The Italian Count's Command

by Sara Wood

  ‘He might have done,’ he conceded. ‘You must understand, though, that in accordance with Italian custom, Felipe exaggerates,’ Dante added shortly. ‘He was being gallant. Telling you what you want to hear.’

  ‘Is that what you do, Dante? What you’ve done throughout our marriage?’ she asked tensely.

  ‘No. I have lived so long in England that I’ve lost the art of effusive flattery. I say what I mean, though perhaps not quite so bluntly as the English.’

  She thought about this. ‘Felipe genuinely seemed to think you were pleased because I was on my way here,’ she persisted, hoping to get to the truth.

  ‘I’m sure he and Maria were subjected to conversations with my mother, in which she enthused over my feelings for you,’ he drawled. ‘He would have assumed that was why I appeared to be happy—whereas we know different.’

  ‘Your mother certainly seems convinced of your adoration,’ Miranda mused, breathing hard and fast. Sonniva, she mused, was a perceptive woman, shrewd and honest…

  ‘Some people have rose-tinted vision,’ he dismissed. ‘They see what they want to see. Like Felipe and Maria. But…they have been good friends to me since I arrived,’ he added and she had the distinct impression that he was keen to avoid further discussion. ‘They live in the villa not far from us,’ he explained. ‘We’ll see a lot of them, as they have a boy of Carlo’s age.’

  ‘Good. I like them,’ Miranda said demurely. For the moment she’d let Dante off the hook. But all her instincts told her that he was hiding something from her. She hoped it was his true feelings. ‘I look forward to meeting them again. I’m sure we could all be good friends.’

  ‘You seem to be accepting the fact that you’ll live here in future. No regrets, I assume?’ he asked, his expression tense.

  ‘None. I’ll be with Carlo, won’t I?’ And you, she left unsaid.

  ‘You’ll enjoy the lifestyle, of course,’ he observed, a cynical tone to his voice.

  ‘You’re thinking I’m looking forward to being the wife of a wealthy man and sweeping from one grand palace to another. But that wouldn’t be enough for me,’ she said, determined to put him straight about her potential as a gold-digger.

  ‘You want more?’

  ‘Not in the way you think.’

  He shot her a look. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No. You thought I married you for material gain,’ she said with sadness. How could he ever have believed that? ‘Dante. Was I ever extravagant? Did you see any signs of greed in me?’

  He frowned, as well he might. ‘No,’ he admitted.

  ‘Did I know you were well off when I worked for you?’

  ‘You could see I had a good lifestyle,’ he grunted.

  ‘But not flamboyant. You went everywhere by taxi as many people do in London. Your apartment in the City was not in a fashionable area although it was spacious and expensively furnished. You dressed well, but…’ She smiled. ‘You’re Italian. It’s part of your culture. If I’d been hunting for a rich man, I’d have gone for Guido.’ She frowned, a bad taste in her mouth. Then dismissed it because her argument was so important. ‘He flung his money around as if he had bottomless pockets. He has a Maserati. Eats only in the best celebrity restaurants. Wears a lot of jewellery. Everyone in the office thought he was loaded. Why, then, if I’d been truly mercenary, would I have set my sights on you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I am at a loss,’ he said slowly.

  She leaned into him a little. ‘Listen,’ she said softly. ‘Since I was very young, my only wish has been to spend my life with someone I love. Do you believe that?’

  ‘I think you do care for Carlo, yes,’ he said, looking guarded.

  She beamed. It wasn’t quite what she’d meant, but nevertheless it was a milestone. ‘And you accept that he wasn’t starved of love?’

  Dante looked uncomfortable. ‘Perhaps my informant made a mistake.’

  ‘Call the nanny and find out,’ she urged. ‘I have her new number. She’ll complain that she wasn’t allowed enough time with Carlo!’

  ‘I have seen enough. I don’t need to. I apologise for doubting your maternal instincts,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘And for doubting my love for you?’ she asked, her heart beating hard.

