by Sara Craven
She refused his concerned offers of tea, painkillers or a cold compress for the forehead, and returned upstairs to the room she’d left only a few minutes before.
It hadn’t changed in any material sense, but it was different all the same. Silvia still seemed to be there, scrutinising everything, insisting on seeing even the bathroom and the dressing room, where her eyes had narrowed at the display of clothes on the hanging rails.
‘At least you will look the part in public, cara, if he ever allows you to be seen there with him,’ had been the first comment to grate across Ellie’s nerve endings.
No detail seemed too small to be spared a remark.
But the focus of her attention had been the bed. She’d stood, unmoving, staring at it in silence, a smile playing about her full lips until Ellie had wanted to scream.
She’d said at last, ‘I am trying to imagine you in the act of surrender on this bed, but strangely I find it quite impossible. You still look so innocent—so sadly untouched, it makes me wonder if he has ever taken the trouble to consummate the marriage. He will have to do so eventually, naturalmente,’ she continued musingly. ‘It is his duty to his family to have a son, as I am sure Contessa Cosima has told him, so you can be of use for that, if nothing else. I wonder what has been holding him back? Maybe he still thinks of what might have been—with me.’
Ellie forced herself to meet Silvia’s mocking gaze. To speak levelly, ‘Why don’t you ask him?’
The smile widened, and became laughter. ‘I shall not have to, Elena mia. He will tell me himself soon enough.’
She’d gone to the door, then suddenly paused and walked back, bending to run a caressing hand across the magnificence of the bedcover.
Her voice had been quiet but very distinct. ‘It isn’t over yet, cara. You have to understand that. Because I still want him. And I shall have him, just as I would have done that night. Except he had to be punished. But now I think he has suffered enough—don’t you?’
And she had smiled again and left, hips swaying in her red dress, her hair a golden coronet in the late afternoon sun, while Ellie followed, numb with disbelief and some other emotions not quite so easily defined.
Now looking at the bed, seeing again Silvia’s possessive fingers stroking its cover as if they were someone’s skin, she felt as if she’d been somehow coated in slime. And, for a moment, terribly afraid—as if the sun had gone out forever, leaving her in darkness.
Oh come on, she adjured herself impatiently. You’ve just had an unpleasant hour or so, and it’s thrown you because your own cousin’s become someone you only thought you knew.
But for the moment at least, she found she did not want to lie down on the bed, and having tried and failed to get comfortable on the chaise longue, she decided to attempt a different ploy.
She walked into the bathroom, shedding her clothes as she went, and turned on the shower, gratefully allowing its powerful cascade to stream over her, washing away the foam from the scented gel she’d applied to her skin and with it some of the tensions and sense of unease left in Silvia’s wake. And, if she was honest, some of the pain too.
Some, but not all, she thought as she stepped dripping out of the cubicle, reaching blindly for a towel.
Only to find herself being firmly enveloped in a bath sheet, then carried, swaddled and helpless, back into the bedroom where she was set on her feet.
‘Buona sera, my sweet wife,’ Angelo said softly. ‘Does a shower cure a headache? I did not know that.’
Her lashes felt gummed together by the water, but she prised them open somehow staring up at him with mingled anger and shock.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded breathlessly, stepping back and trying not to trip on the trailing bath sheet. Trying, too, not to blush and failing miserably. ‘How dare you—walk in on me like that?’
The sculpted mouth curled. ‘And how dare you invite your sciattona of a cousin here in my absence?’ he retorted coldly. ‘Did you think I would welcome such a guest—or simply hope I would not find out? I am waiting to hear.’
She’d had a rotten afternoon and now this—this hideous embarrassment of knowing he’d seen her naked for a second time. She longed for the floor to open and swallow her, but it was clearly not going to do so, so she lifted her chin defiantly. ‘I do not have to explain myself to you, signore.’
‘Think again,’ he invited crisply.
