Читать книгу Sara Craven Tribute Collection - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 16

‘THERE.’ Paola tossed the glossy magazine she’d been reading from on to the tiles beside her lounger. ‘I managed every word. I am so good.’

Clare smiled at her. ‘Yes,’ she agreed gently. ‘You’re doing very well.’ But only when Paola was translating features about fashion and beauty or high-level gossip, she reminded herself wryly. Faced with anything more intellectual, her pupil went into sulky reverse. And she also insisted that lessons were combined with sunbathing by the pool— ‘So that they are not like school.’

‘The Marchese will be pleased,’ she added with a touch of constraint.

Paola tossed her head. ‘Perhaps—but what does it matter? I still shall not marry him.’ She shrugged. ‘And I do not believe he wishes it any longer, either. After all, he is never here.’

It was no more than the truth, Clare acknowledged with an inward sigh. Since that traumatic parting between them on the track below the Minerva shrine three weeks ago, Guido had been as good as his word.

Their paths had barely crossed at all, because he had spent minimal time at the villa. And she had never again found herself alone with him, even accidentally.

When she did encounter him these days, it was solely on formal occasions in the dining room, or in the salone during the evening, and Clare found herself treated with exquisite but chilling politeness.

And no matter how many times she assured herself that it was all for the best—and exactly what she wanted—nothing could dull the pain of longing that drove her early to the silence of her bedroom each night. But not to sleep. That was too much to hope for.

Instead, she lay, staring into the darkness, counting the hours, as the slatted moonlight moved slowly across the floor, her whole body aroused and alive, yearning for the surcease of a fulfilment forever denied.

The celibacy she’d adopted since James’s departure from her life had never been a particular burden. She’d embraced it with a kind of relief, telling herself it was the only way to protect herself from betrayal and heartbreak. Because physical passion made you vulnerable.

Now she knew that all she’d experienced with James was the denting of her self-esteem. That she’d never come close to loving him.

She’d learned a hard and bitter way what it was to care in real earnest. To need a man as simply and essentially as she needed to draw breath.

She’d tried in vain to argue with herself that she was confusing lust with love. That what she felt for Guido was sheer infatuation—a brief flame that would flicker and die. More importantly that she hardly knew him for God’s sake. In the normal timescale of relationships they were still strangers.

And yet—and yet…

The first time she’d seen him there’d been a kind of recognition. An immediate shock to her senses. The first time he’d touched her some unbridgeable gulf had been leapt.

As if we’d always known, she thought. As if our lives had always been moving towards this moment.

Except that it wasn’t true, and hadn’t happened. Except in her own too-vivid imagination.

She lashed herself with self-derision. What had passed between Guido and herself was no mating of two souls. He’d made a pass, and she’d stupidly responded, and that was all. Anything further was just a useless attempt to justify her own pathetic foolishness.

Guido Bartaldi was an expert at seduction, and she’d almost allowed herself to be seduced. Nearly, but not quite, and it was his turn to have a bruised ego.

Every time he set eyes on her the memory of her rejection must be at the forefront of his mind, she reflected without pleasure. The cold civility of his manner was an effective barrier to the anger and resentment that she must have provoked.

But how she missed the gleam of laughter in his eyes when he looked at her the teasing note in his voice. The way he said ‘Chiara’.

She hadn’t realised how much it all meant to her until it was gone, and she couldn’t call it back. Couldn’t build on that laughter, and the way his voice caressed her.

She mourned for them almost more than his kisses. Almost…

She said quietly now, ‘I don’t think there’s been any change of plan, Paola. He’s a busy man, that’s all.’ She paused. ‘When he is here, he’s—attentive, isn’t he?’

She knew the answer to that, because she saw it happening. Guido Bartaldi’s wooing of his future wife was lightly and charmingly done. If he was away for more than two days at a time, there was invariably a gift—some expensive trifle. But, physically, he was imposing no pressure at all, and that was clever, Clare admitted with a pang.

Because, in spite of her protests, Paola was bound to be just a little intrigued, and would soon start to wonder precisely why he did not try to make love to her.

And, once he did make his claim, Clare could not believe that Paola would be able to maintain her resistance for any length of time. Not, she thought unhappily, when she was being manipulated by an expert.

She could only hope she’d be long gone by that time. Because she could not bear to watch him coax Paola to surrender. Or any other woman, for that matter.

