by Romy Sommer
She had no grandmother to go to, no-one else to turn to.
Christopher.
If she married Christopher, she would at least have the protection of his name. And if she did it quickly enough, perhaps he would never know.
But of course he would.
No one would question if Frances had a dark-haired, dark-eyed child. But Isobel, with her fair hair and pale blue eyes, would never get away with it.
And she couldn’t do that to Christopher. He was above all else an honourable man. He would stand by her, even in the face of her deceit, and it would destroy him. He didn’t deserve that.
She closed her eyes, and the spectacular ceiling of the di Cilento chapel floated against the back of her eyelids as she heard again Stefano’s voice:
What do you pray for, Bella?
She buried her face in her hands.
Isobel dressed with fumbling fingers. The sheer fabric slipped through her fingers. It was a new dress, a parting gift from her aunt; a Jeanne Lanvin original in pale lilac, ornately beaded. At last she was dressed, her hair pulled back with a band and held in place by a single orchid from the villa’s hothouse.
She looked at the stranger reflected back at her in the mirror. In a couple of days she would board the ship in Naples a different person from the inexperienced girl who had arrived only a few weeks ago. Her face was more tanned, even a little freckled. She walked now with a new awareness of herself, conscious of the subtle changes in her body, in that most intimate part of herself that still sometimes seemed to throb with the feel of Stefano inside her.
But the greatest change was the hardest to define.
Certainly older, wiser, a little sadder. She smiled tentatively, and there was something else in the stranger’s reflection. Beneath the surface was a lustrous glow she couldn’t contain, because no matter how brief it had been, she’d known love and passion. The gauche girl was gone, and in her place a woman stood, a brave and sensual woman, the kind of woman who could create the kind of art Isobel had always wanted to create.
She was among the last to arrive in the drawing room and savoured the attention as all eyes turned to her.
“What will it be tonight?” Adam asked, standing at his usual place behind the cocktail tray. “A Cuban Daiquiri or a Tom Collins?”
“A Sidecar.”
“I’m going to miss you, Izzy,” he said, shaking the ingredients together. “I enjoy having someone to experiment on.”
“You experiment on everyone,” she pointed out.
“None so pretty as you. And the party won’t be the same without you.”
His flattery was charming, smoother than Christopher’s muddled attempts, less believable than Stefano’s frankness.
She took her drink and circled the room, hovering on the edges of the babble of conversation that filled the large room. The Baron was telling an involved and humorous tale about buying a race horse to much laughter. She smiled. She would miss them all.
Pausing beside the wide windows, she took in the view of the darkening sky and sea. From here she could not see Capri, but in her mind she could picture it clearly, all the hues of blue and green that the island evoked for her. That would be her next painting; the mysterious grotto, a place of secrets.
“You are transformed, Isobel.” Tom’s Yankee drawl brought her back to the present. He had come to stand beside her at the window, but his eyes were not on the view. “I think I rather like this new you.”
“I do too.” She grinned. The Sidecar was definitely raising her spirits.
“You ever want to ditch those English stiffs, you’ll have a welcome with us in New York any time.”
“Thank you. I might take you up on that.” Though whether that invitation would extend to a fatherless baby, she could only guess.
Frances’ laughter, too loud, more than a little tipsy, made her turn her head. For days her cousin had held the mask in place, that cool glaze of sophistication she wore like a shield. Tonight it seemed the mask was slipping.
“I think she’s sad to leave Italy,” Tom observed. “She hasn’t been herself for the last few days.”
“None of us have.” Isobel’s gaze moved to Christopher, fidgeting on one end of the sofa. He gulped down his drink, as desperate as Frances to appear at ease.
She turned back to Tom. “It’s been an interesting summer. I’m so glad I had this chance to meet you all.”
“Join us again next summer.” His eyes twinkled. “Or perhaps you will be here on your honeymoon?”
She shrugged. “Who knows what the future holds? Maybe I’ll return next year as an eccentric spinster artist.”
He laughed at that. “Never a spinster! You are too beautiful and intelligent a woman; the men will never allow it.”
“Dinner is served,” Edwards intoned from the doorway.
She set down her now empty cocktail glass and followed Tom towards the hall.
“Will you stay a moment?” Christopher’s cool hand on her arm waylaid her.
He glanced nervously at the retreating backs of the other guests as they disappeared from view. When they were alone, he sank to his knees before her. Isobel stifled the laughter that threatened to bubble up. Though she’d expected this moment, had been waiting for it for days, now the moment was here she didn’t know what to do.
“Please would you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage.” It was a statement, not a question.
“We should go in to dinner. The others will soon miss us.” She still needed time to think. But there was no more time.
His earnest blue eyes sought hers. “You must know how much I care for you. I hoped you’d come to feel the same way for me.”
For one mad, fleeting moment she still considered saying yes. If there was a baby, saying yes to Christopher would save her from ruin.
She pulled herself together. She could be as brave as Stefano had believed her to be.