  His head jerked away, his profile suddenly stern. ‘I can’t pretend that your infidelity never happened,’ he clipped and she realised she had a long way to go before she proved her innocence to him. ‘The next week or so will be difficult for both of us. But we’ll settle into some kind of working arrangement, providing you like it enough here.’

  ‘Like it?’ she cried, hope lifting the burden she’d carried from her shoulders. ‘How could I not? It’s a bonus that Bellagio is so beautiful. I love the lake and the mountains and the romantic little villages. I like the friendliness of the people who smile and nod at us even though they don’t know who we are. I like to see the affection youngsters and their parents show towards older relatives. I like your friends. In fact,’ she added, glancing around her fondly, ‘I like Italians very much.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Dante said drily. ‘You’d find life hard if you didn’t.’

  ‘Mmm. They’re wonderfully…free with their emotions, aren’t they?’ she mused.

  She had been watching them for a while. Everywhere she looked, it seemed that people were gesticulating as they conducted lively exchanges. They stood close to one another as if they had no idea of personal space. And yet already she’d noticed that what initially seemed like fiery arguments often ended with laughter and hugs.

  She sighed wistfully because here and there she could see courting couples gazing in rapture at one another, content, it seemed, just to breathe the same air, to be on the same planet.

  ‘You envy their lack of inhibition?’ Dante asked quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I do.’

  And she vowed to allow the Italian love of free expression to seep into her. It was what he’d been used to. No wonder he’d thought her cold and unresponsive.

  ‘Me too.’ Dante’s brooding eyes studied his surroundings. ‘You know, I was so intent on handling the London end of the business, marrying you and setting up home there, that I didn’t realise how much I missed Italy until I came back here to live.’

  She absorbed this without comment. But she was stunned. He hadn’t been happy in England. She pursed her lips, contemplating the fact that he’d been in virtual exile from the country of his birth.

  Scanning the bustling promenade, she compared the grey-ness of the city of London and the vibrant colours all around them; the roar of the capital city’s traffic, the dirt and the smell of petrol fumes…and the partially traffic-free Bellagio, where stately ferries ploughed their way across a glittering lake. The hurried, preoccupied Londoners wrapped in their own concerns…and the lively Italians hell-bent on living life to the full and including any passing stranger who caught their attention.

  ‘I understand why you want Carlo to live here,’ she said soberly. ‘I think it’s perfect for him. You love your house and its setting and I’ve fallen in love with it too. Because of that, I’m sure we can all be happy together in time.’

  He looked disbelieving. ‘Happiness? Very unlikely,’ he said with a cynical drawl.

  ‘Wait and see.’ She felt shaky, as if she were poised on the edge of a precipice. She had to make him believe their marriage could be more than a façade. ‘We must both work to that end.’

  There was a long pause. ‘Too much has happened. Too much anger, too many scars that can never heal. But I’ll settle for a harmonious relationship. I’m relieved you’re falling in with my plans.’

  ‘I’ll do everything I can to let people believe we have a good marriage,’ she said earnestly.

  Imperceptibly she moved closer to him and they walked along almost hip to hip. She felt him give a little shudder and knew he felt a physical interest in her. First, she thought, they’d have sex. And then it would gradually turn to a trusting, l
oving relationship.

  She was in seventh heaven. Although she was dazzled by the breathtaking views, charmed by Bellagio and overwhelmed by the pleasure of being close to Dante, she was nevertheless alert enough to realise that the set of his body had changed quite dramatically.

  It was as though he had been holding himself back before, as if he, too, had imposed some kind of restraint on himself.

  When he pointed out the villages across the lake, he became more animated and flamboyantly Italian. Responding to an inner urge, she put her arm around his waist. When he stiffened, she thought he’d shrug it off. But his muscles relaxed again and he slid his arm around her slender waist, making her heart sing with joy.

  As they wandered along, she noticed that they were attracting admiring glances. People smiled at them fondly. One day, she promised herself, this would be for real.

  Feeling light-headed, she listened with pleasure to Dante’s enthusiastic descriptions of the sumptuous gardens in the villas open to the public.