‘Most of your family have visited us here.’ She was hardly able to believe she was saying these things. That she was being such an idiot. Almost as stupid, she thought mutinously, as he was arrogant. What right had he to—turn up out of the blue like this and challenge her? ‘Am I not allowed to see my only living relative in return?’
‘I am astonished you should wish to do so.’ The dark gaze narrowed. ‘Or do you have more in common than I thought? Did the pair of you perhaps work together to fool us all that night at Largossa?’
She wanted to slap him hard across the face for that, but her arms were confined inside her wrapping, and she dared not try to free them in case the beastly towel slipped or fell off altogether.
‘Believe whatever you want,’ she snapped. ‘It makes no difference to me. Now will you please go and allow me some privacy.’
‘Privacy?’ Angelo queried derisively. ‘Santa Madonna, what has there ever been in this marriage but privacy?’
She stiffened defensively. ‘I’m sorry if you’re not satisfied with your bargain.’
‘And you are?’ He looked her over in such a way that the sheltering towel seemed, disturbingly, no longer to exist. ‘Perhaps I no longer believe that.’
‘As I said before—think what you wish.’ She was beginning to shiver in the damp folds, and did not want him to conclude that she was trembling. That she feared him in any way.
But—there was something different about him today. His unannounced arrival in her room was not the kind of aloof, courteous behaviour to which she’d become accustomed. Besides, his whole attitude seemed edgy—challenging, and this change in him bewildered her. Made her—anxious.
She added in a low voice, ‘Angelo—please go.’
‘When I am ready,’ he said. ‘Also when you have told me the truth about your cousin. Why was she here? What did she want?’
The bald answer to that was—‘You,’ but Ellie hesitated to return it, instinct telling her that these were dangerous waters when she was already out of her depth.
She said quietly, ‘She wished to see the house. And, of course, to laugh at me.’
Oh God, she thought, I didn’t intend to say that.
His gaze sharpened. ‘For what reason?’
She swallowed. ‘Because I’m completely out of place here. And everyone must know this.’
He said slowly, ‘Elena, you are the Contessa Manzini. There is not a soul beneath this roof who does not regard you with affection and respect.’
Except yourself …
Dismissing the thought, Ellie bent her head. ‘How can you say that when they know—they all must know that we’re only pretending to be married.’ And Silvia in particular …
‘Forgive me, but I did not think you would be concerned.’ His voice was level. ‘Dopo tutto, you have never given that impression.’
She stared at the floor. ‘Perhaps it was today—seeing Silvia here—looking again at the portraits of the previous Contessas in the salotto and the dining room and seeing how beautiful they were, just as she is.’ She added bitterly, ‘How they would all have known how to behave—what was expected of them all the time—instead of being a fish out of water like me.’
The hardness of his mouth relaxed a little, and he spoke more gently. ‘Elena, let me assure you that you do not resemble any fish known to the mind of man.’
‘I’m being serious!’
‘I am glad to hear it, because it is time we spoke seriously.’
She still didn’t look at him. She said with faint breathlessness, ‘Is that why you’re suddenly he
re in the middle of the week—to tell me that you’ve decided to end the marriage?’
For a brief instant, Angelo was sorely tempted to tell her the whole truth—that he’d been on the brink of spending an enjoyable afternoon in bed with a beautiful girl he’d met at a dinner party two nights earlier, but had suddenly changed his mind for reasons he could not explain even to himself.
That he’d decided to return home on another apparent whim, but that the incident on the road which could so easily have left him seriously injured or dead had turned an impulse into resolution.
Which now prompted him to offer her honesty along with the new beginning which had now crystallised in his mind.
Starting with the moment he had seen her standing naked in the shower, the tendrils of soaked hair hanging round her face, the droplets of water running down over the pale skin of her breasts to her midriff and the slight concavity of her belly, and glistening on her slender thighs.