“We aren’t suited to each other,” she said. “You don’t really know me. You want a nice, conventional wife, and I’m not that. I don’t want to be that.”
His jaw jutted out. She hadn’t expected him to be so stubborn. “That’s what I love about you. You’re different; you’re adventurous.” His voice was low, impassioned. For a moment she glimpsed the man he could be, the fun one Frances remembered so fondly from long ago. He dragged in a deep breath. “I know I’m a little dull. I’d try to change for you.”
She smiled at him, a smile tinged with sadness. “You would, but you shouldn’t. You should be loved just as you are.” Just as she deserved to be.
“And I don’t love you.”
“Love will come with time. If we have a high regard for each other, the rest will follow.”
“I’m sorry, Christopher. You’re a good man, and I know you care for me, but I need more. I will only marry for love.”
He stiffened, the light in his eyes fading. She hated to be the one to put that hurt look there. She tried another tack. Perhaps she could turn her rejection to good account. “Besides, I couldn’t do that to Frances.”
For a moment, her words did not register, then his expression changed.
“Frances?” The way he said her name, softly, with hope, gave him away. How had she not seen it? How had she not known that for Christopher she would always have been a consolation prize?
“I know she’s not who your family would choose for you, but this is a new world we live in, a world where anything is possible. If you want it enough.” She smiled as she echoed Stefano’s words.
Christopher took her hand between both of his. “Thank you, Izzy. I hope when you fall in love, the man will know how lucky he is.”
She refused to acknowledge the sharp stab of pain in the vicinity of her heart. “Let’s go in to dinner.”
Chapter Fifteen
The painting was unlike anything she’d done before. It was bolder, splashed with vivid colour, and its style owed a great deal to the frescoes in the di Cilento chapel. It was a
lso the best work she’d ever done. She didn’t need to be told; she felt it. With every brush stroke a little more emotion appeared on the canvas.
Desire. Love. Fear.
On the canvas, Positano was nothing more than a silhouette against a vibrant sky. Dark storm clouds gathered on the horizon, the storm clouds of her impending return to London, the future over which she had no control.
The stormy greys leaked into the glorious golds and reds of the Mediterranean sunset; vibrant, full of colour, energy and passion. The future she wanted for herself.
Now it was done, completed in a feverish spurt of energy that had kept her going for days, and filled her restless nights.
Isobel set down her paint brush and perched on the edge of the stone balustrade, in the same place she’d sat that night when Stefano had come to her, not as a simple fisherman, but as the Conte di Cilento, the night when she’d made the decision to give herself to him.
She had poured all her emotions onto the canvas, and all she was left with was a feeling of peace. She would face her future, and she would decide her own fate, whether it be claustrophobia or ruin or joy.
Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the sun. After she returned to England, would the Mediterranean sun ever again heat her skin?
She would miss this place. The rich scents of earth and sea, the wildness of the briny breeze, the song of the cicadas. And more than anything, Stefano, and the person he had shown her she could be.
She had no regrets. These weeks in Italy had moulded her into a new person, a person she was proud to be, and there was no going back.
She lifted the painting from the easel and wrapped it in oil cloth, setting it aside. She would pack her paints away into her largest trunk after breakfast. There was still one more thing she needed to do before she could leave.
Morning light filtered through the trees, as it had the first time she’d been here. It was calm and quiet in the glade, as though she were alone on earth. Her footsteps echoed as she crossed the loggia and reached for the key hanging on the rusted nail against the wall. In spite of its age, the key turned smoothly in the lock, and she swung the door open.
The di Cilento chapel was even more breathtaking than she remembered. The vivid colours of the ceiling drew her gaze upwards. She stood for a long moment within the path of slanting light falling through the doors, overwhelmed with reverence.
She crossed the uneven floor of the chapel, down the imaginary aisle between the spaces where benches would once have been set out for the congregation. When she reached the altar, bare of all ornamentation but a pair of tall golden candle-sticks, she knelt on the steps. The tiles were cold and hard beneath her knees.
Silence stretched around her, alive with bird song and the rustle of the leaves on the trees beyond the chapel. She allowed her thoughts to wander, and of course the first thought, as always these days, was of Stefano.
She was growing used to the physical pain, the sharp ache that assaulted her each time she thought of him. Three days had passed since she’d last seen him. Three desolate days in which every ring of the doorbell, every footstep on the gravel path outside, set her nerves aflutter. And with each passing moment, the realisation that he wasn’t coming grew, and a little more of the hope inside her died.
Now she was out of time, and this prayer to the Madonna was all that was left of her hope. She closed her eyes and bent her head. Her prayer was simple.
You know what is in my heart. You know what I want. Please help me.
A measured footstep startled her, bringing her to her feet. She spun to face the doors which she had left standing wide and her heart seized.
Framed in the doorway, lit by the golden sunlight, stood Stefano.
Even across the vast space of the chapel, his dangerous smile, full of lazy heat, sent an ache of longing through her. It took all her willpower not to throw herself at him.
She inclined her head towards him in a cool greeting. “Hello Stefano.”
