Читать книгу The Impatient Groom - SARA WOOD - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

SOPHIA gulped and sat back in her seat, her mind reeling. She didn’t want her life changed. Not drastically, anyway. A job, a man to love and even one child instead of four would do very nicely.

Rozzano’s grasp on her hands reassured her. She could feel his strength pouring into her body. Searching the two men’s faces, she saw compassion and joy in their expressions. It wouldn’t be anything bad, she decided, or they’d be offering her brandy and sympathy and pushing smelling salts under her nose.

‘I’m braced,’ she said with resignation. ‘So tell me.’

The solicitor gestured for Rozzano to continue. The prince studied her with close attention as if he was reading every line of her face. But his expression remained inscrutable. She realised this was a shrewd man, who saw much and revealed little.

‘Your mother died when you were...?’

‘Two.’ Was this relevant? she wondered. But he seemed to be waiting for her to continue, so she decided to humour him. ‘She was walking in the village with me in my buggy when a lorry got out of control and...’

She drew her brows together sharply, the slaty depths of her eyes reflecting her emotions. Her father had been inconsolable. She remembered his endless sobbing which had filled the house for days, the hushed parishioners who’d cared for her and her own confusion when her father kept holding her too tightly, making her cry too.

‘Poor Father,’ she said gently. ‘He loved her so much.’

There was a silence in the room. She was glad that Rozzano didn’t offer any platitudes or sympathy for people he’d never known.

The warmth of his strong hands seemed to increase. Sophia felt her gaze drawn back to his. ‘Tell me about her.’

‘I don’t remember much,’ she confessed. ‘I just have an overall impression of hugs and kisses and laughter... Oh, she always smelt wonderful; she had these fabulous bottles of perfume—’ She stopped to recover her normal speaking voice.

‘Ah. Perfume.’ Rozzano’s brilliant eyes seemed to be having a hypnotic effect on her.

Sophia drew herself upright, banishing the strange feeling that her body ran with a warm and heavy fluid. Ludicrous. There were definitely bones in there somewhere.

‘There are several photos of her in the house of course,’ she finished abruptly.

‘Would you describe her for me?’ the prince asked softly.

She hoped they’d get to the point soon. Her nerves were shredding with every second.

‘Tall, slender, long, silky raven hair, merry eyes. And very, very beautiful in a kind of delicate, ethereal way,’ she replied, her expression growing wistful.

If only she’d known her mother! She’d lain awake for hours some nights, imagining what it must be like to be one of the other girls in the village, borrowing their mother’s make-up, going on shopping trips to town together, coming home from school to the smell of freshly baked cakes...

‘Sophia?’ prompted the prince. ‘Drifting again?’

She nodded and gave him an apologetic look but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘I was indulging in wishful thinking. She sounded adorable. Father talked about her a lot. It seemed,’ she mused, ‘that he felt she’d needed protecting, that she was fragile and vulnerable. Look, I have a picture of her in my bag.’

Rozzano released her hands and she fumbled for the dog-eared and faded snapshot, which had been lovingly examined a thousand times over the years. He took it, nodded and passed it to Frank.

‘Violetta D’Antiga, without any shadow of doubt.’ Rozzano raised an elegant hand to stop the denial on her lips. ’I’ve seen a painting of her, Sophia. There’s no doubt. D‘Antiga was her name before she married.’ He paused. ‘Your mother originally came from Venice.’

Sophia stared wide-eyed with amazement, her heart thumping as she took this in. So this was the mystery! ‘Truly?’ she asked shakily.

‘Truly,’ came Frank’s confirmation. ‘There’s ample proof I can show you.’

For a while she sat there, trying to absorb the news, persuaded only by the certainty in Frank’s voice. ‘I had...no idea,’ she said weakly.

She stared at the prince, who seemed delighted, and she found herself hesitantly smiling too. Then he rose and went to stand by the window. It was as if he knew she needed time to take in what he’d said.

‘I’m half-Italian,’ she said into the silence.

