’d been wild for him, his caresses exciting her to the point of desperation. When, at last, he’d entered her, her body had been molten with need, and there’d been no pain.

Just a rapturous sense of total completion, she thought wretchedly. And what she’d believed was utter love.

I know better now, she told herself, her mind raw. I know he was just using me for sex—nothing more, but that’s something I’ll learn to live with.

But I can’t let it happen ever again—and I won’t.

She hadn’t taken his money, she thought harshly. Nor would she accept the false coin of his lovemaking, no matter what the cost to her as a woman. And no matter how she might ache for him, as she did now.

The next day, she married Sandro in a ceremony so brief she could hardly believe it was legal. As they were pronounced man and wife, and he turned to her, she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the promised kiss, only to feel his lips brush her cheek swiftly and coldly.

As she stepped back she glimpsed Teresa and Ernesto exchanging astonished glances, and moved to them to be hugged with real warmth. Teresa drew her to one side. ‘A little gift, cara,’ she whispered, handing her a flat parcel, wrapped in silver tissue with violet ribbons. ‘Do not open it now. Wait until tonight.’

Polly forced a smile of thanks, and put the package in the soft leather shoulder bag which served as her hand luggage.

There were no problems on the flight itself. Polly had never travelled first class before, and sitting in comfort, being served champagne, at least gave a veneer of celebration to the day’s proceedings.

Charlie chatted in wonder about ‘big planes’, gave an imitation of a jumbo jet taking off, then fell asleep, but he awoke grouchily when they reached Naples, and the subsequent journey soon disintegrated into nightmare.

Polly discovered, dismayed, that her son did not enjoy travelling by car, even an air-conditioned limousine, and that he was constantly and miserably sick throughout the trip.

Every few miles they were forced to stop, so that Charlie could be cleaned up and comforted, and eventually Julie, who’d borne the brunt of the little boy’s misery, was sent to sit in the passenger seat beside the chauffeur, and Sandro took her place, cradling Charlie on his lap and talking to him gently.

‘Why not give him back to me?’ Polly suggested, aware that her linen dress was already ruined. ‘I’m worried that he’ll spoil your beautiful suit,’ she added awkwardly.

He gave her a look of faint impatience. ‘Che importa?’ he demanded, and Polly subsided, biting her lip and turning to look out of the window.

Up till now, she’d been totally unaware of the scenery she was passing through, all her attention given to Charlie’s woes. But now she had a breathing space to take in the reality of her surroundings. The road they were travelling had been carved out of the rock-face which towered above them. On the other side was the eternal blue of the Mediterranean, serene today, reflecting the cloudless sky. And straight ahead, nestling in the curve of the bay, a cluster of terracotta roofs round a boat-studded marina.

Beyond it, a rocky promontory jutted into the sea, dominated by a large rectangular building with faded pink walls, made even more imposing by the tower at each of its corners.

She did not need Sandro’s quiet ‘Comadora at last’ to recognise that this place, more a fortress than a palace, was to be her home, and Charlie’s inheritance.

She said, ‘It—it looks a little daunting.’

‘That would have been the intention, when it was built,’ he agreed drily. ‘This coast was often attacked by pirates.’

‘Yes,’ she said, her tone subdued. ‘That was part of the local history I had to learn when I was here—before.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose I must learn not to mention that.’

‘Perche?’ His brows lifted. ‘Why should you think so?’

She said stiffly, ‘I didn’t think you’d want your family to know that your wife used to be a travel rep.’

‘Why, Paola,’ he said softly, ‘what a snob you are.’

Polly bit her lip. ‘How did you explain why I was back in your life? It might be better if I knew.’

He shrugged. ‘After the crash, I suffered memory problems for a while, something they all know. Once I recovered fully, you had disappeared, and it took time for me to find you.’ He looked at her over Charlie’s sleeping head, his smile mocking. ‘And now we are together again—united in bliss forever.’

Polly drew a breath. ‘Your restored memory seems to have been pretty selective.’

‘You have a better version?’

‘No,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘But no one’s ever going to believe that we’re—blissfully happy.’

‘Then pretend, cara mia.’ There was a sudden hard note in his voice. ‘Pretend like you did three summers ago, when you let me believe you found pleasure in bed with me.’

‘Sandro—please …’ She felt her face warm, and turned away hurriedly, her body clenching in swift, intimate yearning.

That jibe of hers, uttered purely in self-defence that first night at the flat, seemed to have hit a nerve, she thought unhappily. But it didn’t mean anything. After all, no man liked to have his expertise as a lover challenged.

