by Sara Craven
The underwear he’d selected for her had surprised her the most, managing to be exquisitely pretty, astonishingly demure
and lethally expensive, all at the same time.
For his eyes only, she thought wryly. And not a thong in sight.
Life was progressing smoothly on the domestic front too, and she was learning to handle the day-to-day running of her
complicated household, largely, she admitted, through the unstinting goodwill of the staff, who clearly wished her to
succeed in her new responsibilities.
With one exception, of course. She still hadn’t won over the sullen Apollonia. Although she couldn’t openly fault her
discretion after that first evening, she still had the strangest feeling sometimes that she and Raf were not entirely alone.
That there was the odd footfall, not far away, or the occasional sound of a softly closing door.
Or perhaps she was just being paranoid, she thought. This was an old house, so there were bound to be creaks and small
noises.
But the girl’s efficiency and skill were undeniable. The first time Emily had attended a formal banquet, Apollonia had
dressed her hair high in a loose knot on top of her head, allowing a few graceful tendrils to fall round her face, softening
the look.
‘Did you like my hair’ Emily had asked Raf rather shyly when they’d returned late that night.
‘Very much,carissima . Because it means I can do—this.’ He’d removed the pins one by one, allowing the scented
auburn mass to spill down so that he could bury his face in it, before picking her up in his arms and carrying her to bed.
The occasions she really looked forward to were the long informal dinners at the homes of friends, or their own, filled
with wine, laughter and passionate debate about every subject under the sun.
She’d been self-conscious at first, but their acceptance of her seemed total, none of them, by a word or look, indicating
they found it strange that they’d only just met her after three years.
Sometimes she wondered what they would say amongst themselves when the divorce was announced and she
disappeared permanently back to Britain, but resolutely refused to allow herself to dwell on it.
When it happened, she would face it—somehow, although every day and every night she spent with Raf brought with it
the inevitability of eventual heartbreak.
The times with Marcello and his wife were especially relaxed and enjoyable and Emily soon found that Fiona was eager
to expand her horizons and involve her more deeply in the city’s life.
‘You can’t sit around all day, waiting for Raf to come home,’ she’d told her with mock sternness. ‘And you need to be
more than a lady who lunches. I’m on this international committee for children’s charities with a lot of other ex-pats, and
they’d love you to come on board too. Can I tell them you will’
But Emily had refused quietly, saying she didn’t feel ready for such commitment.
A decision that Raf had queried a few days later. ‘Fiona is disappointed that you will not help on hercommissione ,’ he’d
told her. ‘She has asked me to talk you round, if that is possible.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she’d returned stiltedly. ‘I don’t want to start something I may not be here to finish.’
There was a silence, then he’d said, his tone cool and remote, ‘As you wish,mia cara .’ And the subject had not been
raised again.
But such awkward moments were few. And the times Emily loved best were those that they spent at home together,
whether it was in the evenings when she sat curled up in the curve of his arm, talking or listening to music together, or the
weekends where they lazed in bed, eating long, delicious breakfasts, while Raf read the newspapers, muttering furiously
over the contents, until, of course, he saw her laughing at him and exacted appropriate retribution, all press reports
forgotten.
It was at moments like those that she really felt as if she was his wife, and knew she should ask all the still unanswered
questions fermenting in her mind, but she was afraid of spoiling the quiet intimacy of those times—or of revealing that they
were only an illusion.
Occasionally, as the days passed, she discovered Raf watching her, an odd intensity in his gaze that almost amounted to
sadness, and felt her heart thud uneasily, as if she’d received a silent warning that this was simply an interlude in the
scheme of things. And that, soon, the real life he’d spoken of would intervene.
In bed, he was still passionately, intuitively skilful, intent on exploiting to its fullest extent their mutual capacity for pleasure.
And Emily no longer pretended, even for a moment, that her ardour did not match his.
When he stops making love to me, she thought one heavenly night, just before she fell sated and drowning into sleep, then
I’ll know…
Only to find that reality was already hovering, casting its shadow over her fragile happiness.
She was lying on the sofa reading late one afternoon, when Gaspare came into thesalotto to tell her that Rafaele would
not be returning that night.
