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 13

POLLY took a step backwards. She said hoarsely, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I want to take a shower,’ he said. ‘I decided you would probably not wish me to join you, so—I waited.’

She took a breath. ‘How—considerate.’ Her voice stung. ‘Perhaps you’d be even kinder and go to your own room, and use your own shower. I’d like my privacy.’

‘So would I, cara, but we are both to be disappointed. Thanks to Zia Antonia, all the rooms in the palazzo are occupied by other people and will remain so for tomorrow—the day after—who knows?’ He paused. ‘Also you are under a misapprehension. This is my room—and my shower.’

He paused to allow her to digest that, his mouth twisting in sardonic amusement at her shocked expression.

‘The accommodation intended for you is currently taken by my aunt Vittoria, a pious widow with a hearing problem,’ he went on. ‘She does not like to share either. Also, she snores, which, as you know, I do not.’

He smiled at her. ‘But she is certainly leaving tomorrow, so you will only have one night to endure in my company,’ he added lightly.

She stared at him, her hands nervously adjusting the towel. ‘You really imagine I’m actually going to sleep here—with you?’ Her voice rose stormily. ‘You must be mad. I can’t—I won’t …’

‘You will certainly spend the night with me,’ he interrupted, a harsh note in his voice. ‘I cannot predict whether or not you will sleep. That is not my concern.’

‘Then what does concern you?’ She glared at him. ‘Certainly not keeping your word.’

He flung exasperated hands at the ceiling. ‘Dio—you think I planned this? That I have deliberately filled my house with a pack of gossiping relatives, including my cousin Emilio, may he rot in hell,’ he added with real bite, ‘just so that I can trick you into bed with me?’

He gave her a scornful look. ‘You overestimate your charms, bella mia. You will stay here tonight, without fuss or further argument, for the sake of appearances, because it is our wedding night, and because we have no choice in the matter.

‘But let me attempt to allay your obvious fears,’ he went on cuttingly. Clasping her wrist, he strode back to the bed, with Polly stumbling after him, tripping on the edge of her towel. He dragged back the satin coverlet, dislodging the huge lace-trimmed pillows to reveal a substantial bolster. ‘That,’ he said, pointing contemptuously, ‘placed down the middle of the bed, should deter my frenzy of desire for you. I hope you are reassured.’

He paused. ‘May I remind you, Paola, you agreed to co-operate in presenting our marriage as a conventional one.’

‘Yes.’ Polly bit her lip. ‘But—I didn’t realise then what could be involved.’

His smile was thin. ‘Well, do not worry too much, carissima. There are enough willing women in the world. I see no need to force someone so clearly reluctant.’

He held up the nightgown. ‘Although your prudishness hardly matches your choice of nightwear. Why buy a garment so seductive, if you do not wish to be seduced?’

‘I didn’t buy it,’ Polly said stonily. ‘It was a present from Teresa.’

‘Indeed,’ he murmured. ‘I never guessed she was such a romantic. Or such an optimist,’ he added, his mouth curving in genuine amusement.

‘Don’t tear it,’ he told her mockingly, as Polly made an unavailing attempt to snatch it from him. ‘That is a privilege I might prefer to reserve for myself.’

She glared at him. ‘Not in this lifetime,’ she said defiantly.

‘And certainly not unless I wish to do so,’ he reminded her softly. ‘However, for now, I shall have to console myself with imagining how it might look if you wore it, bella mia.’ He gave it a last, meditative glance. ‘Like a shadow falling across moonlight,’ he said quietly, and tossed it to her. ‘I must write to Teresa and thank her,’ he added with a swift grin, as he straightened the bedclothes.

‘And I,’ she said coldly, ‘shall not.’ She swallowed. ‘I would like to get dressed now, please.’

His brows lifted, as he scanned the slipping towel. ‘You want assistance?’

‘No.’ She managed just in time to avoid stamping her bare foot on the tiled floor. ‘Just some privacy.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, can’t you see how impossible this all is?’

‘I can only see that I shall have to stop teasing you, cara mia,’ he said with unexpected gentleness. ‘Get dressed if you wish, but there is no need for you to face the inquisition downstairs, unless you want to do so. And it is a long time until dinner, when you will be expected to make an appearance, so why not rest quietly here until then? I promise you will not be disturbed,’ he added levelly. ‘By anyone.’

As she hesitated there was a knock on the door, and a small, round-faced girl came in carrying a tray with Polly’s tea. She stopped, her mouth forming into an embarrassed ‘o’.

