by Sara Craven
But not permanently, of course. Ever since there’d been little hints, little nudges, often growing into far more pointed enquiries about her health each time she encountered the Signora.
If things had been different with Angelo, she thought, if they’d been something approaching friends instead of strangers whose paths occasionally crossed, then she could have mentioned it to him—perhaps made a joke of it—but asking for it to stop at the same time.
As it was, she had to endure in a silence that was actually becoming painful in some strange way.
Now, she found she was watching her reflection in the glass panes, studying without pleasure the set of her mouth and the guarded wary eyes. If she’d ever bloomed, she thought with a sigh, there were few signs of that now.
She was startled to hear the distant clang of the bell at the front door. Visitors at Vostranto were rare during the week, and did not usually call without an appointment or an invitation. Perhaps the caller had come to the wrong house, she thought.
Yet a few moments later, there was a tap on the door heralding Giorgio’s arrival.
‘The Signora Alberoni has called, madam. I have shown her into the salotto.’
For a moment she stared at him, initial incomprehension turning into disbelief. Silvia—Silvia here? It wasn’t possible.
‘No, I won’t see her. Tell her to go.’
The angry impetuous denial was so clear in her head that she thought she’d already spoken it aloud, until she realised
Giorgio was still waiting for her reply, his expression faintly surprised. Her hands had balled into fists in the folds of her denim skirt and she made herself unclench them, forcing a smile.
‘Grazie, Giorgio. Will you please ask Assunta to bring coffee and some of the little raisin biscuits? And perhaps Bernardina has made some almond cake?’
Going through the motions of hospitality, she thought, when what she really wanted was to run away screaming.
Then, mustering her composure, she walked down the hall to the salotto to confront the cousin who, in one tumultuous night, had brought about the ruin of her life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ONE LOOK AT Silvia told Ellie that her cousin was not there to apologise. She was standing in the centre of the room, a dark red silk dress clinging to every curve, her eyes narrowed as she surveyed her surroundings.
‘You’ve done well for yourself, cara,’ she commented, sending Ellie’s elderly skirt and collarless white blouse a derisive look. ‘Strange how things sometimes turn out.’
She walked over to the fireplace and studied the coat of arms carved into its stonework. ‘This is the first time I have been here. Did you know that?’
‘No,’ Ellie returned quietly. ‘I didn’t know.’
Silvia tossed her head, making her blonde hair shimmer. ‘I tried several times to persuade Angelo to invite me, but he always made some excuse.’
‘I see.’ Ellie lifted her chin. ‘So, what excuse do you have for making this visit now?’
Silvia spread her hands gracefully. ‘Do I need one—to see my own cousin?’ She paused. ‘I didn’t send you a wedding present, because what can one possibly give someone who’s scooped the equivalent of the Euro-lottery? It was really very clever of you.’
She walked to a sofa and sat down crossing her legs. ‘Or was it?’ Her tone was meditative. ‘Maybe it was all the idea of that old witch, his grandmother and her daughter, the Luccino woman. God knows that precious pair have been trying to force him into an unwanted marriage for years. Did I supply them with the chance they wanted?’
She laughed harshly. ‘How ironic. How truly ironic.’ Ellie took a step forward. ‘Silvia—how could you do such a thing?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ Silvia’s eyes flashed. ‘Did he think—did he really think that I would allow him to throw me aside as if I was nothing? No-one treats me like that—ever. I knew the importance of his deal with Zio Cesare and how damaging its failure would be. Therefore, I decided to teach him a lesson.’ Her smile was calculating. ‘I knew I could still make him want me, and that he would not be able to resist my invitation.’
Ellie said in a low voice, ‘I meant—how could you involve me? As you’ve just said—your own cousin.’
Silvia shrugged negligently. ‘Because I knew you were the last girl in the world that Angelo would ever find attractive, so that when he was found in your room, he would look and feel a complete fool. It was the final perfect touch.’
Ellie turned away. She said in a stifled voice, ‘You must be mad.’