‘He has a deal that must be finalised this evening,signora , but negotiations are not going well.’ He paused. ‘Also there is
an early breakfast meeting tomorrow. So it will be more convenient for him to remain in the city.’
Emily scrambled to her feet, throwing her book aside. ‘Is he on the line I’ll talk to him.’
‘The message was from his secretary,signora .’
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ She resumed her seat, feeling slightly foolish.
These things happen, she told herself, as she tried to get back into the plot of the thriller she was reading. But she couldn’t
concentrate.
Instead, she found herself thinking again about the apartment. This place she’d never seen as yet. Although, as it existed,
it was the obvious place for him to stay.
Also, she knew there was a major deal going down because he’d told her so only a couple of days before when she’d
mentioned he seemed preoccupied.
She was fussing over nothing.
At the same time she wished he’d telephoned himself—had spoken to her. And she’d have said—what Please come
home, however late it is. I miss you.
Which was one step away from the forbidden words, I love you, and therefore not very wise. So things were probably
best left as they were.
She ate a solitary meal, with Gaspare being extra solicitous and Rosanna sending up all her favourite dishes.
But there was no comfort for her in the wide empty bed and she spent a miserably restless night without him.
She felt heavy-eyed and at odds with herself the following day, even though she was waiting eagerly for a rapturous
reunion when he eventually returned.
But it did not happen. His kiss was almost perfunctory, holding none of its usual promise. And, although he said briefly
that the deal had been successfully concluded, his thoughts were clearly still elsewhere.
At the conclusion of dinner he got to his feet. ‘I have some work to do, Emilia. You will excuse me’
‘Of course.’ Another first, she thought, refusing to be dismayed. Instead, she stole a glance at him under her lashes. ‘I
might even have an early night.’
‘A good idea.’ He came round the table to her. Kissed her hand, then her cheek in a gesture that brought a stinging
reminder of their first, formal days of marriage. Days that she’d thought were behind them for ever.
He added with slight constraint, ‘You look tired,mia cara . I will make sure
you are not disturbed later.’
Which was the exact opposite of what she’d intended. She felt bewilderment and the beginnings of fear as she watched
him walk away.
It was a long time later that she heard him come upstairs. She saw the light under the door of the adjoining room, as she’d
done every night of that long-ago and lonely honeymoon. Now, as then, she watched it go out. And heard the ensuing
bleak and lasting silence.
She released her held breath in a long shuddering sigh as she realised he was sending her the inevitable message that
they’d reached the beginning of the end to their marriage.
And she lay, staring into the impenetrable darkness, too frightened even to cry.
Emily applied a last coating of mascara to her lashes and sat back, viewing her reflection. Cosmetics were only a fragile
mask, she thought. They couldn’t completely hide the hollows in her cheeks or the shadows beneath her eyes. The
tell-tale signs that would signal her unhappiness to the world.
Although the world probably already knew, she acknowledged wearily. For the last fortnight, she’d been aware of
speculative glances following her, whispers that stilled at her approach. Perhaps there was pity too, but she couldn’t bear
to look too closely.
She rose from her dressing stool and walked across to the bed that she’d now occupied alone for two endless weeks.
Her dress was waiting there, a heavy silk sheath in sapphire blue that fitted her like a second skin, its boned strapless
bodice cupping her breasts like the petals of a flower. A glamorous, sophisticated gown for an important party at the
house of one of Rome’s most prominent bankers. A big occasion, and maybe the last one she would attend as Raf’s wife.
And she would go looking good. She was determined about that, she thought, as Apollonia made one of her silent
appearances from nowhere to assist her into the dress.
Emily felt self-conscious as she slipped off the charmingeaude-nil satin robe that had been among the lingerie Raf had
bought for her in some different lifetime, standing for a moment in a pair of delicate high-legged briefs, and lace-topped
stockings.
She’d grown accustomed to Apollonia’s continuing ungraciousness, but she still disliked appearing even semi-nude in
front of her.
Although she’d finally grown accustomed to undressing in front of Raf, she thought sadly. Had even learned to enjoy
uncovering herself for his pleasure and watching his eyes cloud with desire.
But that, of course, was once upon a time. No longer. Now he simply—stayed away, without offering any excuse or
explanation. And she couldn’t bring herself to ask, because she already knew the answer.