She heard the clink of cups as the men busied themselves with their coffee. Half-Italian. Images from films and travel programmes came into her head. Sunshine, coffee at little tables in exquisite squares beneath striped awnings, excitable chatter, hands gesticulating theatrically... Rich red wine, loving families and passionate emotions.

Yes. Yes! Slowly several things began to click into place and as she chewed the news over she began to understand what made her tick at last.

It had seemed that her emotions had always been at odds with her loving, but almost Victorian, upbringing. It had been so very hard for her to please her beloved father and not to dance along the street for joy, not to fling her arms around people and touch them so much, not to gesticulate wildly or laugh and sing and shout with glee whenever she felt happy and glad to be alive...

But this exuberance had been part of her nature. A delighted grin widened her generous mouth.

‘Venice!’ she said softly. A deep happiness shone in her eyes and she couldn’t keep the joy from showing in every line of her animated face. ‘Venice!’ she whispered with fervent rapture, thinking of the blue lagoon, the islands, the wonderful medieval city built on water...

‘You’re...pleased?’

Rozzano was leaning casually against the windowsill, but the tautness of his folded arms and the rigidity of his shoulders told a different story. So did the deep throb of his voice. It seemed that her answer was important to him and she found this utterly fascinating.

There was more to come; she knew it. Things they hadn’t told her yet. She soberly masked her nervous excitement, forced her hands to relax and replied quite calmly.

‘I’m thrilled,’ she said in all truth.

‘What do you know about Venice?’

Sophia’s eyes instantly reflected her dreams. There was a book of the city at home with wonderful photographs... She gave a little laugh, realising now why her father had shown it to her with such care.

‘Father stayed there as a young man when he was training for the church and researching St Mark, for his thesis.’ Her face became wreathed in smiles. ‘I suppose that’s where he met Mother!’ she declared sentimentally, imagining the two of them being serenaded in a gondola at midnight, floating silently along the dark canals...

‘Sophia? Come back to us?’

The prince’s soft and humour-laden murmur brought her back to the present with a jolt. ‘I was thinking what a romantic city it must be for lovers,’ she explained a little bashfully, adoring the thought of her parents in such a setting. How wonderful it must have been!

‘You know it? You’ve been there?’ he asked with interest.

‘Oh, no! But Father talked about it and I feel I know it. We’d look at a travel book of the city together and he’d tell me about the palazzos, St Mark’s Square, the churches crammed full of paintings by famous artists... I feel I know it. I have the map of the island in my head, how the Grand Canal curves like a backward ’S‘ bend, where the Rialto Bridge is... And it’s so beautiful. To me, Venice looks as if it’s the backdrop in a medieval fairy tale.’

‘It was, once. And I agree. It’s the most beautiful city in the world,’ Rozzano murmured. ‘Venetians feel sorry for anyone not born there!’

‘Now what tells me that you’re Venetian yourself?’ she asked drily. His eyes twinkled at her. Fascinated to learn about her mother’s birthplace, she added, ‘Have your family lived there long?’

‘About seven hundred years,’ he replied without any hint of arrogance.

‘Seven...!’ Open-mouthed in amazement, she gave up trying to imagine what it must be like to trace your ancestors so far back and decided to tease him. ‘Dear, dear. And still stuck in Venice!’ she chided. ‘Not the kind of people to go off and colonise the world, then!’

He threw back his head and laughed in delight before coming forward to take her hands in his. Extraordinary! He kept touching her. Why?

Staring into her startled eyes, he kissed the fingers of both hands. ‘When you find a jewel, you don’t swap it for paste.’

She lowered her lashes, frowning. The touch of his lips had been warm and soft and she’d wished... Ashamed by her waywardness, she did her best to keep her fingers limp and unresponsive beneath his and searched for the threads of the conversation, bending her mind to getting the loose ends tied up.

‘I still don’t understand why you’re here,’ she said, suddenly crisp and efficient ‘And why didn’t Father tell me who my mother was? Being Italian isn’t a crime. It doesn’t make sense.’