‘He made me suffer,’ Silvia retorted. ‘I wanted him to suffer too. To realise what he had lost when he ended our affair.’
‘But it couldn’t have continued,’ Ellie protested. ‘What would have happened if Ernesto had found out?’
Her cousin shrugged again. ‘He would have divorced me, naturalmente, and I would have been free to marry Angelo, who must now be wishing every day of his life that he had not been so hasty and thrown away our happiness.’
Happiness? thought Ellie with disbelief. What happiness could possibly grow from such a selfish obsession—or from inflicting misery on others?
She took a deep breath. ‘If that’s all you came to say, maybe you should leave.’
‘When I’m enjoying all this fabulous hospitality?’ Silvia gave a little, tinkling laugh. ‘I think I’ll stay for a while so we can chat—woman to woman.’ Her voice sank intimately. ‘I’m dying to know, carissima, how you like married life. Does Angelo fulfil every lonely little fantasy you ever had?’
Her gaze swept mockingly over Ellie’s shrinking body. ‘I must tell you that you do not seem the picture of rapture, mia cara.’
‘You can think what you wish.’ Ellie lifted her chin. ‘However, I have no intention of discussing my relationship with …’ She hesitated. She could not bring herself to say ‘Angelo’ because she never used his given name. On the other hand she could hardly say, ‘Count Manzini’ to Silvia of all people.
So she compromised with ‘my husband’—a description totally lacking in accuracy, too, she reminded herself with a faint stab of unexpected pain.
Although she’d always known that she would have to see her cousin again one day, she’d imagined an occasion when others would be present, obliging her to find a way to smile, be civil and pass on.
She had not bargained for this one-to-one confrontation, or that it would take place so soon—or here—on territory that should have been taboo.
She was surprised that the Count had not given private orders that Signora Alberoni was not to be admitted, but perhaps he’d not believed she would have the gall to simply—invite herself like this.
She was thankful that he was not returning to Vostranto until the following evening. She could only imagine his reaction if he’d arrived back to find his former mistress comfortably ensconced in his salotto.
That unaccountable pain stirred inside her again. She’d tried very hard not to think about Angelo and Silvia as lovers, but the gloating expression in her cousin’s eyes had said more loudly than any words that she hadn’t forgotten a thing about sharing his bed and his body.
That Silvia was able to recall all the kind of intensely intimate details about him—how it felt to be kissed by him, touched, taken in passion—that Ellie would never know.
That she didn’t want to know, she corrected herself hastily, but which put her at a terrible disadvantage just the same.
She was aware too that she wasn’t handling the situation particularly well, and that Silvia would be enjoying her discomfiture.
And the knowledge that Angelo had never brought his former mistress here in spite of some pretty heavy-duty wheedling was somehow very little comfort.
It was almost a relief when a tap on the door heralded the arrival of Assunta, with a maid following her, pushing a trolley laden with coffee and a lavish selection of biscuits, cakes and pastries.
‘Dio mio.’ Silvia’s laugh sounded melodiously again. �
��But how delicious! I am being so spoiled today.’
But you always have been, Ellie wanted to say. From birth, according to Nonna Vittoria. The baby visited in your cradle only by good fairies bringing you beauty, charm and uncritical love from all those around you. Making you believe that you could have anything you wanted, and live for yourself alone. And that, whatever you did, you would be forgiven.
And I signed up to that too, went along with it for all these years, even though Nonna—and later Madrina—tried to warn me gently to be careful. Because, even if I was always on your side, there was no guarantee you’d always be on mine. Why couldn’t I see that?
Maybe that was why Nonna bequeathed the house at Porto Vecchio to me—because she knew that, some day, something you’d do would make me need a refuge.
Aloud, she said quietly, ‘Assunta, please make sure that the Signora’s driver is looked after.’
‘Oh, I drove myself, cara,’ Silvia informed her, shrugging. ‘As I often do these days.’ She turned a brilliant smile on the housekeeper. ‘So you are the wonderful Assunta. Count Manzini has sung your praises to me so often.’