‘Do I embarrass you?’ he asked coldly. ‘My regrets.’

There was a silence, then he said, ‘Will you tell me something, Paola? When you went back to England, did you already know that you were carrying my child?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Ah,’ Sandro said quietly.

The car turned in between tall wrought-iron gates, and negotiated the long winding drive which ended in a paved courtyard before the main entrance to the palazzo.

It was bright with flowers in long stone troughs, and in the middle was a fountain sending a slender, glittering spire of water into the air.

Thank God, Polly thought as the car drew up. Peace at last. She stretched, moving her aching shoulders, longing for a bath and a change of clothing, hopefully with a cold drink included somewhere too.

The car bringing their luggage would have arrived ages ago, she thought.

It seemed that if she was going to be unhappy, at least it would be in comfort. But for now, that thought brought no solace at all.

The massive arched double doors opened, and a man, short and balding, dressed in an immaculate grey linen jacket came hurrying across the courtyard to meet them, looking anxious.

He looks like the bearer of bad news, thought Polly. Perhaps there’s been another accident and our luggage is all at the bottom of the Mediterranean.

Clearly Sandro was concerned, because he deposited Charlie on her lap and got out.

The little man, hands waving, launched himself into some kind of diatribe, and Polly watched Sandro’s expression change from disbelief to a kind of cold fury, and he turned away, lifting clenched fists towards the sky.

When he came back to the car, he was stony-faced as he opened Polly’s door.

‘The contessa,’ he said, ‘has decided to surprise us with a welcome party, and has filled the palazzo with members of my family, including my cousin Emilio,’ he added with a snap. ‘Tonight, Teodoro tells me, there will be a formal dinner, followed by a reception for some of the local people.’

‘Oh, God, no.’ Polly looked down in horror at her stained and rumpled dress. ‘I can’t meet people like this. Is there no other entrance we could use?’

‘There are many,’ he said. ‘But the Marchesa Valessi does not sneak into her house through a back door. Give me Carlino, and we will face them all together.’

Stomach churning, she obeyed, pulling her dress straight and pushing shaking fingers through her dishevelled hair.

Then Sandro’s hand closed round hers, firmly and inflexibly, and she began to walk beside him towards the doorway of the palazzo. As they reached it, she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, and was aware of his swift approving glance.

She was fleetingly aware of a hall hung with tapestries, and a wide stone staircase leading up to a gallery. A clamour of voices abruptly stilled.

People watching her, eyes filled with avid curiosity or open disapproval, a few smiling. And, for a moment, she almost froze.

Then Charlie lifted his head from his father’s shoulder, and looked at all the strange faces around him. In a second his expression had changed from bewilderment to alarm, and he uttered a loud howl of distress, and began to sob.

Polly felt the atmosphere in the great hall change instantly. Censure was replaced by sympathy, and the marked silence that had greeted them changed to murmurs of, ‘Poor little one, he is tired,’ and, ‘He is a true Valessi, that one.’

The crowd parted, and a small, plump woman, her hair heavily streaked with grey, came bustling through. Arms outstretched, voice lovingly scolding, she took Charlie from his father’s arms and, beckoning imperiously to the wilting Julie to follow, disappeared just as rapidly, the sobbing Charlie held securely against the high bib of her starched apron.

‘That was Dorotea,’ Sandro said quietly, his taut mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘Don’t worry, Paola, she has a magic touch. Carlino will be bathed, changed, fed and in a good mood before he knows what is happening. And Julie also,’ he added drily.

Lucky them, Polly thought, and groaned inwardly as the crowd parted again for the contessa.

‘Caro Alessandro.’ She embraced him formally. ‘Welcome home. As you see, your family could not wait to meet your beautiful wife.’

‘I am overwhelmed,’ Sandro said politely. ‘But I wish you had allowed Teodoro to give me advance warning of your plans.’

She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘But then there would have been no surprise.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That is precisely what I mean.’

He looked about him. ‘I am delighted to welcome you all,’ he began. ‘But as you can see we have had a bad journey with a sick child, and my wife is exhausted. She will meet you all when she has rested.’ He turned to Polly. ‘Go with Zia Antonia, carissima, and I will join you presently.’

Polly was aware of an absurd impulse to cling to his hand. ‘Don’t leave me with her,’ she wanted to say. Instead she forced a smile and nodded, and followed the contessa’s upright figure towards the stairs.

From the gallery, they seemed to traverse a maze of passages until they arrived at last at another pair of double doors, elaborately carved.