The hands holding hers tightened a fraction. ‘I imagine he was protecting her.’

Sophia stiffened at the gravity in Rozzano’s voice. She’d been right. There was more. Something she wouldn’t like. ‘Why?’ she asked, feeling the fear clutch at her heart and squeeze it hard.

He was watching her like a hawk. ‘She had run away.’

Her eyes widened in shock. ‘From what?’

‘Marriage.’

Absently his thumbs stroked her long fingers and she had to work hard to keep her breathing steady. ‘Go on,’ she mumbled.

‘There had been an understanding that she would marry a family friend when she reached eighteen. She’d been virtually betrothed since childhood. I understand, however, that she was very independent and emotional. For most of her teenage years she fought against a loveless marriage.’

‘So would I!’ Sophia declared fervently, feeling appalled at the family pressure her beleaguered mother must have endured.

‘Ye-e-s.’

A faint frown drew Rozzano’s brows together as if her remark was not to his liking. Abruptly he dropped her hands and began to stroll around the room again, picking up objects absently and putting them down. Sophia and Frank followed his every move and she realised just how dominant the prince was, how he had taken over the situation to make it run at his pace, his discretion.

He was used to taking charge, to being obeyed. Sophia found that both attractive and challenging. Wryly she recognised that she wanted him to know that she wasn’t to be ordered around, however mild and compliant she might seem to an outsider. She was her mother’s daughter. If anyone pushed her too far, she’d dig her heels in. And it was time she showed that she was the equal of any prince.

‘So she married my father for love and defied her materialistic family. Quite right, too. I admire her strength of will No one should be pushed into an arranged marriage against his or her wishes!’

He gave a very Italian shrug of his tailored shoulders. ‘A dynastic marriage is not unusual in my experience. Often an aristocrat’s child may grow up with an understanding that he or she will marry someone from a suitable family.’

She wrinkled her nose in disapproval and wondered about Rozzano’s wife—because he’d surely be married. He wore a signet ring on the third finger of his left hand, one with diamond shoulders and entwined initials. Would his marriage have been arranged?

She imagined the awkwardness of his wedding night, facing a bride he didn’t love. And she blushed when her thoughts took her further as she imagined his broad shoulders and muscular torso naked...

‘Barbaric!’ she declared with more force than she’d intended. But she felt annoyed that her body was hot with shocking thoughts of gold-skinned nudity... She swallowed. She must stick to the point. ‘OK. So what’s your connection with her?’ she asked, trying to equate this aristocrat and his unnerving pedigree with her own ordinary family.

There was a long pause. Sophia thought she would break the habit of a lifetime and scream. Her lips parted in breathless panic.

‘For heaven’s sake tell mel’ she urged, her voice throbbing with low and intense passion.

Rozzano’s liquid eyes seemed unnaturally intent on hers, as if he could see the havoc in her mind. ‘Your mother, Violetta, was the daughter of my father’s great friend Alberto D’Antiga. She was to be my father’s bride. But she jilted him.’

She wondered curiously if Rozzano felt insulted on behalf of his father. He gave no hint of it. On the contrary, she thought, her skin prickling with sensation, he was leaning elegantly against Frank’s desk and looking her up and down as if he was giving marks out of ten for every inch she possessed. And the muscles in her body grew tense in response as she battled to stop herself melting into the chair.

He’d be used to that kind of response, she thought crossly, and made sure that he suspected nothing. With a scowl, she said flatly, ‘That doesn’t explain why you’re here.’

The dark eyes became veiled and she wondered if she’d been imagining his appraisal. ‘I look after Alberto D’Antiga’s affairs. We have old family connections and he is ill and alone in the world,’ Rozzano said, a surprising tenderness creeping into his voice. ’Your grandfather is growing weaker every day, Sophia. He will be delighted to know he has a granddaughter.’

‘Hmm. This is the man who drove my mother away from the home she loved!’ Sophia reminded him vigorously.

