Читать книгу The Duke's Wife - Stephanie Howard - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER Damiano had gone and a maid had come to clear up the mess—which fortunately wasn’t as bad as it had sounded, for only one cup had been broken, though most of the tea had spilled over the carpet—Sofia walked unsteadily over to the window and stood staring unseeingly down into the garden, struggling desperately to calm herself. Surely this was about as low as things could possibly go?

She bit her lip. I hate him, she told herself. And at that thought a wretched sadness twisted at her heart. Once, she would have been incapable of even thinking such a thing. Once, she had been filled with the sheer joy of loving him and with the conviction that she would love him until the day she died.

Even now she could remember when she had first fallen in love with him. She had been ten years old, spending a summer holiday at the royal palace, the fabulous rosy-stoned Palazzo Verde which stood high on a promontory overlooking the sea and had been the home of the ruling Montecrespis for centuries. And she’d been sitting in one of the courtyards waiting for Caterina—Damiano’s younger sister, who was two years older than herself—when suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Damiano had appeared.

He’d been dressed in his riding gear—cream breeches and burgundy jacket—his high polished boots making a sharp clack-clack sound as he strode across the cobbled courtyard. He’d been about to walk past her, for she was half-hidden in a corner, but then, at the last minute, he’d spotted her and paused.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘And who are you?’

Sofia looked up at him and felt her heart turn over in her chest. Surely she must be dreaming? This had to be some fairy-tale prince? For she had never seen a more dashingly arresting sight in her life. He had the most wonderful face, long-lashed eyes as black as treacle and the most glorious head of hair, which in those days he wore a little longer and was as black and glossy as washed coal. And he was smiling at her with a warm smile that was turning her flesh to jelly.

She finally found her voice. ‘I’m Sofia,’ she said.

‘Sofia? Now which Sofia is that?’ He frowned a little. ‘I don’t think I know you.’

‘Sofia Riccione.’ Her tongue felt like cardboard. ‘My mother’s a friend of your mother, the Duchess, and I’m a friend of Caterina’s. I—’

‘Oh, that Sofia!’ He smiled more broadly, understanding, and Sofia caught a glimpse of perfect strong white teeth. ‘I’ve heard all about you from my sister. You’re the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Romano.’

Sofia nodded, wondering if she dared ask him who he was, though she had already guessed that he was probably Caterina’s elder brother. She’d already met Leone, her other brother, who was younger. But, even as she was wondering, he held out his hand to her.

‘Pleased to meet you, Sofia,’ he told her. ‘I’m Damiano. No doubt we’ll be bumping into one another from time to time.’

And they did, though not nearly as often as Sofia would have liked. Still, even just a glimpse of him was enough to make her day sublime—and to bring a blush to her cheeks, as, to her dismay, Caterina noticed.

‘You’re in love with my brother!’ she accused, shrieking with laughter. ‘You’re in love with Damiano! I’m going to tell him!’

Sofia nearly died. ‘Oh, no, don’t!’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t, Caterina! I’m not in love with him, I swear!’

‘Yes, you are!’ Caterina’s blue eyes were sparking with devilment. ‘I know the signs. I saw you blushing!’ Then she took pity on the distraught expression on poor Sofia’s face, for she would sooner have died than have her secret made public. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing,’ she promised solemnly. ‘And, anyway, I don’t blame you. Damiano’s terribly handsome. Both my brothers are, but especially Damiano. And one day, you know, he’s going to be the Duke.’ She laughed a teasing laugh. ‘How would you like to be his duchess?’

Quite frankly, Sofia thought that that would be the most wonderful thing imaginable. Not the duchess bit particularly. She didn’t care about that. But to be Damiano’s wife. That was what she dreamed of. And as the years went by and she returned again and again as a guest at the sumptuous Palazzo Verde it became a dream that established itself deep within her. Though it was just a make-believe dream, not one she ever believed might really come true. Damiano was way out of her reach and she knew that.