The contessa flung them open and motioned Polly to precede her. ‘This is where you are to sleep,’ she said.

Polly paused, drawing a deep breath. She had never imagined occupying such a room, she thought dazedly. It was vast and very old, its ceiling beamed, and the walls decorated with exquisite frescos.

It was dominated by one enormous canopied bed, with crimson brocade curtains and a magnificent bedspread in the same colour, quilted in gold thread, but little other furniture.

‘That door is to the bathroom.’ The contessa pointed a manicured hand. ‘I think you will find all you need.’ And the sooner the better, her tone of voice seemed to indicate. ‘The other leads to the dressing room, where your clothes have been unpacked for you.’ She paused. ‘Would you like some tea to be brought to you?’

‘That would be kind.’ Polly hesitated. ‘If it’s not too much trouble—as you have all these other guests, I mean.’

‘How can it be a difficulty?’ The thin lips wore a vinegary smile. ‘After all, cara Paola, you are the mistress of the house now, and your wish is our command.’ She indicated a thick golden rope. ‘Pull the bell, if you wish for the services of a maid to help you dress. Or perhaps your husband will prefer to assist you himself—as this is your luna di miele.’

‘I can manage,’ Polly said quietly, conscious of the faint sneer in the older woman’s voice, and the swift pang of alarm that her words engendered. ‘But I would like to make sure my son is all right, and I don’t know where the nursery is.’

‘I will instruct Dorotea to take you to him later.’ She looked Polly up and down with faint disdain. ‘Now, I recommend that you do as Alessandro suggests, and take some rest. After all, this will be your wedding night, officially at least,’ she added, with another silvery laugh, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Left to herself, Polly walked over to the long windows and opened the shutters. She knelt on the embrasure, lifting her face to the heavy golden warmth of the late afternoon.

If the contessa had deliberately plotted to present her at her worst, she could not have done a better job, she thought bitterly. But there was no way the older woman could have known how badly Charlie would react to the long journey from the airport.

I wish I could stay here, she thought, because I think I’ve already got ‘null points’ from the jury downstairs.

Instead, she had to put on one of the evening dresses Teresa had made her buy, and play her unwanted role as marchesa with whatever style and grace she could summon. And undo, if possible, that first unfortunate impression.

And talking of Teresa … Polly fetched her shoulder bag, and retrieved the parcel it contained. As she undid the ribbons, the tissue parted to reveal a cascade of the finest black lace.

Polly’s eyes widened as she examined it. It was a nightgown, she realised, low-necked, split to the thigh on one side, and almost transparent. Provocation at its most exquisite. An expensive, daring tease.

Any girl who wore it would feel irresistibly sexy. And any man who saw it couldn’t fail to be aroused.

It seemed clear that Teresa had sensed the tensions in her relationship with Sandro, and decided the honeymoon could need a kick-start.

As Sandro said, you’re shrewd, Polly addressed her friend silently, bundling the delicate fabric back into its wrappings, and wondering where she could hide it. But this time you’ve misread the situation badly.

She left the package on the bed for the time being, and went to investigate the bathroom. The room itself probably dated from the Renaissance, she thought, but the plumbing was strictly twenty-first century, and luxurious in the extreme.

The walls were tiled in shades of blue, interspersed with mother-of-pearl, which gave the impression that the room was under shimmering water.

There was a deep sunken bath, and a capacious shower cubicle in the shape of a hexagon, with a pretty gilded roof.

Thankfully Polly slipped out of her clothes, and stepped behind its glass panels. There was a corner shelf holding toiletries, and she chose some scented foam, lathering her body sensuously. The jet was powerful, but reviving, and she twisted and turned under it, feeling some of the tensions of the day seeping away.

She dried herself slowly, her body refreshed and glowing, then took another bath sheet from the pile and wound it round herself, sarong-style, securing it just above her breasts.

If only her tea was waiting, she thought, opening the bathroom door, then, however briefly, life might be perfect.

She walked into the bedroom, and stopped dead, lips parted in shock, and her heart beating an alarmed tattoo.

Because Sandro was there, stretched out across the bed, his coat and tie discarded, and his shirt unbuttoned to the waist.

‘Ciao, bella,’ he said softly, his eyes lingering on her bare shoulders in undisguised appreciation. ‘You look wonderful, and smell delicious,’ he went on. ‘And now there is this.’ He held up the black nightgown with a soft whistle. ‘Perhaps marriage may have its compensations after all.’

And as she watched, transfixed, he lifted himself lithely off the bed, and began to walk towards her, the black lace draped over his arm.