‘Mi scusi, excellenza,’ she stammered. ‘I thought the marchesa was alone.’

Sandro smiled at her. ‘Come here and meet your new mistress, Rafaella.’ He turned to Polly. ‘I have arranged for this child to become your personal maid, cara mia. She is the granddaughter of an old friend, so be kind to her.’

Polly, about to flatly deny any need of a personal maid, saw the girl’s eager face, and subsided.

‘Once you have had your tea,’ Sandro went on, ‘I hope she can persuade you to sleep for a while, even if I cannot,’ he added wryly. ‘And I shall ask her to return at eight to help you to dress for dinner.’

Polly nodded resginedly. ‘Thank you. Darling,’ she added as an afterthought, and saw his lips twitch before he turned away, heading for the bathroom.

Rafaella set the tray down on one of the old ornamental tables that flanked the bed, then flew to the dressing room, returning with a dark blue satin robe, which Polly awkwardly exchanged for the towel.

‘Parli inglese?’ she asked as the girl folded back the coverlet to the foot of the bed, and plumped up the pillows.

Her face lit up. ‘Sì, vossignoria. I worked for an English family, au pair, for two years. I learn much.’

‘Yet you came back to work at the palazzo?’

Rafaella nodded vigorously. ‘It is an honour for me, and for my grandfather, who asked for this post for me, when his signoria wished to reward him.’

‘Reward him?’ Polly queried.

‘It was my grandfather who found the marchese when his car crashed into the ravine,’ Rafaella explained. ‘He saw it happen, and ran to help. At first he thought his signoria was dead, because he did not move, and there was so much blood, but then he could feel his pulse and knew that he lived, so my grandfather went to the car to rescue the lady.’ She shrugged. ‘But it was too late.’

Polly winced. ‘It must have been a horrible experience for him.’

‘Sì, vossignoria. He spoke about it to the inquiry, and also to his signoria when he was in hospital, but never since. There is too much pain in such memories.’

She bent to retrieve the discarded bath sheet, then straightened, beaming. ‘So it is good that the marchese is now happy again.’

‘Yes.’ Polly realised with acute embarrassment that the girl was holding up the black lace nightgown, which must have been entangled in the folds of the towel. ‘I—I suppose so.’

She tried to concentrate on her tea, and ignore Rafaella’s stifled giggle as she carried the nightdress off to the dressing room.

No doubt the rumour mill at the palazzo would soon be in full swing, she thought, swallowing. But at least it would support the idea that this was a real marriage, which would please Sandro.

She put down her cup and turned on her side, shutting her eyes determinedly, and, presently, she heard Rafaella’s quiet departure.

It would be good to relax, she thought, burrowing her cheek into the lavender-scented pillow. To recover from the stress and strain of the past days and weeks, and re-focus on this extraordinary new life, to which, for good or ill, she now belonged.

Thanks to the contessa, it was proving a more difficult start than she’d anticipated, she told herself, sighing.

For one thing, and in spite of the closed bathroom door, she could clearly hear the sound of the shower, reviving all kinds of past associations, and she pressed her hands over her ears, in an attempt to shut them out.

She didn’t want to remember those other times when Sandro had been showering, and she’d joined him, their bodies slippery under the torrent of water, her mouth fierce on his skin, his arms strong as he lifted her against him, filling her with the renewed urgency of his desire.

But the memories were too strong, too potent to be dismissed, and for a moment, as her body melted in recollection, she was pierced once more with the temptation to abandon all pride and go to him.

But it would pass, she thought. It had to. Because she would not be drawn again into the web of sensuality where she’d been trapped before. It was just a moment of weakness because she was tired—so very tired …

And gradually, the distant rush of water became a lullaby that, against all odds, soothed her to sleep.

She had never really dressed for dinner before, Polly thought as she sat in front of the mirror, watching Rafaella apply the finishing touches to her hair. The other girl had drawn the shining strands into a loose knot on top of Polly’s head, softening the look with a few loose tendrils that were allowed to curl against her face, and the nape of her neck.

Her dress was a sleek column of black silk, long-sleeved, with a neckline that discreetly revealed the first swell of her breasts, and gave her skin the sheen of a pearl.

She’d kept her make-up deliberately muted, faintly emphasising the green of her eyes, and curving her mouth with a soft rose lustre.

Whatever her inward inadequacies, this time she would at least look the part of the Marchesa Valessi, she thought.