‘You feel nothing for an old and sick man who is your blood relation?’ Rozzano’s reproachful glance was putting her to shame.

She heaved a sigh and came off her high horse. ‘Of course I do. What’s past is past. I’m sorry he’s not well. And yes, I’d like to contact him. He’s the only family I have now.’ Efficiently she whipped a pen and small notebook from her handbag. ‘Can you let me have his address?’

‘Certainly. Il Conte D’Antiga; that’s D apostrophe, capital A...’

‘Il Conte...’ She looked up to see if the prince was teasing her but he appeared to be perfectly serious.

‘His palazzo is called Ca’ D‘Antiga,’ he drawled. ‘Capital C—’

‘Just a minute!’ Shock widened her smoke-dark eyes. ‘A...count? In a palace? You’re having me on, aren’t you?’ she said with a nervous laugh.

‘No. He is, as you say, a count.’ He saw her disbelief and added quietly, ‘There are many palazzi in Venice. A few hundred. And there are many minor nobles. We still keep our titles, even after Napoleon abolished them. Sophia, I would not lie about this. What would be my motive? Think about it Surely you don’t imagine that D’Antiga would have been so anxious about his daughter’s marriage if he were a butcher or a gondolier, or perhaps an ice-cream seller?’

‘I—I don’t know!’ she mumbled, unable to take in what he was saying. It made horrible sense suddenly. ‘I s-suppose,’ she said slowly, leaping to a conclusion that made sense to her and stumbling over her words, ‘he was desperate. He’d lost his money and needed his daughter to marry someone rich to preserve—’

‘He’s wealthy. Always has been.’

With her idea shot down in flames, she shook her head slightly to clear the confusion there. ‘Then why did he insist on this loveless marriage?’

‘You have to be careful of fortune hunters,’ Rozzano said abruptly. ‘If wealth marries wealth, the partners are equal.’

Sophia let her horror show. ‘No wonder Mother ran away if that’s the way you aristocrats think!’ she said indignantly, putting the notebook firmly away. ‘Love is the only reason for marriage! Anything else would make a mockery of marriage vows taken before God! I’m proud that she valued love more than money—’

‘She could have had both.’ The prince smiled a little wryly at her raised eyebrows and spoke slowly and with emphasis as if aware that her fuddled brain was working at a snail’s pace. ‘Your mother was an heiress with a fortune of her own.’

Silence. Stunned by his claim, she stared at him, frowning. That couldn’t be right. They’d been horribly poor. They’d shivered in the draughty vicarage and worn extra jumpers and socks against the cold. If there had been money, it had long since gone.

She tried to speak, to tell them this, but the words wouldn’t come.

Rozzano had moved closer and was now standing over her. She had to look up to see his face, her eyes skittering nervously over his superb body.

Was he deliberately dominating her? she wondered. She contemplated jumping up and doing a bit of striding around herself, but she knew that right at this moment her legs would buckle. A weak, rubbery goo seemed to have replaced her bones.

He pushed back his jacket and thrust his hands into his pockets, drawing her unwilling attention to his narrow waist and slim hips. She lowered her eyes. He was speaking and his purring voice curled into her with remorseless insistence, distracting her even from the staggering claim he’d made about her mother.

He is unbelievably magnetic, she thought, terrified that he’d realise—rightly—that her shallow breathing wasn’t entirely due to his revelations. Desperately she struggled to stop herself reacting so stupidly to Rozzano’s highoctane sex appeal and to attend to what he was saying.

‘But you’ll find that your grandfather,’ he was telling her smoothly, ‘is a kind and generous man. He would be very happy to see you take your place in Venetian society.’

She gave a short laugh, seeing herself parading in a tiara and ermine-trimmed robes, or whatever count’s granddaughters wore. Probably fluorescent Versace and a baseball cap nowadays, she thought mefully, trying to make herself see the funny side.

Rozzano frowned faintly at her scathing expression. ‘You’re amused?’