For a start, he was so much older. Fourteen years divided them. He was so sophisticated, smart, worldly and wise and she, by comparison, knew nothing at all. In his eyes all she was was an immature child.

On one particular occasion when she was about thirteen years old she was having lunch with the Duke and Duchess and her own parents and Damiano—Caterina, for some reason, wasn’t present—and the conversation became terribly obscure and adult, with words like ‘deflation’ and ‘equities’ being bandied about, and she didn’t have a clue what on earth they were talking about. She didn’t care either. She was perfectly happy just to sit there secretly feasting her eyes on Damiano. On those wonderful jet-dark eyes, on the way his mouth curled at the corners, on the glossy black hair that flopped down over his forehead. She kept wishing she could reach across the table and touch it, and she would shiver at the thought of its cool silkiness against her fingers.

But then the Duke, Damiano’s father, who was the kindest of men and would never have knowingly embarrassed her, suddenly said, ‘But we’re boring poor Sofia with all our silly chatter. Poor thing’s been sitting there as quiet as a mouse for hours.’ He smiled kindly across at her. ‘Let’s talk about something different. Come on, Sofia, tell us who your favourite pop star is these days.’

Sofia turned the same colour as the raspberry sorbet she’d been eating. She stared back at the Duke, feeling humiliated to her very core. What kind of idiot must she look, capable only of conversing about pop stars? What a hopeless impression she must be making on Damiano.

And then Damiano spoke. ‘She used to be very keen on The Police—at least so Caterina was telling me.’ He smiled across at her, a smile in which Sofia could see only condescension, and asked, ‘Do you still like them or have you moved on to someone else?’

‘I—I don’t know...’

Sofia could feel all eyes on her. And, suddenly drowning in embarrassment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Her brain was functioning with all the clarity of a lump of sago.

‘I—’ she began again. But there was nothing to come out. And that was when something snapped inside her and she ended up making the situation a hundred times worse. She sprang from the table with a muttered, ‘Excuse me!’ and went flying from the dining room in helpless tears.

Later, she apologised to the Duke and Duchess, who told her not to be silly, that she had obviously just been tired, and the incident was never mentioned again. But it continued to haunt Sofia for years and years afterwards. What an idiot she’d made of herself in front of Damiano!

Her lingering embarrassment, in fact, was so enormous that in the years that followed, when she began to see less and less of Damiano—partly because he just never seemed to be around when she visited the palace and partly because her visits had grown more seldom anyway since her friendship with Caterina had waned a little—she told herself that it was simply a blessing in disguise. It would save her doing something else that would make her an even bigger fool in his eyes! Besides, didn’t they say that out of sight was out of mind? And it really was time she gave up her foolish fantasies.

But that was not the way it worked out. She saw him fairly seldom and then usually at some banquet, wedding or reception where she almost never had a chance to speak to him personally, but for all that he remained a permanent presence in her mind. And an even more tenacious one in her heart. For she simply loved him more with each year that passed.

There were times when these feelings seemed bound to bring her grief. Like those times when she would see him at some dinner with a girlfriend—and there were no shortage of these coming and going over the years, though Damiano had never been a playboy like his younger brother Leone. And then there was the time—perhaps the worse time of all—shortly after his thirtieth birthday, when Rino, the San Rinaldo capital, was rife with rumours that he was about to get engaged to an Austrian princess.

Sofia held her breath and prayed. And her prayers were answered. There was no engagement, the Austrian princess vanished from the scene and eventually the rumours died.

Over the years Sofia had never been conscious of saving herself for Damiano, but perhaps without realising it that was in fact what she had done. For she had never had a real boyfriend, never even been kissed. Sexually, she really had been totally inexperienced when, four and a half years ago, tragedy had struck and Damiano had suddenly found himself in need of a wife.

At just fifty-nine years old, his father was killed when the helicopter he was travelling in crashed into a mountain. And within the month, years before he’d expected to succeed, Damiano was being crowned in Rino Cathedral. He was a popular successor but one vital thing as missing. He was unmarried with no heir and that had to be put right.