  ‘You really love Bellagio, don’t you?’ she laughed, almost drunk with happiness, when he paused for breath.

  He scowled and cleared his throat. ‘Everything about it. There’s so much to show you. The day after tomorrow we’ll take a drive inland…’

  He had paused. Like her, he had seen that all eyes seemed to be elsewhere, a murmur of voices buzzing excitedly about something. She looked back over her shoulder and discovered the focus of everyone’s attention.

  ‘Oh, look, Dante! A bride and groom!’ she exclaimed softly. The bride looked very young, perhaps as old as she’d been when she’d married Dante. Her dress was the purest white and the white roses in her dark, glossy hair gave her a touching fragility. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Miranda breathed dreamily.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he agreed, his voice sombre.

  She frowned, puzzled. ‘Where’s everyone else? The bridesmaids, guests… There’s just the couple and a photographer!’

  ‘It’s the custom. They’re being photographed in romantic settings.’

  He sounded choked. Emotion had claimed her too. The bride looked as if she might burst with love. The fresh-faced groom couldn’t take his eyes off his adoring wife.

  That was how it had been for her, Miranda thought, a pain wrenching at her heart. But not for Dante.

  With everyone watching fondly, the couple posed at the foot of the cobbled steps then beneath the arcade. She and Dante looked on, each with their own thoughts, as the photographer persuaded the couple into an artistic pose by a stone balustrade, with the lake and mountains in the background.

  So loving, she thought as they laughed and giggled their way to the gangplank of the passenger ferry for another shot.

  Somehow Dante’s hand had crept into hers. It was poignant, watching the couple. They hadn’t a care in the world. They were starting married life and were confident it would be roses all the way. She felt tears welling up and fought hard to suppress them as she contemplated the ruins of her own marriage.

  ‘Complimenti,’ Dante murmured as the rapturous lovebirds wandered past them on their way to another venue.

  The bride gave him a sweet smile, which became even warmer when she met Miranda’s wistful eyes. Her new husband said something in Italian and Dante’s grip tightened as the couple moved on.

  ‘What did he say?’ she asked, where once she would have kept silent.

  Dante didn’t look at her, but watched the bride and groom running like children to a seat by a large floral display.

  ‘He returned the compliment,’ he said eventually. ‘He said he imagined we were recalling our own wedding.’

  ‘I was,’ she admitted shakily.

  She remembered with a sigh that she had been in a dream the whole day. Dante’s lovemaking that night had been tender and profoundly passionate.

  She also remembered how his face had glowed with an inner radiance. Her heart thudded. Could Guido have been wrong? Had Dante loved her when they got married? She’d truly believed that he did at the time.

  Though, she thought with a shiver, his rapturous expression on their wedding day could have been due to something else: imagining himself stepping into Amadeo’s shoes and inheriting a fortune.

  ‘Lunch,’ he muttered, drawing her to a table overlooking the lake. He seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.

  Daringly she blurted out, ‘I wish it was like it used to be between us.’

  He winced as though he felt the same pain that shafted through her body.

  ‘Those days of innocence are gone,’ he growled.

  And with that harsh put-down, he picked up the menu and annoyingly disappeared behind it.

  But she persevered, risking an outright snub. It was a chance she had to take.

  ‘You can’t deny that it would be wonderful if we could be truly together,’ she ventured. ‘Easier all round. No pretences,’ she added haltingly.

  He lowered the menu sufficiently for her to see his dark, intense eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ he rasped and dashed her hopes by following that with, ‘but we have to accept that it would be impossible under the circumstances.’

  ‘Nothing’s impossible—’ she choked out.

  ‘I think there is something you should understand about Italian men, Miranda,’ he said tightly. ‘Honour is very important to them.’

  His mouth twisted but he kept his head down, his eyes lowered to the damask tablecloth. And in a bleak voice he continued, ‘The worst insult you could imagine would be to call a man cornuto. Do you know what that means?’

  Glumly she shook her head. But she could guess.