She had hoped that Sandro would be beside her again, to guide her through her second entrance, but Rafaella had told her that he had changed for dinner and rejoined his guests while she still slept.

So, she’d have to brave them all alone.

Sighing under her breath, she rose. ‘Rafaella, I’d like to say goodnight to my son before dinner. Can you take me to the nursery, per favore?’

‘Sì, vossignoria. Of course.’

‘And that “vossignoria” is a terrible mouthful,’ Polly went on. ‘Maybe we could change it. What did you call your last boss?’

Rafaella looked a little startled. ‘Signora, sometimes, but usually madame.’

Polly smiled at her. ‘Then that will be fine with me, too.’

‘But I was instructed, vossignoria, by the contessa.’

‘And now you’re getting further instructions from me,’ Polly advised her crisply. ‘From now on it’s madame, and that’s final.’

‘As you say, madame.’ Rafaella’s agreement was subdued.

Polly was expecting another maze of passages, but the nursery turned out to be only round a corner, and up a flight of stairs.

It wouldn’t have been far for Dorotea to come, she thought as she opened the door and walked in.

She found herself in a spacious room lined with cupboards. There was a table in the middle, and a young girl was tidying up, placing toys in a large wicker basket.

Her jaw dropped as Polly entered in a rustle of silk, and she hurried over to a half-open door on the other side of the room, and said something in a low voice. A moment later, Dorotea joined them. She inclined her head stiffly to Polly, then turned to Rafaella and launched herself into a flood of half-whispered Italian, complete with gestures.

Rafaella looked at Polly with an awkward shrug. ‘She regrets, madame, but your son is asleep. She was not expecting a visit from you. She understood that your duties to your guests came first.’

‘Nothing comes before my little boy,’ Polly said quietly. ‘And I thought it was arranged that she would come and fetch me once he was settled. I have been waiting.’

She paused. ‘Clearly, there has been some misunderstanding tonight, but explain to her, please, that we will speak in the morning about Carlino’s future routine. And now I would like to kiss my son goodnight.’

Dorotea listened to Rafaella’s translation, but it brought no lightening of her expression. And she stood unwillingly aside to give Polly access to the night nursery.

A nightlight in a holder shaped like a shell was burning near his cot, and Charlie was lying on his back, his arms flung wide, his breathing soft and regular.

Polly stood looking down at him, then bent and brushed a strand of hair back from his face with gentle fingers. At the same time she became aware that Dorotea, who’d been watching from the doorway, arms folded across her bosom, was bobbing a kind of curtsy and muttering a deferential ‘Excellenza’ as she backed out of the room. And she realised that Sandro had come to join her.

She had never seen him in dinner jacket and black tie before, and the breath caught in her throat, because this new formality conferred its own kind of magnificence. It also set him at a distance, which was all to the good, she told herself.

She summoned a smile. ‘Buonasera. I came to say goodnight. Maybe even goodbye, just in case they tear me to pieces downstairs.’

‘They will not do that. They are all eager to meet you.’

She looked back at the cot. ‘How—how beautiful,’ she said, softly. ‘Don’t you think so?’

‘Sì,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Beautiful indeed.’ And she realised that he was looking at her, and turned away as she felt her body quiver in instinctive response, walking past him into the now-deserted day nursery.

He followed. ‘But I did not come simply to see Carlino,’ he went on. ‘I have something for you, cara mia.’ His hands touched her shoulders, halting her, and Polly felt the slide of something metallic against her throat, and glanced down.

The necklace was nearly an inch wide, a flat, delicate network of gold, studded with the blue-white fire of diamonds. She touched it with a wondering hand. ‘Sandro—it’s lovely. But there’s no need for this.’

‘I am permitted to give you a wedding present,’ he told her drily.

‘I—suppose.’ She shook her head. ‘But I feel dreadful because I have nothing for you.’

‘You don’t think so?’

He turned her slowly to face him, then bent towards her, and she felt his lips rest softly, briefly on her forehead. She had not expected that, and his intense gentleness made her tremble.

‘My beloved girl,’ he whispered. ‘You are here with me at last.’

The sudden flash of light from the doorway was a harsh, unbearable intrusion. Stunned and dazzled, Polly pulled free, looking round wildly. ‘What was that?’

‘My cousin Emilio,’ Sandro said with a shrug. ‘Armed with a camera, and searching for some moment of intimacy between us to thrill his readers.’

She stared at him. ‘You knew he was there?’