‘No. Yes. I’m sorry. But it’s so crazy! I apologise if my reaction has offended you. It’s just that I think you should check your facts. Far from being an heiress, my mother was impoverished.’

‘How do you know?’

She gave him a pitying glance. ‘Because of the way we lived. I know she adored us. She would have shared her money with us, then left it to Father. But he and I lived from hand to mouth! He never had a bean. Look at me! Look at these clothes! They hardly shout “Heiress!”, do they? They come from the local nearly new shop!’

She cast a realistic glance at herself. It wasn’t surprising that he’d been riveted by her appearance. Having compared her to the photo of Violetta D‘Antiga, he would have begun to wonder how Violetta could have given birth to such a poorly dressed shambles of a woman!

‘All I know is that she didn’t touch her trust fund. It’s still intact in a Venetian bank,’ Rozzano said relentlessly.

‘But... why would she do that, deliberately make herself poor?’ Sophia demanded in disbelief.

‘Pride and fear,’ answered Frank. ‘Violetta’s father was—is—one of the trustees. She would have had to ask him to release the money. From what your father said, I gather she felt her happiness would have been compromised by wealth—something she didn’t want to risk. I had the whole story from your father; it’s in this letter.’ He held it out to her.

‘I can’t believe that!’ she cried vehemently, desperate to deny it all, afraid of the doubts crowding her mind, afraid there might be some truth in this preposterous story.

Suddenly she felt very scared, as if the ground had been swept from under her to leave a gaping hole beneath. And she was falling into it, like it or not.

Words spun around her mind. Italian. Venice. A count. An heiress. Obviously she’d fallen asleep by the window in Frank’s waiting room and this was a dream, prompted by thinking of the prince. She drove her top teeth into her lower lip.

And knew she was awake.

Shaking, she clapped a hand to her forehead. It burned, yet her cheek felt clammy. A fever. Hallucinations, then.

‘Please... ’ she whispered, feeling hot and unbearably dizzy. ‘I—I can’t breathe...’

Strong arms enfolded her, one slipping around her back, one tucking beneath her knees. He’d done this before, she thought muzzily, and pouted, irrationally resenting all the women he’d carried to bed. Her head swam as she was raised in the air as if she weighed nothing.

Nauseous, with the room seeming to whirl about her, she allowed herself to be borne a short distance to an old sofa by the window, where Rozzano gently laid her.

Her eyes closed as she fought the swirling mist filling her head. She mustn’t pass out. She had to focus her mind, deal with this mad suggestion... And yet Frank had been so certain. It couldn’t be true...could it?

A moan whispered through her pale lips. The evidence was overwhelming. Why else had the prince come to England? The facts were staring her in the face. Frank was convinced. So was the prince. That meant... She groaned, then shuddered when Rozzano whispered something to her and his fingers lightly smoothed her furrowed brow.

‘Water, please!’ he called urgently.

Warm silk touched her chin. A jacket lining, she thought hazily, as its weight settled across her body. It smelled of him, a fragrance that was faint and elusive but wonderfully enticing, like the natural perfumes her mother had used. And she wanted to reach up her arms and pull him down to her till his cheek rested against hers and she could inhale those delicious scents.

Instead she kept her eyes tightly shut, giving herself thinking space. And time to settle her wild and shocking urges. Something awful had happened to her. The news had weakened her, torn her apart and left her defences open to the first devastatingly handsome man who crossed her path. And Rozzano was more devastating and handsome than most.

‘Goodness!’ exclaimed the temp, tapping in on her tottery heels.

Sophia blessed the woman for ripping into her panic-stricken thoughts. Nevertheless, she remained still, listening to Frank’s muttered dismissal. Cool water was being dabbed on her temples and wrists.

And then Rozzano’s moistened finger brushed a few times across her trembling mouth. It was terribly, wonderfully sexy and she didn’t know how she kept her eyes shut or stopped herself from catching his fingertip between her lips and tasting it, perhaps letting it wander into the moistness of her mouth...