‘He is generous.’ Paola shrugged again. She sent Clare a sly sideways look. ‘So that I will not guess how much time he spends in Siena. My stepmother says that a man who gives so many presents has a guilty conscience.’

‘And the renovation of the chapel for the wedding?’ Clare queried coolly, as pain twisted inside her. ‘Is that a sign of guilt too?’

Paola looked mutinous. ‘Guido is not doing that for me. It is part of his precious house, and must be protected.’

‘Like the Minerva shrine,’ Clare said half to herself.

Paola gave her a surprised look. ‘You have seen that?’

Clare bent to put the magazines together and disguise the faint colour that had risen to her face. ‘Why, yes, when I first arrived. I went for a walk and—found it.’

‘I am surprised Guido allowed it, that is all.’ Paola’s tone was dismissive. ‘Usually he does not permit those outside the family to venture so far. The statue is very old and valuable, as well as ugly, and there are many stories about it—legends.’ She pulled a face. ‘I do not understand the fuss.’

‘It’s precisely because the statue is very old and valuable,’ Clare said drily. ‘And I think it’s beautiful. It gives off this—aura of quiet and peace.’

She knew by the expression on Paola’s face that she might as well have been speaking Mandarin Chinese.

‘Anyway,’ the younger girl continued after a pause, ‘Guido would not have his wedding hidden away here, when it happens—if it happens—it will be in Rome, and his great-uncle the cardinal will perform the ceremony.’

‘Is that what you would prefer?’

‘I?’ Paola asked. ‘I shall not be there.’

She swung her legs to the floor, and began to collect her things together. ‘I am going back to the house now. I have a headache.’

‘Another one?’ Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s the third this week, Paola. Maybe you should see a doctor.’

‘I do not need a doctor.’ Her tone was pettish. ‘Just a rest from all this stupid translation. I will see you at dinner, if my head is better. Ciao.’

Clare sighed, and lay back on her own lounger. Paola’s acquaintance with English was improving daily, but the same could not be said about her attitude towards her proposed marriage.

And Clare had tried. Each day she tried to sell Paola the charms of the Villa Minerva and its environs, together with the potent advantages of being a rich Marchesa, but the other girl still wasn’t buying.

‘This place is like a graveyard,’ was her usual reply. ‘And I do not need to marry a rich man. I shall have money of my own.’ Stalemate.

I can teach, Clare thought, biting her lip. But I’m not so hot on persuasion. But then my heart’s not in it. I’m on her side. I don’t think this wedding should take place either, and for more than just selfish reasons.

On the brighter side, at least Paola was not rhapsodising about Fabio with every breath. In fact she didn’t mention him at all, which Clare could only be thankful for. Maybe he’d decided that Paola was too well guarded, and had faded out of the picture.

However, that did not mean that Paola would turn to Guido for comfort—especially as he was openly pursuing his own interests, she thought unhappily. And that after she’d warned him that Paola knew about his Sienese lady.

She heard someone coming down the steps leading to the pool and looked round, smiling, as Tonio Lerucci came into view.

‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry.’ He gave her his swift, wide smile. ‘I thought Paola was here.’

‘I wasn’t asleep.’ Clare sat up. ‘And Paola’s gone back to the house to rest. I think she’s feeling the heat.’

He nodded, fanning himself with his hand as he sat down on the vacant lounger. ‘I think the weather will break soon. There are storms forecast.’

‘The air feels heavy enough,’ Clare agreed. Perhaps Paola’s headache was genuine, she thought, lifting her hair away from the nape of her neck.

Tonio was speaking. ‘I came to ask if she wanted another tennis lesson this evening before dinner. When it is cooler.’

‘I’ll ask her for you when I go up to the house.’ Clare smiled back at him. ‘You’re a miracle worker, getting her to play. I thought she loathed sport.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘When she was a child, she was very good—very athletic. It is her stepmother in Rome who has persuaded her that it isn’t cool to exert herself.’ There was a certain bitterness in his voice. ‘That she should lie about all day long and live a useless life.’

Clare said slowly, ‘Of course, you’ve known her a long time, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’ There was an odd bleakness in his voice that alerted her suddenly. ‘But sometimes she seems to forget that.’

Clare bit her lip. ‘I don’t think she’s in a very easy position. She sees her life being mapped out for her, and she hasn’t been consulted on the route. And she doesn’t like it here.’