  ‘It’s a cuckold,’ he said. ‘A man who’s wife has been unfaithful.’ His eyes lifted to hers—hot, burning, indicating the seething emotions he was repressing. ‘It pains me that anyone could call me a cuckold—and the fact that if they did I would have to stay silent, because it’s true. I try to forget it, to put it aside, but it rips me apart to think of you with other men. When I look at you I think of their hands roaming over your body and I can barely contain my anger and shame!’

  Hot tears threatened and she beat them back furiously.

  ‘I did not betray you,’ she insisted. ‘I have always been faithful.’ Taking a deep breath, she decided to seize the moment and added in a low whisper, ‘I have always loved you.’

  And she waited for his response, her heart in her mouth. Everything depended on this. Her future happiness, Carlo’s. Please make him believe me, she thought, her hands tightening into fists beneath the table.

  ‘A commendable try,’ he drawled, his skin taut with disapproval over the contours of his face as he pretended to scan the menu. ‘But I know the truth. Understand this, Miranda. I can never forgive you.’ His eyes lifted to hers and in them she saw her own bleak misery.

  She felt that he’d thrust a knife into her heart. Her confession of love, her attempts to penetrate his barrier of hatred and mistrust, had been in vain. He’d made up his mind. They’d be polite strangers for years to come.

  She sat silent and stunned and deeply hurt by his intransigence as Dante beckoned for service.

  Conscious of the waiter prompting her, she mechanically put in her order, knowing she wouldn’t be able to do more than toy with her food.

  Then, averting her head in misery, she pretended to be fascinated by the boats crossing the lake, but all she could see were white blurs in a mist of blue because tears had sprung into her eyes and were clogging up her throat.

  It seemed she was no nearer to saving her marriage. Maybe, she thought in a flood of despair, there was no hope, after all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE felt battered and bruised. If it hadn’t been for Carlo, she would have gone back to the palazzo and wept in her room till she could weep no more. Then she would have taken the next flight home, to prepare for a lonely and loveless future.

  But of course she had to stick this out. And she knew that in two hours they were to collect him for his treat in Maggiore. She had
no intention of appearing red-eyed and defeated in front of her son.

  Because of that she conquered her urge to sob her heart out and forced herself to reply to Dante’s inconsequential remarks during the meal.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said politely. ‘The strangozzi is excellent.’

  Resolutely avoiding his eyes, she jabbed her fork into the noodles and scooped up some of the anchovy and peppers with it.

  ‘More wine?’ he enquired solicitously. ‘And please smile occasionally.’

  Repressing the urge to say ‘what for?’ she managed a strained smile and a nod. As he filled her glass, she muttered,

  ‘You care very much what people think of us, don’t you?’

  He leaned forward as if he were saying something intimate and romantic.

  ‘You know perfectly well that I don’t want Carlo to become aware that anything’s amiss. And that means other people must be convinced of our unity.’

  She heaved a huge sigh. That was all he cared about. Well, she wasn’t going to continue this farce. Dante had to be forced to accept her innocence.

  ‘I want to talk to you later,’ she muttered. ‘When he’s in bed.’

  ‘Look at me.’

  Her eyes lifted in sullen query. ‘Well? I’m looking.’

  ‘You can’t sulk. Lovers gaze into one another’s eyes,’ he said huskily.

  She winced. ‘We’re married,’ she retorted, trying to hide her anguish.

  Dante reached across the table and caught her hand in his. While she rejoiced in the warmth of his grip, she had to steel herself against the urge to leap up and run away from the cruel charade they were playing.

  ‘It was part of our agreement that you would keep up appearances,’ he reminded her with soft menace. ‘You agreed to this. And confirmed it only moments ago.’ His voice grew husky. ‘You will look at me as if you love me. As if I am the only man in the world for you.’

  His fingers began to stroke her palm and she could bear it no longer.

  ‘Please, Dante! I want to leave!’ she whispered in desperation.

  A moment’s pause. Then, ‘Yes. Why not?’