Recalling too how his body had stirred under his sudden sharp desire to lick each tiny trickle from her flesh and watch her rosy nipples lift and firm to hard peaks under the glide of his tongue.
Had he forgotten, he wondered in astonishment, or had he simply not noticed on that far off night just how lovely she looked without clothing?
Then paused, just in time as he realised the exact nature of his prospective confession.
‘Sciocco,’ he apostrophised himself silently. ‘Idiota.’
Dio mio, his near-miss must have affected his brain if he imagined for one moment that might be what she wanted to hear from him.
No, he thought, it would be far better—wiser to use the opportunity she had given him, and, leaving all other issues aside, start by answering the question she had asked.
‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘That is not why I am here. Al contrario.’
She looked up at that, her eyes widening, but, he thought, in apprehension more than pleasure, and took a swift mental step backwards.
He went on, ‘I regret if my displeasure at your cousin’s visit caused me to speak roughly to you.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The grey-green eyes slid past him as if she was looking at the bed. ‘Although you couldn’t possibly imagine I would actually invite her here.’
‘Perhaps, mia bella, I was not thinking too clearly. But I am a little more lucid now, and I have a proposition to put to you.’
He paused. ‘Elena, I would like you to reconsider the terms of our marriage.’
She repeated ‘Reconsider?’ as if she had never heard the word before. Then: ‘In what way—reconsider?’
‘You said earlier that the other Contessas knew what was expected of them, and that is true. They were aware, per esempio, that a priority in their lives was to provide an heir for the Manzini dynasty, to ensure our ancient name did not die.’
She did not move. It was as if, he thought, she’d been turned to stone inside the towel that swathed her.
‘And I have the same wish—the same dream of a son to follow me. I am asking you, therefore, to make our marriage a real one. To live with me as my wife, and become, in time, the mother of my child.’
She stared at him, lips parted, her gaze almost blank and he continued hurriedly, ‘I do not require you to answer me now, Elena. I realise you need time to think.’ He paused. ‘I hope we can discuss the matter later—over dinner forse.’
He smiled at her swiftly and, he hoped, reassuringly, then turned and walked to the door.
Ellie watched him go, with a sense of total unreality, as Silvia’s mocking words buzzed in her head. ‘His duty to his family to have a son,’ her cousin had said. And ‘You can be of use for that, if nothing else …’
This is crazy, she thought. It cannot be happening to me. I must be having a bad dream while I’m sleeping off my headache.
And even if it was all true—if he’d really been here asking her to change her entire life, her hopes for the future—her answer, now and for all time, was ‘No.’
What else could it possibly be? she asked herself. And felt tears, harsh and wholly unexpected, burn suddenly in her throat and blur her startled eyes.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN SHE WAS calm again, Ellie washed the tearstains from her face, dried her hair, placed her discarded clothing in the linen basket, and put on her robe.
As she tied its sash, her attention was attracted by the noise of some heavy vehicle in the courtyard below. When she went to the window, she was surprised to see Angelo’s car being loaded on the back of a transporter. As the truck departed with its load, there was a rap on the door, and Assunta entered carrying a pile of clean towels.
Ellie turned. ‘Is there something wrong with the signore‘s car, Assunta?’
The older woman stared at her, astonished. ‘But it was damaged in the accident, Contessa. You must know that.’
‘Accident?’ Ellie queried, startled. ‘I—I don’t think I understand.’
Assunta shook her head. ‘There was nearly a collision with another car overtaking when it should not have done so.’ She crossed herself. ‘The signore escaped without injury, may God be praised, through his own swift action. Otherwise he might have been killed.’ She paused. ‘Did he not tell you this?’
‘No,’ Ellie said slowly. ‘He—didn’t mention it.’
‘Perhaps he did not wish to cause you concern.’ Assunta’s warm, inquisitive gaze scanned Ellie’s slim figure, as if seeking for a reason for the Count to show such consideration to his young wife.