‘I was aware he had followed me upstairs,’ he said. ‘And guessed his motive. I think we provided what he wanted,’ he added, casually. ‘And you did well, Paola mia. You almost convinced me.’

Hurt slashed at her like a razor. Just for a moment, she’d believed him—believed the tenderness of his kiss.

She said colourlessly, ‘I’m starting to learn—at last.’

She paused, taking a steadying breath. ‘And while I’m on a roll, why don’t you take me downstairs and present me to your family? Because I’m ready.’

‘And no more only children,’ Zia Vittoria boomed authoritatively. ‘In Alessandro’s case, it was understandable. His mother was a delicate creature, and no one expected too much, but you seem to be a healthy young woman, and Alessandro’s first born is a fine child, in spite of his irregular birth. I commend you,’ she added graciously.

Polly, seated at her side, with her smile nailed on, murmured something grateful, and wondered what the penalty might be for strangling a deaf Italian dowager. She was aware of sympathetic smiles around the room, and a swift glance, brimming with unholy mirth, from Sandro.

I should have known it was going too well, she thought grimly.

Dinner in the tapestry-hung banqueting hall had been a splendid occasion. She had sat opposite her husband at the end of a long candlelit table shining with exquisite silver and crystal, and been formally welcomed to the family by Sandro’s ancient great-uncle Filippo. Her health had been drunk with every course served, and her neighbours had vied with each other to talk to her, delighted when she’d attempted to reply in Italian. Only the contessa had stayed aloof from the talk and laughter round the table, sitting like a marble statue, her mouth set in a thin, unamused smile.

At the reception which followed, Polly had been presented to various local dignitaries, and invited to serve on several charity committees. Sandro, standing at her side, his arm lightly encircling her waist, explained with great charm that, with a young child, his wife’s time was limited, but she would consider all proposals in due course.

After which the visitors left expressing their good wishes for the happiness of the marchese and his bride, and Polly had felt able to relax a little. Until, that was, she’d found herself summoned by Zia Vittoria, and subjected to an inquisition on her background, upbringing and education in a voice that was probably audible in the marina, even before she tackled Polly’s suitability to add to the Valessi dynasty.

When the good lady was finally distracted by the offer of more champagne, Polly seized the opportunity to escape. It was a warm night, and the long windows of the salotto had been opened. Polly slipped through the filmy drapes, and out onto the terrace, drawing a shaky breath of relief when she found herself alone.

The air was still, and the sky heavy with stars, just as she remembered. Even before she met Sandro, she had always loved the Italian nights, so relaxed and sensuous.

Polly moved to the edge of the terrace, and leaned on the stone balustrade, inhaling the faint scents that rose from the unseen garden below. Tomorrow, she would explore the palazzo’s grounds with Charlie—find the swimming pool perhaps. Take hold of this new life with both hands, and make it work somehow.

As she stared into the darkness, she suddenly became aware of another scent, more pungent and less romantic than the hidden flowers. The smell of a cigar.

She turned abruptly, and saw a man standing a few yards away from her. He was of medium height, and verging towards the plump. Handsome, too, apart from the small, petulant mouth beneath his thin black moustache. And well-pleased with himself, instinct told her.

She met his bold, appraising stare, her chin lifted haughtily.

‘Forgive this intrusion, marchesa.’ His English was good, if heavily accented. ‘But I could not wait any longer to meet my cousin’s bride. My name is Emilio Corzi.’

‘I think we’ve encountered each other already, signore.’ Polly paused. ‘Earlier this evening—in my son’s nursery.’

He laughed, unabashed. ‘I hope I did not offend, but the moment was irresistible, if surprising. Not unlike yourself, vossignoria,’ he added softly. ‘I have been watching you with interest, and you have much more charm and style than I was led to believe.’

‘Really?’ Polly raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t need to ask who was doing the leading.’

‘You are right, of course.’ Emilio Corzi sighed. ‘Poor Antonia Barsoli. She has never recovered from the death of that unfortunate girl, Bianca. It must be hard for her to see someone set in her place, especially when Alessandro swore after the accident that he would never marry.’ He paused. ‘Although she has less reason to be bitter than I have.’

‘Ah.’ Polly gave him a level look. ‘You mean the loss of your inheritance.’

He sighed elaborately. ‘It is unfortunately true. His late father had two brothers and a sister, my mother, who produced ten children between them, all girls except for myself, and I was the youngest of three. Alessandro, of course, was an only child, and I dare say too much was expected of him, at too early an age.’