Assunta inclined her head in a manner that managed to be polite and sceptical at the same time, then withdrew leaving the maid Rosaria to pour the coffee into the exquisite bone china cups, and hand round the plates of delicacies, giving Silvia the opportunity to fuss with wistful sweetness over the calorific content of each offering.
‘I have to be so careful of my figure for caro Ernesto’s sake,’ she sighed. ‘A woman owes it to her husband to make the best of herself, don’t you think so, Elena mia?’ A comment which accompanied another disparaging look at what Ellie was wearing, and also took in the fact that her hair was drawn back and crammed into an elastic band at the nape of her neck.
I don’t think Angelo would care particularly if I starved myself to death or ate until I burst, she thought, suppressing a silent sigh, and deliberately selecting a choux pastry oozing cream.
Even when Rosaria left and they were alone, there were thankfully no further inroads into the subject of Ellie’s marriage, and Silvia reverted to talking about herself—parties she had attended, film premieres where she had been a guest, a fabulous new boutique, a miraculous new hairdresser.
‘Such a pity you do not spend more time in Rome, cara. I could show you a whole new world.’ Silvia delicately wiped some crumbs of almond cake from her fingertips and put down the linen napkin. ‘But for now you can show me your world,’ she added, a little smile playing around her lips. ‘So—the full guided tour, if you please.’ And paused before adding, ‘Including, of course, the bedrooms.’
Ellie replaced her cup carefully on its saucer, swallowing down the silent scream rising inside her.
She said levelly, ‘I’ll ring for Assunta. She knows far more about the house’s history than I do.’
Silvia pouted. ‘If you wish, but I would rather hear it from you, the mistress of all this magnificence. And of its master, too.’ She shook her head, as she rose, smoothing her dress over her hips with a languid gesture. ‘Ella-Bella, the little mouse. Who would ever believe it?’
Well, I wouldn’t for one, Ellie thought as she crossed the room and tugged at the embroidered bell pull beside the wide hearth. Because I know it couldn’t be further from the truth. And so, I suspect, does she.
And wondered again why Silvia was there.
He still could not believe what he had done. It was ridiculous—impossible—almost making him doubt his own sanity.
Because all the arrangements had been in place. The carefully chosen flowers delivered that morning. The lunch reservation in the eminent restaurant of an exclusive hotel, with coffee served privately and discreetly in a suite on the first floor when the meal was over.
And he had talked to her and smiled, and let his eyes caress her, watching her lips part on a small indrawn breath as the first flush of overt desire warmed her smooth skin.
Beautiful, sexy and much more than willing, he’d thought pleasurably. Exactly the kind of recreation he needed after the long hours he’d been working to finalise the Galantana project, and a glorious end to the past weeks of celibacy.
Even now he couldn’t be sure of the moment when it first occurred to him that it was not going to happen. Wasn’t aware of having made the decision, or why he’d done so. He only knew, without a shadow of doubt, that when lunch concluded, there would be no delicious consummation between silk sheets, accompanied by five star brandy. That, in fact, he would be making an excuse and leaving. Regretfully, naturalmente, but quite definitely.
He’d seen her shock, her disbelief as she realised the promised seduction was not going to happen after all, then pride had come swiftly to her rescue—and to his. Even so, he’d gone out into the heat of the afternoon calling himself every kind of bastard.
He’d told his secretary that he would not be back in his office that day, so a return to his apartment seemed the obvious choice. And possibly a cold shower, he’d thought in self-derision.
Yet, for some reason, here he was, driving towards Vostranto.
Now I know I’m crazy, he thought bitterly. Because what kind of a welcome can I expect there?
He pulled the car over on to the verge, switching off the engine and staring ahead through the windscreen, his dark eyes moody. The image of a girl’s face rose up in front of him, pale and strained, her soft mouth unsmiling, her eyes sliding nervously away from his. It had been the same each time they’d been together since the wedding, and the truth was that he was at a total loss to know how to ease the unhappy situation between them.