He stepped inside, slowly closing the space between them. “Ciao Bella.”
His voice was as warm and seductive as it was in her fevered dreams. She had to remember that this was the man who’d let her walk away, who had not wanted her enough to call her back or run after her. This time she would be the one to walk away, with her dignity intact and her head high. “I’m sorry if I’m trespassing. I was just leaving.”
She headed towards the doors, determined that he should not see the longing in her eyes, or sense how quickly she needed to get away from him, before her new-found calm shattered.
As she brushed past him, his voice arrested her. “On that first day we met, you promised that you would tell me when you had worked out what it is you want for yourself. Do you know yet what you want?”
She turned to face him, keeping her expression cool, disinterested, even though her body tingled with his nearness. “I know,” she answered quietly. “But wanting isn’t enough. It’s dangerous, and selfish.”
“It’s not selfish to want to be happy.”
Her emotions bubbled, threatening to shatter the careful calm. “Happiness can be found in many ways, not only in pleasure and indulgence.”
“And that’s how you see me? Indulgent?” His voice was sharp as a knife.
She shook her head. “I know there’s more to you. You care passionately about your country and your people. I understand that. But for me, this summer has been nothing more than an indulgence. It was an adventure, but it means nothing.”
“This meant nothing to you?” For a brief moment she wondered if she’d wounded him. Then his eyes narrowed, glinting dangerously. “Tell me what you want, Bella.”
Her voice was low, the words pulled from her. “I want more than you can give, Stefano.”
She wouldn’t accept second best with Christopher, and she wasn’t prepared to be second best with Stefano either. She deserved more. She deserved to be loved and adored, and she’d settle for nothing less.
She raised her chin and met Stefano’s eyes. The calm was back, firmly in control. “I need to go. My ship sails from Naples this afternoon.”
The hard light in his eyes softened. The mischief was back again, burning her blood. “Are you not yet brave enough to ask for what you want?” He took a step closer.
Her hands fisted at her sides as she fought a sudden burst of anger. What did he want from her? Why couldn’t he just let her go?
“Why don’t you tell me what you want from me? One last tumble before the summer ends?” The bitterness in her voice shocked even her. She breathed in deeply, reaching for the feeling of peace that had deserted her. “Tell me what you want. Tell me what I mean to you.”
She wished the words unsaid, but it was too late. Her soul lay bare to him. Her need, her hunger, her love.
“I want what I always wanted from you.” Another step closer. “You’ve always meant more to me than a ‘tumble’, Bella. I don’t want you to go. You belong here. Stay with me.”
“As what? Your lover, your mistress ...?”
His sensual lips curved into a smile. “As my wife.”
She forgot to breathe. Perhaps this was a dream. Like the others she’d dreamed since she’d last seen him.
He took another step closer, and now he was so near she had to tilt her head up to look into his face. He cupped her face in his hands.
Not a dream. His rough hands on her face were real.
The warm tears spilling over her cheeks were real. He smiled, and the Mediterranean sun was nothing to the warmth of his smile and the light in his eyes.
“You have a soul of fire, and I love you. Ti amo, Bella.”
He bent his head and kissed her, a fierce kiss that demanded her surrender. Her hands slid beneath his loose cotton shirt, finding the muscle beneath. The hard, male feel of him undid her. She yielded willingly.
“That’s what I wanted,” she said, when he pulled away from her at last. “Those words.”
His hands slid into her loose h
air. “Will you marry me?”
“Of course I will.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, savouring the thrill of being again in his arms; the delight of being loved by him. She couldn’t have dreamed a more perfect moment.
He laughed softly. “There is only one problem, cara.”
She stiffened in his arms.
“My desire for you has already led me to places I should not have gone. Now we must do this right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I must first ask for your parents’ permission.”
“But you’d have to come to England. That’d take ages!”
Stefano laughed. “I have a berth booked on the same ship to England this afternoon. I will court you the old-fashioned way, and when we arrive in England I will ask your parents for your hand in marriage.”
“You already planned this?” Her heart overflowed. Of course he had. He was not a man to leave what he wanted to chance.
“But you’re right that we have one problem.” She pressed against him, enjoying his body’s instant response.
“I am descended from the Kings of the Two Sicilies and the Princes of Savoy. Do you think that perhaps if they know this, your parents will overlook the fact that I am a foreigner, and that I want to take their daughter away from England? Will they accept me?”
“I have learned that anything is possible, if only you want it enough.” She smiled. “But that’s not what I meant. What exactly does your idea of courting entail?”
If he meant not to make love to her again until they were married, she would not be able to endure. Already, the fire licked through her.
He slid a hand down her breast, across the nipples that strained against the thin fabric of her camisole. She arched her back, leaning into his touch. “There’s one way I can think of to ensure my parents agree to our marriage.”
“Oh?”
“You will need to take shameless advantage of me. Then they’ll have to let me marry you.”
He laughed. Then he kissed her again, and it was the most delicious kiss yet, possessive, fervent, complete.