‘Yes,’ Ellie agreed quietly. ‘Perhaps.’
‘The Count wishes me to say that dinner will be served at eight o’clock this evening,’ Assunta continued. ‘After his ordeal, he will need an early night, senza dubbio.’
‘Sì,’ Ellie said after a pause. ‘No doubt he will.’
When Assunta had delivered her towels to the bathroom and left, Ellie wandered back to the chaise longue and sat down, staring into space.
He might have been killed …
An uncontrollable shiver ran through her. Yes, she’d have had the promised freedom but at what kind of terrible cost? Didn’t they say—Be careful what you wish for, because it could be granted?
She suddenly had an image of him standing in front of her, as he had been so short a time before. Could see the lean, long-legged body, his powerful shoulders undisguised by his elegant suit, the dark incisive face, the fathomless eyes and the swift, slanting smile as if they’d been etched on her brain.
Was aware of a tug of something which was almost like yearning, secret and unbidden, and which she had never experienced before. And could not afford to experience again.
A real marriage.
His words seemed to take on the impact of a siren song, with the power to beckon her to disaster, and she knew she could not allow that to happen.
He had married her from necessity not desire, and necessity was still driving him. It would be futile and dangerous to think otherwise.
At the same time, maybe she should re-think the bluntly negative response she’d been planning. Find some other way to tell him what he asked was impossible.
Silvia had said that she could not imagine her surrendering to Angelo on that bed. Well, she could not do so either. Could not, she told herself as her heart thundered against her ribcage. And would not.
Or not in the way he would undoubtedly have in mind.
Because she was simply a matter of expediency to him—as she always had been and always would be. And having his baby would be no different either. She would be little more than a surrogate mother. Stories in the papers suggested that women were well paid to use their bodies for such a purpose, but under strict terms and conditions.
She could formulate her own, she told herself. Rules to be strictly observed which would also safeguard her against harbouring any absurd fantasies about him, or about her role in his life.
And the price of her compliance would be her eventual escape from this meaningless existence that had been
forced on her and the regaining of her freedom. That would be made totally clear.
For a moment, she quailed inwardly at the prospect of telling him, then rose, squaring her shoulders. After all, she thought, as long as he gets the heir he wants, why should he care? It may even be a relief.
She waited until it was almost eight o’clock before she ventured downstairs. To Donata’s obvious disapproval, she’d insisted on wearing her plainest dress, a simple crossover style in white silk, and left her hair loose.
She found Angelo standing by the open windows in the salotto, looking broodingly over the gardens, a glass of his usual whisky in his hand. He turned as she entered, his brows lifting. ‘Mia bella,’ he said softly. ‘You look like a bride again.’
Ellie was taken aback. She’d meant to indicate that she hadn’t taken any particular trouble with her appearance. That, for her, this was just—any evening. She said with constraint, ‘That was not my intention.’
He clicked his tongue, his smile glinting. ‘You disappoint me. Would you like a drink?’
‘Sì, grazie. Some fresh orange juice.’
‘You do not think the circumstances call for something stronger?’ He added ice to the tumbler and brought it to her.
She took the drink with a word of thanks. ‘I suppose you mean the circumstances of my learning from Assunta that you’d apparently escaped death by inches?’ She kept her voice cool and level.
‘Sì—among other things.’
The juice was sweet and refreshingly cold against her dry throat. ‘Is that why you suddenly decided you needed a child to carry on your name? Why you no longer wanted to wait for the day when you’d be rid of me at last and able to find a wife more to your taste?’
His tone was reflective. ‘It reminded me, certamente, how unexpected life can become—and how fragile. And that it is by no means certain that the future Contessa you describe even exists.’
‘But you’ll never know,’ she said. ‘Unless you try to find her.’
‘Ah,’ Angelo said softly. ‘But that could take forever, and I also realised how unwise it is to allow time to—waste.’ He paused. ‘Besides, my decision was not as sudden as you may think.’