At the time it was common knowledge that he’d been seeing a lot of Lady Fiona, the glamourously beautiful daughter of a local count, and that he’d actually been doing a great deal more than just seeing her—that he and the lovely Fiona were madly in love and for the past eighteen months had been having a passionate affair. Would Fiona be the one to become his duchess? people were asking. And again Sofia held her breath and prayed. Though she was being foolish, she told herself. Even if he didn’t marry Lady Fiona, he would still marry someone else. He would never marry her.

But then the strangest thing happened. A couple of months later she was invited with her parents to a private dinner at the palace. And at the end of it Damiano, who had been most attentive to her all evening—so attentive that she had scarcely managed to eat a bite—took her out onto the terrace and there, beneath the moonlight, told her, ‘I think it would be really nice if we could get to know each other better. What do you say, Sofia? How would you feel about that?’

Sofia was almost as tongue-tied as on that previous occasion. She blushed to her hair roots. ‘I’d like that,’ she answered. And she stared hard at the. ground, not daring to meet his eyes.

After that there followed a brief, intense courtship. Dinners together. Outings in public. And rumours quickly spread that she was to be the one. But she still didn’t really believe it, for she knew he didn’t love her. So she was totally stunned when, three months later, he proposed.

Her reaction made him smile. He looked down into her shocked face and gently reached out to touch her cheek with his fingers.

‘I appreciate that what I’m asking must seem a pretty daunting prospect. The role of Duchess is an important and extremely demanding one, though I know my mother will help you all she can. But I think you can do it. You’ve lived most of your life close to the palace. You know how things work. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

He looked into her face with those dark eyes that could melt her soul. ‘I really would be very pleased if you’d agree to be my wife.’

Sofia looked back at him, struggling for composure. It had sounded more like a job offer than a proposal of marriage. Not one word had he spoken of his personal feelings for her or of what he expected their relationship to be. But somehow that didn’t matter. She already knew he didn’t love her. But she loved him. And something else she was very sure of was that he was the only man in the world she would ever want to marry. So she took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.’

I’ll make him love me, she vowed to herself. I’ll make him love me as I love him.

The wedding took place in Rino’s splendid Gothic cathedral once the official one year mourning period for the old Duke was over. And it was a glorious occasion, with the twenty-year-old Sofia looking perfectly exquisite in a fairy-tale wedding dress, wearing a tiara that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, and with a look of blissful happiness in her wide grey-blue eyes. That day she felt she must be the luckiest girl in the universe.

They flew to Sicily for their honeymoon and stayed in a hilltop castle belonging to one of Damiano’s relatives. And Sofia could clearly remember how excited and terrified she’d been when they’d set off for that honeymoon.

She was a virgin, of course—one of the reasons, after all, that Damiano had chosen her to be his bride. And until that night when they found themselves alone together in the big vaulted room with the vast canopied bed Damiano had never done more than chastely kiss her. She stood there frozen, her mouth dry, her heart hammering. She wanted him. She longed for him. But she was desperately nervous. Would she do it all wrong? Would she disappoint him? Would it hurt? Did he really want her anyway?

‘Come here.’

He was standing in the open doorway to the balcony, the starlight in his hair, making it glisten like polished jet. And he held out his hand to her and smiled at her gently.

‘Come here,’ he said again. ‘I want to kiss you.’

Sofia walked towards him as though she were walking on water. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of feeling in her legs, or in any other part of her rigid body, come to that. But then he took her hand and kissed it and slipped his other hand round her waist and, as he drew her towards him and she felt the strength of him enfold her, every inch of her suddenly burst into flames of desire.

‘Don’t be afraid, Sofia. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ He released her hand and tilted her chin and delicately, unhurriedly bent to kiss her mouth. ‘I want you to enjoy this. I want it to be special.’

She looked up into his eyes, drowning, drowning. God, how I love him. How I love him, she thought. And she smiled a nervous smile.

‘That’s better,’ he said.