And it was an additional humiliation to realise that Apollonia, of all people, must know exactly when the Count had
ceased to visit his wife’s bed. And might even extract a sour triumph from her knowledge.
Which meant that the rest of the household were also aware that, after less than two months, their Contessa’s days in
Italy were surely numbered. Nothing was said, of course. There wasn’t a hint that anything might be amiss.
Unlike the wider world, where, she guessed, it would not be entirely unexpected when the axe publicly fell on this
ill-matched marriage.
Their friends, of course, would grieve at the outcome and she would miss them, too. Just for a while, she thought, she’d
been allowed a glimpse of the kind of life she’d always dreamed about. Where, alongside her passionate relationship with
Raf, there was fun and camaraderie to enjoy, too, in a larger circle.
It would not be easy to return to England and begin another life in isolation.
Apollonia said her usual nothing as she eased the dress over Emily’s head and pulled it into place. But fastening the long
zip turned into an unexpected struggle and Emily could hear her muttering under her breath.
Well, it can’t be because I’ve put on weight, she thought wearily. Because her appetite had failed completely in the past
weeks. Raf rarely dined at home these days and she ate mainly to avoid upsetting Rosanna. But she no longer enjoyed
her food. In fact, since she’d been sleeping alone, she’d felt permanently tense, nervous and out of sorts.
She’d begun, too, to refuse invitations on her own account, even excusing herself from engagements with Fiona, simply
because she didn’t want to face anyone.
However, Raf had insisted that they attend tonight’s party together. When she’d protested that she did not feel up to it
and would rather remain at home, he had said curtly, ‘If you are ill, Emilia, you should see a doctor.’ And paused. ‘Shall I
summon one’
But I’m not sick, she’d wanted to cry out. If you’d just—just—take me in your arms again, I’d be fine. I know it.
Instead, she’d said quietly, ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll go to the party, if that’s what you want.’
He was already waiting for her in the wide reception hall below, devastating in formal evening dress as he stood, staring
into space with eyes that seemed to see nothing. And Emily, quietly descending the stairs, saw with a pang how weary he
looked. How wretched, and almost defeated.
Darling, she whispered silently. Oh, my love—my love…
For a moment it occurred to her that maybe he wasn’t finding her impending banishment as easy to command as he’d
supposed. But she knew she was being foolish. Rafaele was as ruthless in his private life as in the business world. And he
would do whatever was necessary, just as he always had.
So she fought back her overwhelming, ludicrous impulse to run down the remaining stairs to him, fling her arms around
him as she kissed away the sadness from his face. Because any such action would achieve nothing, except to embarrass
them both.
And little else mattered now but her pride and her dignity.
At that moment he looked up and saw her walking down to him, her slender body swaying in its dark blue sheath, her
bare shoulders glowing like ivory against the rich colour, with her auburn hair drawn back from her face and confined at
the nape of her neck by a broad gold clip, ornamented by sapphires. And, for a second, she thought she saw something
flicker momentarily in his eyes that might almost have been desire.
But all he said was a coldly formal, ‘You look very beautiful tonight, Emilia. The dress is a great success. Shall we go’
One of the massive bedrooms in the house had been made available for the women to leave their wraps and freshen their
make-up.
As Emily turned away from the mirror, the small crowd in front of her parted, the laughter and chatter dying away as a
woman came towards her. She was tall and poised, her dark hair rippling round her shoulders, her voluptuous body
frankly displayed in a revealing black satin gown. Curved lips smiled, showing perfect teeth.
‘Contessa’ she said. ‘This is a pleasure too long deferred. I am Valentina Colona.’ She held out a hand and Emily, dazed,
allowed her own fingers to touch it.
Almond shaped eyes, black as sloes, looked her over. The smile did not waver. ‘Your gown is charming,’ she said, the
words musically clear in the listening silence around them. ‘But in future you should come to me. I know so well what
Rafaele likes.’
‘Thank you.’ Emily found her own voice from somewhere. ‘But you have been away, I think, and perhaps you will find
his tastes have changed in your absence.’
And, as she walked across to the door and w
ent out, she heard the gasp that followed her.
‘Emilia.’ Bianca Vantani, wife of another of Raf’s friends, came running after her, white-faced with anger. ‘How dare she