Polly knew she should walk away, but against her better instincts, she lingered.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Relations between him and his father were always strained.’ Emilio drew reflectively on his cigar. ‘And became worse once his mother was no longer there to act as mediator. As you know, she died when he was twelve.’ He looked at her, brows raised. ‘Or did you know?’

‘Of course.’ Polly lifted her chin.

‘I could not be certain,’ he said. ‘There are so many areas of his life about which he is silent. Although I am sure he has his reasons.’

‘Probably because he doesn’t want the details splashed all over your magazines,’ Polly suggested shortly.

‘But he wrongs me, my dear cousin.’ Emilio’s tone was plaintive. ‘I have not made capital out of his forbidden affair with you—or his secret love-child. I am treating it as a romantic story with a happy ending. My family loyalty is real.’ He paused. ‘I have not even expressed my doubts in public over the mystery of Bianca DiMario’s death. Or not yet anyway.’

‘Mystery?’ Polly repeated. ‘What are you talking about? It was a tragic accident.’

‘That was the decision of the inquiry, certainly. But I am fascinated by the reticence of the only witness who was called—Giacomo Raboni.’ He smiled at her. ‘But after all, his family have served the Valessi faithfully for generations. Who knows what someone less partisan might have said?’

Polly stiffened. ‘That is—a disgusting implication. There was a burst tyre on the car. These things happen.’

‘But the inquiry was held so quickly,’ Emilio countered. ‘While Alessandro was still seriously ill in hospital, and unable to give evidence. But perhaps they thought he never would,’ he added swiftly. ‘It was still possible that he would end his days in a wheelchair, and that there might be permanent brain damage.’

He shrugged. ‘But in the end he suffered only some temporary amnesia, and he made a full recovery—to everyone’s enormous relief,’ he added piously.

‘Yes,’ Polly said stonily. ‘I bet you were thrilled to bits.’ She was leaning back against the balustrade, shaking like a leaf, her stomach churning, as she thought of Sandro trapped, perhaps, in a helpless body. Unable even to understand, maybe, that he had fathered a child, let alone hold him or love him.

‘But even when he was well again, he was never questioned about that afternoon in the mountains,’ Emilio said softly. ‘The advantage, I suppose, of being the son of a rich and influential man. And there was much sympathy, too, for my uncle Domenico, who had lost a young girl he cherished as a daughter. So, many questions were left unanswered.’

‘Such as?’ she demanded curtly.

‘What did Giacomo Raboni know, but not speak about? I know he was well rewarded at the time by my uncle. And now, I find, his granddaughter has been given a position of prestige as your personal maid.’

She said hoarsely, ‘But gratitude is quite natural. Sandro told me that Giacomo had saved his life. That’s quite a service.’

He shrugged. ‘I think his silence has been a greater one. And they say too that generosity is often prompted by a guilty conscience.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Have you ever wondered whether the scar on your husband’s cheek might be the mark of Cain?’

‘I think you’ve said enough.’ Her tone was ice. ‘You’re supposed to be Sandro’s guest. It would be better if you left.’

He tutted reproachfully. ‘You are harsh, my dear Paola. And your loyalty to Alessandro is misplaced, believe me. I am simply trying to be your friend, and one day you may need me.’

‘I can’t imagine that,’ she returned curtly.

‘But then did you foresee finding yourself Marchesa Valessi, with Alessandro’s diamonds on your hand and circling your throat? I note he has not given you the jewels that have been in the Valessi family for centuries, but these trinkets are valuable enough.’

‘Thank you,’ Polly said grittily. ‘I’ll tell him you approve.’

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I do not think you will discuss our conversation with him at all.’ He paused. ‘So, what will you do when the little Carlo becomes his legal heir, and Alessandro tires of playing husband, and wants you out of his life a second time?’

Shock was like bile in her throat. ‘What the hell do you mean?’

He sighed. ‘I hoped you would be honest at least. Your days and nights with my cousin are numbered, and you know it. He has never wished to be married. Not to the unfortunate Bianca. Not to you. No one woman will ever fill his need for variety.’ His lip curled. ‘Do you wish to know the name of his mistress in Rome?’

‘That,’ she said huskily, ‘is it. Go, please. Just pack and—get out.’

There was sudden venom in his voice. ‘Did you make him sign a pre-nuptial agreement, or will he make you settle for the same paltry sum as last time’s parting price before he sends you home? If so, you may be glad to turn to me. I would pay you well for a personal view of your association with him.’

‘You,’ Polly said, steadying her voice, ‘are completely vile.’