She was, he told himself, unreachable. At least by him. Not, of course, that he had wanted to reach her, he reminded himself swiftly. Not at the beginning when he’d dismissed her so contemptuously as a potential bride.
He’d soon realised, however, that his description of her as a nonentity had been unfair and unjustified. That she’d quickly demonstrated that she had a mind—and a will—all her own which she was prepared to pit against his.
Now, for the first time, he found himself wondering if there’d perhaps been someone else in her life. If his unwelcome intrusion had actually robbed her of a lover, for whom she was still grieving, and if that was why she continued to shrink from him—particularly on those few nightmare occasions when they shared a bed, and she lay a few feet away from him in a trembling silence that had nothing to do with sleep.
But no, he decided, his mouth twisting. If Elena had been in love, had given herself to another man, she would not have been considered by Zia Dorotea or his grandmother as a suitable candidate to become the Contessa Manzini. Which, for some unfathomable reason, she undoubtedly had been, long before Silvia Alberoni’s machinations had forced them together so ludicrously.
Leaving him stranded in the unenviable position of being a husband but without a wife.
Although she was hardly to blame for that, he thought ruefully. In the time leading up to the wedding had he made any real attempt to woo her? To alleviate for her the humiliation of knowing that she was being married only to preserve a business deal and persuade her instead that, even if they could not expect marital bliss, they might achieve a working relationship with perhaps some attendant pleasure?
Then proved it by stealing her away from the palazzo and coaxing her somehow into letting him make gentle lingering love to her.
Yet, in reality, furious at being manipulated into such a proposal, he had instead stressed that their union was a strictly temporary arrangement which would be dispensed with swiftly and efficiently at the appropriate time. And that there would be no physical intimacy between them.
That was what he’d promised, and what, it seemed, he now had to live with.
Because there seemed little chance of any alteration in the status quo, he thought flatly. Indeed, the available evidence suggested that she was not even marginally attracted to him. That she might even dislike him or, which was worse, fear being alone with him.
It should never have come to this, he told himself bleakly. I should not have allowed it to happen. And I cannot let it go on.
With an abrupt sigh, he re-started the car and pulled out on to the road.
As he approached the next long bend, he heard the sound of another vehicle’s horn, blowing in warning, and, with that, a lorry came round the corner in the act of being overtaken by a dark blue Maserati.
Angelo was already braking, his mind filled with a confused impression of the lorry driver’s white face and a fist being shaken, as he swerved, swiftly and urgently, hearing the crunch of metal as his wing made glancing contact with a concrete block lying in the grass at the side of the road.
He stopped a few yards further on, and sat for a moment aware that he was shaking, his heart going like a trip-hammer. He’d had near misses before, but that was the closest he’d ever come to total disaster.
Santa Madonna, he thought. If I’d been doing any real speed …
He saw that the lorry had also come to a halt, and the driver and another man were running back to him.
The Maserati, however, had vanished.
As if on auto-pilot, he assured his anxious questioners that he was not injured, and that the damage to his car was slight. An annoyance only that could have been so much worse.
‘And I did not even get the number of the car, signore.’ The lorry driver shook his head in disbelief as he prepared to depart. ‘Dio mio,’ he added from the heart. ‘Women drivers!’
‘Yes,’ Angelo returned softly and grimly. ‘Women drivers.’
Because he had recognised the car, so he already knew its number, and who had been at the wheel, and cold, burning anger was building inexorably inside him as he resumed his journey towards Vostranto, as well as a sense of grim determination.
Ellie watched Giorgio close the massive door, and listened with a sense of almost overwhelming relief as the car roared away down the drive, taking her unwanted guest away at last.
Feeling as if she’d been wrung out, mentally and emotionally, she turned to the major domo. ‘I have a slight headache, Giorgio. I’m going to rest for a while.’