At the contraction of her loins, Sophia moaned again, aware she needed to release her deep and terrifying feelings. She was in a state of turmoil, and no wonder. Desperately she gritted her teeth, appalled at the way her barriers were tumbling.

His hand stroked hers rhythmically—she knew it was his, recalled its strength, the sinews, the dryness of his palms and the suppleness of his long fingers. And she realised that she could also recall every line of his face, the angles of his eyebrows, the way he stood, walked...

‘Sophia, just relax,’ he murmured somewhere near her ear.

Relax! Suppressing a sharp gasp when his cool breath feathered over her face, she went through every muscle of her body, one by one, in an attempt to do as he said.

She opened her eyes and wished she hadn’t. He was leaning over her, kiss-close, an expression of concern softening his autocratic features.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said. ‘Nothing bad will come of this, Sophia. You and your grandfather will be reunited. You won’t have to worry about money ever again—’

‘My grandfather!’ she breathed raggedly, feeling emotion sweep over her.

She was too choked to continue. All these years and the old man had aged and become ill, unaware that she existed. Without any warning, she began to cry as she lay there, the hot tears squeezing themselves pathetically from the corners of her eyes and running down her cheeks to the top of her jaw.

‘Why’s she upset?’ she heard Frank hiss. ‘I thought she’d be pleased! She deserves a break after all she’s been through,’ he said, warming to his theme while Sophia cringed with dismay at being openly discussed. ‘She gave up everything to look after her father. It can’t have been easy. No fun, no boyfriends, all those years of devoted attention—’

‘Frank,’ she mumbled hastily before the violins started playing, ‘you don’t understand! I’m crying because I have a grandfather who doesn’t even know I’m alive. He might have died and I would never have met him! How could my mother have done this to me?’ she cried passionately, so distressed that she forgot her reserve. ‘Why did she keep me from her family? She was married. She would have been beyond her father’s interference! Surely they could have made up their differences! It seems so cruel—’ She faltered, her eyes filling with tears again. ‘My mother’s become a mystery. I hate that,’ she finished miserably.

‘Then find out. Come to Venice and talk to your grandfather,’ suggested Rozzano gently. ‘Let him explain.’

‘Venice?’ she cried in blank amazement, sitting up.

‘Of course,’ the prince said patiently. ‘He can’t come to you. He isn’t strong. Any day now I fear the worst...’

She bit her lip, getting his drift. Her grandfather didn’t have long to live and time was running out. She hesitated. ‘I couldn’t afford the trip—’

‘You can. You’re rich,’ he reminded her.

‘I don’t have a passport,’ she said stubbornly, blanking her mind to all the things she didn’t want to deal with.

And she knew she was clutching at any straw to stop her from making the journey, even though she longed to meet her grandfather. Fear and love were vying with one another.

‘No passport?’ Rozzano exclaimed in amazement.

‘There’s never been any need,’ she said stiffly. ‘My birth certificate was lost and—’

‘Not lost. In my safekeeping.’ Frank held it out to her.

And there it was. Mother. La Contessa Violetta D‘Antiga. Sophia stared at it but her fingers were shaking so much that it fell from her fingers to the floor. Rozzano reached out to retrieve it and as he bent his cheek came so close that it almost brushed hers.

She felt her chest become banded with iron and her breath suck in sharply.

‘I know this must be difficult for you, but I’ll help you,’ he said, so softly that she strained closer to hear. ‘I’ll be with you every step of the way if you wish.’

There was a sudden violent movement in the open doorway to the waiting room. Almost simultaneously she was dazzled by a series of blinding flashes which made her scream in fear.

Rozzano shot to his feet, muttering ferociously in Italian under his breath, and in a matter of seconds he was roaring through the door in hot pursuit of the intruder.

Sophia saw Frank move to the window. She jumped up with a sudden surge of energy and joined him. Her heart leapt to her mouth. In the street below, Rozzano was shouting and clinging onto the door of a car, which was accelerating away.

‘He’ll be killed!’ she croaked in horror.