Damiano kissed her again then, her face, her eyes, her hair, and as she began to relax a little she laid her hands on his shoulders, then let them slide round to the back of his neck. She felt the dark hair brush her fingers and a jolt of pleasure stab through her. Suddenly her fear was slipping away, excitement growing in its place.

And that was when, at last, he took hold of her more firmly and kissed her as she had only ever dreamed of being kissed. Fiercely. Hungrily. A kiss that blazed with passion. And she found herself responding, clinging to him, gasping, tight spirals of desire twisting in her body.

‘My sweet Sofia.’

His hand was on her breast now, moving lightly, sending a rain of brightness through her. Suddenly all the fear inside her had vanished. She was filled with a bright, hot need that must be satisfied.

He was leading her towards the bed, undoing the buttons of her dress. Then he was slipping it from her shoulders, letting it slither to the floor, and quickly discarding his shirt before laying her on the coverlet.

‘You are beautiful,’ he told her, making her heart swell with happiness, for there was nothing she wanted more in the world than to please him. And she could see from the dark look in his eyes that she did. At least he desired her. That much was plain enough.

And she desired him. Every inch of her ached for him as she reached up her hand to caress his broad chest, letting her fingers slide quiveringly over the taut muscles of his shoulders, feeling the strength of him, longing for that strength to overwhelm her.

He stripped her naked, never hurrying, discarding her garments one by one, inviting her to do the same with his. And all the while he was whipping up her senses with deep, hot kisses and intimate caresses that grew ever more fiery, ever more urgent. Desire licked through her, making her limbs tremble.

‘Damiano! Oh, Damiano!’ she whispered, pressing against him. How I love you! she added silently. Please love me in return!

When the moment came he was swift and sure and gentle. As he entered her, Sofia felt a quick, sharp shaft of pain. Then it was over and he was a part of her. As she clung to him and kissed him, every inch of her was flooded with a sense of pure, exquisite joy.

And that was when she knew she would love him all her life. He was part of her now and nothing could change that and her love for him would be the glorious centre of her life.

The first couple of months were marvellously happy. He still didn’t love her, but he seemed to have grown fond of her and their sex life was wonderfully, greedily satisfying.

‘You’re going to wear me out,’ Damiano would sometimes tease her. ‘Wouldn’t you ever just like to read a book or something in bed?’

And she would laugh and tease him back, turning away from him, ‘OK. No making love tonight. I’m going to catch up on my Shakespeare.’

‘The devil you are!’ He would grab her then and kiss her as they lay there naked in the big four-poster bed. ‘You can catch up on your Shakespeare once I’ve finished with you, young lady!’ And he would take her breast in his hand, teasing the nipple. ‘Though I’m afraid that may not be for quite some time. I can tell this is going to be another long session.’

‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ She would press against him, shivering, her heart tightening with excitement as she felt him harden.

‘It’s a promise.’

‘How do you know? Maybe I don’t want a long session. Maybe I really do want to catch up on my Shakespeare.’

‘OK, then. Go ahead.’ And he would pretend to release her. But even as she clung to him and moaned in protest he would be kissing her and turning her moans of protest into breathless, excited moans of pleasure.

And Sofia would sink back against the pillows in surrender, losing herself in the cascade of sweet sensations that went tumbling over her in great drenching waves of pleasure.

The secret of their glorious sex life was really very simple. Neither of them, quite frankly, could get enough of the other.

Less than three months after their wedding, however, a second tragedy struck that rather took the edge off their happiness. Damiano’s mother died. Of a broken heart, it seemed, for she had never got over the death of her beloved husband.

Damiano was devastated. Coming so soon after the loss of his father, the loss of his mother affected him badly. And though Sofia tried to be there for him she felt inadequate, almost useless. What could a child like her offer him? She was only twenty, after all. And it seemed to her that they started to grow a little apart at that point.

There was something else too that was starting to trouble her, for Sofia had hoped she might get pregnant very quickly. She had always wanted to have lots of children; besides, Damiano needed an heir, and, more than anything, she longed to give him one. Especially now, after the tragic death of his mother, for surely it would help to ease the pain of his loss. It might also, it occurred to her, have another happy side-effect. It might bring them closer together again.