‘And he, Paola cara, is totally ruthless, as you must know, else why are you here?’ He made her a little bow. ‘I will leave you to your solitary contemplation. We shall meet again—once you have learned sense.’

He turned and walked along the terrace, disappearing from view into the darkness.

Polly found she was gasping for breath. She stood, a hand pressed to her throat as she fought for self-control.

She could not stay out here on the terrace forever. Soon, now, she would have to go back inside, and she needed at least the appearance of serenity to fool the sharp eyes that would be watching her.

All the vicious things Emilio had said to her were tumbling around in her head. She might tell herself they were ludicrous, vindictive lies of a disappointed man, but in some ways they seemed like the confirmation of all her worst nightmares.

What had really happened the day Sandro’s car went into the ravine? Rafaella had told her that her grandfather refused to speak about it. What had he seen—or heard—that prompted him to silence?

Somehow or other, she thought, I’m going to have to ask him—and make him tell me the truth. Because I need to know.

As for Emilio’s comments about her marriage … A little shiver ran through her. He was probably right about that. After all, it was only a means to an end, as Sandro had made clear. And once he had Charlie established as his heir, why would he bother to keep her around? Especially when he had other interests?

Do you wish to know the name of his mistress in Rome?

The words ate at her like some corrosive acid.

The fact that there was another woman in his life had not stopped him trying to seduce her back into his bed, she thought, hurt and anger warring inside her. ‘A fever in the blood’ he’d once called it. And once the fever had been quenched, what then? Had he expected her to be so much in thrall to him that she was compliantly prepared to share him with his Roman beauty?

She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. I can’t think about that, she told herself desperately. I dare not go there …

But there was another problem, too, that she had to confront. Was it just Emilio or did other members of the family know that he’d tried to pay her off three years before? If so, that was the ultimate humiliation, and she wanted to run somewhere and hide, away from the smiles and sneers that would accompany such knowledge.

But most of all, she wanted to hide from Sandro. And instead she was obliged to go upstairs, and get into one side of the extravagantly wide bed she had to share with him tonight. And be expected to sleep.

Oh, God, she thought, her fists clenching convulsively. It’s all such a charade. Such total hypocrisy.

And if I had any guts, I’d get Charlie, and make a run for it back to England, and see how Sandro deals with a scandal like that.

But, realistically, how far would she get? She was here in this—fortress in a foreign country, where he had power, and she had none. Even the money in the bank account he’d opened for her had been transferred to Italy.

She was helpless—and she was suddenly afraid too.

‘So, here you are.’ Sandro was walking across the terrace towards her. ‘What are you doing out here alone?’

She swallowed slowly and deeply, aware of the frantic thud of her heart at the sight of him.

‘I needed some fresh air.’ She forced herself to sound light and cool. ‘Pretending to be pleasant is hard work, and every actress needs an interval.’

‘Is it really so hard to meet such goodwill halfway?’ he asked unsmilingly.

‘I think it exists for Charlie, not myself,’ she returned curtly. ‘I’m your wife by accident not design, and they must know that.’

He said drily, ‘In the eyes of most of my family, you are not yet my wife at all. I am being given embarrassingly broad hints that I should take you upstairs without further delay and rectify the matter.’

‘Oh, God.’ Polly pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.

‘I am truly sorry, cara mia.’ His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘I never meant you to be subjected to this. We had better face them.’

‘Very well.’ Ignoring his outstretched hand, she walked stiffly beside him towards the open windows of the salotto.

‘I can give you ten minutes’ privacy,’ he added quietly. ‘But no longer, or Zia Vittoria will be demanding to know why I am not with you, doing my duty by the next generation.’

Her throat muscles felt paralysed, but she managed a husky, ‘Thank you.’

In spite of her tacit resistance, Sandro slid an arm round her waist, holding her against his side, as they went into the brightness of the room and paused to meet the laughter and faint cheers that awaited them.

Then she felt his lips touch her hot cheek, as he whispered, ‘Go now, bella mia.’

The door seemed a million miles away, especially when she had to reach it through a sea of broad grins and openly voiced encouragement. She was aware that people were swarming after her into the hall, watching her walk up the stairs.

She glanced back once, and saw Sandro standing a little apart from them all. He was unsmiling, his eyes bleak, as he looked at her, raising the glass he was holding in a cynical toast. Then he drained the contents in one jerky movement, and went back into the salotto.

Leaving Polly to go on, feeling more alone than she had ever done in her life before.