Without thinking, she dashed out of the office and down the stairs, running like the wind after the careering car. Rozzano fell, and rolled away from it.

And lay motionless.

He was deeply shaken, though not by his fall, or the brush with danger. He’d taken too many risks paragliding and skiing and had faced fear too often for it to affect him any more. It was his reaction that staggered him.

Astonishingly, he’d wanted to protect Sophia from press exposure—from the lies, and the stories they’d weave about them both. Her scream of terror had aroused in him a response so visceral and primitive that he might have been a caveman, defending his woman!

And so he’d done the unthinkable, broken his own rules, and acted like a fool. He could have kicked himself. The press would have a field-day with this one.

Furious at his stupidity, he lay without moving, allowing his anger to fade and his bruised muscles to recover. He became aware that his head throbbed. A gentle hand touched it. Sophia’s. Wonderful.

His body responded immediately, much to his annoyance, generating warmth in his loins. To his astonishment, the heady combination of virgin and siren had fired an almost uncontrollable desire in him, a desire more powerful than anything he’d felt for years.

Her dreamy smile had driven him mad. He’d wanted to know what she was thinking whenever she ‘drifted’. And, he wanted to be a part of her fantasies. Dammitl He’d have to get a grip.

She checked his pulse. He felt it falter then accelerate and she murmured in tender concern. And he felt cherished for the first time in his life.

Guilt crawled all through him. She was so honest and trusting. He knew he shouldn’t lie there inert—but the urge to play patient to her nurse was overwhelming. Even the thought of that scenario brought a skin-tingling frisson curling through his every nerve, tightening every sinew and heating his blood.

He knew why he’d reacted so violently. The opportunity for action had seemed almost welcome and it had released some of the exquisite agony which had been building up in his love-starved body.

He could smell her now. Wanted to lift his face and inhale her intoxicating fragrance. Disgusted with his lack of control, he pressed his hands harder into the ground and let the gravel take his mind off his carnal needs.

But it was a struggle. Her hands were now systematically feeling his limbs for breakages and he all but groaned, the warmth in his loins becoming searing hot. Desperate to curb any physical reaction to the electric sensation of her hands on his body, he concentrated doggedly on the sounds of the small crowd gathering around them.

They knew her. Liked her. Felt concern for her. He could hear the love in their voices and he was glad. Such a good and decent woman would bring delight to frail Alberto D‘Antiga’s soft heart and the old man would die in peace, knowing that his family name was in good hands.

Unless, of course, some good-looking, gold-digging parasite turned her head! His brows drew together moodily. That mustn’t happen. She’d be hurt. Or worse... corrupted. His jaw tightened. He was back in caveman mode again, taking up his cudgel to crack the head of any man who harmed her. Was that the reaction Violetta had prompted in men?

‘He’s in pain!’ she cried.

He felt the light touch of Sophia’s fingers on his forehead smoothing out the frown lines and heard her soft murmur as she spoke to him, pleading with him, an appealing little catch in her voice giving him immense problems with his self-control.

‘Please open your eyesl’ she begged.

‘Now don’ thee be upsettin‘ theself,’ came a deep, Dorset voice above him.

Warmth and caring flooded to the distressed Sophia. She was clearly a much loved and exceptional woman. It confirmed his initial assessment that Violetta’s daughter was a woman in a million, imbued with rare qualities...

No wonder he’d been intrigued by her. Had wanted to make love to her, then and there! How he’d stopped himself he didn’t know. It was like being a teenager again, ruled by sudden unbridled lust!

And it unnerved him because he wouldn’t be able to walk away from her unwelcome attractions. He’d have to be with her, hour after hour, day after day, introducing her to Venetian society, worrying about her innocence...

He stopped breathing. Something had occurred to him and his brain went into overdrive. Sophia’s hand lay on his chest and she was beginning to panic at its lack of movement, so he let his breath out slowly. He had the answer to all his problems. And as she relaxed in relief he neatly fitted her into his momentous decision.

He would marry her.