But the months went by and nothing happened and she grew more and more upset, though Damiano assured her, ‘Don’t worry. There’s no hurry. There’s plenty of time. Just put it out of your mind and, you’ll see, it’ll happen.’

But she couldn’t put it out of her mind and it didn’t happen. Suddenly she began to feel like a horrible failure.

And it was around that time that she heard the first stirrings of the rumour that Damiano was seeing Lady Fiona again.

Sofia ignored these tales. The possibility that they were true was a horror so huge that she dared not even look in its direction. Instead, she focused on Damiano. On trying to please him every way she could, in bed and out of it, desperate to make him love her. And then—miracle!—it seemed at last that the power to do so was within her grasp. Just thirteen months after their wedding, she finally became pregnant.

That was a wonderfully happy time. Damiano was ecstatic, and so sensitively caring and so gloriously proud of her. Sofia felt herself blossom. It was all going to be all right now—a fact which seemed secure when a scan showed that the child was a boy. How could he not love her now, when she was about to give him his precious heir?

During her pregnancy he made love to her with less and less frequency, though Sofia kept assuring him that the doctors had said it was all right.

‘I don’t want to take any risks. This baby is too precious,’ he told her. ‘And so are you,’ he added, kissing her. ‘Let’s just err on the side of caution.’

Very well. Sofia accepted that. There would be plenty of sex later. And she felt a thrust of perfect happiness at the thought of all the joys the future held. Soon they would be a real family with a lovely little son. It was as though the stars had dropped down from heaven and kissed her.

But then all that changed. Another wave of rumours reached her concerning Damiano and Lady Fiona. They stopped her in her tracks. She wept for days, but said nothing. And then she found proof in his waste-paper basket.

She flung it at him in fury when he returned to their apartments that evening after a day of official duties.

‘I would like you,’ she spat at him, fighting back tears, ‘to kindly explain the meaning of this!’

Damiano picked up the crumpled fax with infuriating calm. Glancing down at it, he demanded. ‘Where did you find this, if I may ask?’

‘I found it in your office waste basket! That’s where I found it!’

‘And what were you doing in my office rummaging through my waste basket?’

Sofia glared at him. The truth was that she’d been looking for evidence, praying with all her heart that she wouldn’t find it, after storming down to his office late that morning to question him about where he’d been the night before. For he hadn’t slept with her and, when she’d gone to check, she’d discovered that neither had he slept in the room along the corridor that he sometimes used these days, since the advancement of her pregnancy, claiming that when he came home late he didn’t want to disturb her. But when she’d arrived at his office to demand some answers his secretary had told her he was out on an appointment, so, in fury, she’d searched first his desk then his waste-paper basket.

But she didn’t tell him that. Instead, furiously, she told him, ‘It doesn’t matter what I was doing! All that matters is what I found! And, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like you to explain it!’

Damiano said nothing for a moment and a look crossed his face that fleetingly suggested he was far from in agreement that it didn’t matter why she’d been rifling through his waste bin. But another look instantly replaced it, a look of sharp concern, as he took stock of her flushed and agitated face.

He stepped towards her. ‘Sofia, sit down,’ he told her. ‘You shouldn’t be standing there like that.’ For she was half leaning against the back of one of the armchairs, her weight awkwardly balanced, as though she might topple over.

He took hold of her arm. ‘Come on. Sit down.’

Sofia tried to push him away and very nearly did topple over. And that made her feel worse. Tears sprang to her eyes. She was like a great ungainly whale these days, now that she had reached the eighth month of her pregnancy. Not like Fiona, who was slim and svelte and sexy!

‘Leave me alone!’ she started to protest. But he had already caught firm hold of her and was lowering her, whether she liked it or not, into the safety of the armchair.

Then he sat on the arm and took her hand in his, though she clenched her fist tight and would not look at him.