‘She used to.’ There was a wealth of sadness in his voice. ‘I thought she could be happy here again. But now I’m not so sure.’

‘I think,’ Clare said, picking her way carefully, ‘that marrying the right man would make a difference.’

Tonio spread his hands. He said with a touch of harshness, ‘Then there is no problem. All she has to do is agree, and the wedding could take place tomorrow.’

She said, ‘Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple, and I think you know that. Because she isn’t convinced that he is right for her.’ She swallowed. ‘It would help if Guido—if the Marchese—spent less time—away. In Siena and other places,’ she added constrainedly.

He shook his head. ‘At the moment he has no choice. The boutique chain is taking off, and he likes to supervise the details himself.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘And is that all he’s doing? Hasn’t he other more personal reasons for being there?’

Tonio looked uncomfortable. He said, ‘Forgive me, this is not something I can discuss. It is Guido’s private business.’

‘But no secret,’ she said. ‘As Paola knows all about it.’

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘She does not. No one does, except the Marchese himself.’

‘You condone what he’s doing?’

‘It is not my place to judge.’ He paused. ‘Or to explain. Guido does what he must, he always has.’

‘You’re very loyal.’

He bent his head. ‘As he is himself. As you will realise one day.’ He smiled awkwardly and rose to his feet. ‘If you would be kind enough to pass my message to Paola?’

Clare was thoughtful as she walked up to the house. She had seen a good deal of Tonio over the past weeks, and liked him more at each encounter. And he had infinite patience with Paola, she reflected ruefully, even when she was at her worst. Nothing she did seemed to faze him.

At the same time, she was a little surprised that Guido should allow him to spend so much time in Paola’s company. Apart from the tennis, on most days he came down to the pool to encourage her to swim. And in the evenings he was teaching her backgammon, and dancing with her when there was music after dinner in the salone.

Perhaps he was just ensuring that she didn’t become bored—and rebellious again.

But Guido should be doing that, she thought. Not appointing a deputy, however faithful and discreet.

She knocked softly at Paola’s door on the way to her own room and called her name, but there was no answer. Probably she’d taken some painkillers and gone to sleep, she decided as she turned away.

The long shutters had been closed over the window in her room, and she walked across, pushing them ajar to admit some light. Below her the gardens shimmered in the intense sunlight.

Clare shaded her eyes, and stared at the wooded slopes in the distance. She thought longingly of Minerva, standing in her rocky niche, with the torrent of icy water falling past her. She’d made several pilgrimages to the shrine over the past weeks, always when Guido was away. And always she’d had the place entirely to herself.

She’d sat on the grass going over and over in her mind everything that had transpired between Guido and herself. Trying to see if there was anything she could have done to change things.

And having to accept that there was not. Because she and Guido wanted totally different things from their relationships. She needed commitment, whereas he would have settled for transience. She wanted fidelity, but for him variety was the name of the game. For her marriage was about love. For him it involved convenience—a merging of money and interests.

And it was better by far to end it as she had done than to risk ultimate heartbreak.

She moved her shoulders under the damp cling of her top. Guido was away today, and there was nothing to prevent her making the climb up to the shrine—except the heat.

But some brave soul was risking it, she realised, as she sighted a flash of bright yellow moving among the trees.

Clare frowned. ‘Who on earth?’ she said aloud.

It couldn’t be Violetta, because she’d gone with the Count to have lunch with some friends in Gubbio and had not yet returned.

But Paola has a dress that colour, she thought restively. The same Paola who feels the heat so badly, and is allegedly flaked out on her bed at this moment.

So why do I know, without checking, that I won’t find her there?

She groaned inwardly. Part of her was tempted to let Paola go to the devil in her own way. But she knew in her heart that she had to intervene—to find out what was going on. Because that was what she was being paid for.

She was in no good mood when she reached the gate in the wall and wrenched it open. The sun was beating down on her, and her clothes were sticking to her body. She had to force her legs up the steps, the rope rasping on her damp hand.

When she reached the place where the track divided, she paused, listening intently, but there was no sound except the distant rush of water.

She found Paola standing in front of the shrine, staring up at the statue. She was surprised to see that she was alone—and that she appeared to have been crying.

The angry demand for an explanation died unuttered. Instead, she said gently, ‘Paola? Is something wrong? What are you doing here?’

‘You come here.’ The other’s voice was husky. ‘You said it was peaceful. Perhaps I too wish to be quiet sometimes. To think.’

Clare bit her lip. ‘Then I’m sorry I intruded,’ she returned. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘No—wait. I wish to ask you something.’ Paola paused. ‘Chiara, is it possible to think that you are in love with someone, and suddenly realise it is not true. That you really care for someone else entirely—and have done for a long time—only you have been too blind, too stubborn to admit it? Can that happen?’

Clare was very still. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I’d say that could happen quite easily.’

Paola sighed. ‘I was afraid of that.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Chiara—I have been seeing Fabio. He has been here at the villa, pretending to be a gardener.’

Clare closed her eyes for a moment. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Marco’s cousin.’

‘You knew it was him?’

‘Not till now, but I should have done. I knew there was something wrong about him.’

Paola nodded. ‘Si, there was something wrong. He wanted money—only money. At first, he talked of love—how happy we would be. But then he began to change—to plan how to get money from Guido. To ask all the time about my inheritance. And I began to see that was all that mattered to him.

‘At the same time, I realised who I truly loved, even though I have fought against it for so long. And I saw that he is the only man who could make me happy. So today, when I met Fabio, I told him that it was all over—finished.’

‘And how did he react?’

‘He was angry. He said I had made a fool of him, and that he would make me sorry for it. And make Guido sorry, too.’ Her eyes met Clare’s apprehensively. ‘Do you think he can.’

‘No,’ Clare denied robustly. She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘But if you’re worried—talk to Guido about it.’

‘I cannot.’ Paola shook her head. ‘Not when there is so much else that I must say to him. So much I must explain, and ask him to forgive.’

Clare smiled tautly. ‘I don’t think that will be a problem. I’m sure he’ll meet you more than halfway.’

There were tears in Paola’s eyes again. ‘Oh, you are good to me, Chiara. It was you who first made me doubt Fabio, although I did not wish to.’ She took Clare’s hand. ‘You will stay, won’t you, for my wedding?’

‘I’ll try, but it may be difficult,’ Clare said huskily. ‘I will need to find another job.’ She paused. ‘Paola—you are sure—you want this marriage…?’

‘Si.’ Paola smiled almost shyly. ‘I feel as if I have come home. Can you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ Clare said. ‘I understand perfectly.’

Guido returned to the villa just before dinner that evening. Clare did not see his arrival, but she was aware of it all the same. There was always a new vibrancy in the air when Guido was at home. A tingle in the atmosphere which echoed in her bloodstream, making her heart beat faster.

She stood, looking at herself in the mirror. Tonight would be a time for celebration, so she’d put on the dress that Violetta had bought her in Perugia. It seemed a tiny bit looser than it had done, signalling that she’d lost some weight. Her cheekbones were more pronounced too, she thought critically, and there were tense lines along her jaw and throat.

Everything was combining to betray her inner turmoil, she thought unhappily. But, hopefully, no one would be looking at her. All attention would be turned to Guido and Paola.

She told herself that she should be glad for them. Relieved that Paola had been saved from making a terrible mistake with Fabio. And there was no doubt that she would be pampered and protected for the rest of her life as the Marchesa Bartaldi. But was that enough? Wouldn’t she want to love and be loved in equal proportion? Could Guido’s indulgence ever be enough?

She shook her head. She must stop thinking like this. It would soon be none of her concern, anyway. Her job was done and she could hand in her notice.

But first she had to get through this evening, which promised to be the most difficult of her life.

She went slowly downstairs, and stood, hesitating, listening to the voices coming from the salone. The excitement in the air was almost tangible.

She saw that Guido’s study door was standing open, and drew a deep breath. There would never be a better time to tell him she was leaving. The way things stood between them, he could only be relieved to see the back of her.

She reached the doorway, and peeped into the room. Guido was there, but not alone. Paola was with him, in his arms, her face buried against his shoulder while his hand stroked her hair with unmistakable tenderness.

As Clare stood motionless, lips parted and eyes enormous, he lifted his head sharply and looked at her, and she saw his face, grim, almost haggard, his mouth set, his whole expression at total variance with the gentleness of his embrace.

For a long moment they were locked together, in a kind of shocked, bitter awareness, his dark gaze sweeping her, burning her.

Until with a small sound between a sob and an apology, Clare turned and sped away.