Carrying His Scandalous Heir

by Julia James

  I was trying to negate that sudden fear I’d had—fear about why I didn’t dare think what my future would be with Cesare. Because I shouldn’t feel that—I’ve always known that there is no future with him. Known that I mustn’t care that there is no future.

  Known, too, right from the start, that if she wanted any time at all with Cesare she must try not to cling to him, try not to want him too much. He had to know she would never have any expectations of him, never make any assumptions.

  Never want a future with him longer than he was prepared to give her.

  Or she would have nothing of him at all.

  Nothing.

  The hollow feeling came again, like a crevasse opening inside her. A crevasse into which that same emotion flared again—more than disquieting, deeper than disturbing.

  To have nothing of Cesare—how could I endure that?

  No—she tore her mind away. She must not think like this! She was regretting not staying with him in Milan, that was all! Regretting insisting on arriving today at her mother’s, even though she could, she knew, have postponed her arrival by a day. It would not have made any great difference to her mother, and she’d have stayed on a day longer to compensate.

  I turned down Cesare when I didn’t need to.

  But she knew why she had done it.

  It was to show myself that I don’t want to cling to him...don’t need to cling to him. To show myself how we are simply having a relationship between adults that we both enjoy, that suits us both. And that is all.

  ‘So...’ her mother’s voice interrupted her insistent thoughts and she was glad of it ‘...how was Venice? Tell me about this new gallery that’s been opened. Where did you stay? At the Danieli or the Gritti?’ she enquired, naming two of the city’s top hotels.

  As she answered, telling her mother about her trip there and the article she’d written, Carla welcomed the diversion—welcomed, too, over dinner, letting her mother run on about her social comings and goings, knowing how much Marlene enjoyed her position in Roman society.

  Only when all these had been comprehensively covered did Carla ask, casually, after any news of the Viscaris. Vito, she knew, had been on an extensive inspection tour of his European hotels, and was due back in Rome imminently.

  ‘I do hope, Mum,’ she ended, casting a significant look at her mother, ‘that when he’s back here you’ll finally agree to sell him Guido’s shares...’

  The sooner that was done, the better. It had caused a significant rift in relations with her stepfather’s brother’s side of the family that had rumbled on ever since her stepfather had died.

  But immediately her mother bridled. ‘Darling, Guido entrusted those shares to me! And he had his reasons.’

  Carla gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Mum, please don’t be stubborn! It makes far more sense for Vito to own the entire shareholding—’

  The next moment she wished she’d never mentioned the wretched subject.

  Her mother’s eyes flared. ‘Yes, and he could—very easily! Carla, darling, why don’t you listen to me on this? It would make perfect sense—would be what I’ve always dreamt of! It would unite both sides of the family! And unite the shareholdings as well!’

  Carla threw up her hands. Damn, she’d walked into this one!

  ‘Mum,’ she said warningly, ‘don’t go there! I know you’ve had a thing about it for ever, but please just accept that Vito and I are simply not interested in each other! Not in the slightest! And whether or not Guido left you his shares doesn’t change a thing!’

  She attempted to put a humorous note into her voice, to defuse the situation.

  ‘Vito wouldn’t look twice at me—I’m not blonde, which is the only type of female he ever falls for, and his flashy film star looks just don’t do it for me either. I far prefer—’

  She stopped short. But it was too late. Her mother pounced.

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m concerned about! Darling, are you mad?’ She leant forward, her expression agitated. ‘Cesare di Mondave of all men! I’ve been hoping and hoping it would just be a brief fling...or whatever you want to call it! But it’s been months now and you are still with him! Have you no sense?’

  Carla shut her eyes, then flashed them open again. Realising with a wash of angry dismay that giving her mother an opportunity to voice her obsession about her marrying Vito had been the least of it!

  During the last six months she’d never mentioned Cesare to her mother—had deliberately kept their relationship out of any conversation. The fact that her mother doubtless knew—for Rome was a hotbed of gossip—was no reason to be open with her mother about it. And not just because it didn’t play to Marlene’s fantasy about finally getting her together with Vito. But because she knew her affair with Cesare would get exactly the reaction she was getting now.

  Emotion stormed up inside her. Anger at her mother, and at herself for walking into this. The last thing she wanted was an inquisition.

  ‘I’m twenty-seven years old—I can handle an affair,’ she said tightly.

  Her mother’s eyes were piercing. ‘Can you?’ she said. Her expression changed. ‘Darling, it’s you I’m thinking of! Affairs can go badly wrong.’ She paused again. ‘I should know. For me there was no happy ending. And that’s what I fear for you! There can be no happy ending for you as Cesare di Mondave’s mistress—’

  Rejection was instant in Carla. ‘Mistress? Of course I’m not his mistress!’

  Yet even as she rejected the term across her mind seared the memory of that triptych, and the sixteenth-century’s Conte’s mistress.

  I am not that woman—I am nothing whatsoever like that wretched woman! I am not Cesare’s mistress, I am his lover, and he is my lover, and we are together by choice, of our own free will, and I’m perfectly happy with that. Perfectly!

  She could see her mother backing off, taking another breath. ‘Well, whatever you call yourself it doesn’t matter. All that matters to me is that you don’t get hurt!’

  She shook her head one more time.

  ‘I know I can’t stop you, but...’ she looked worriedly across at Carla, holding her gaze ‘...promise me that, whatever happens, when it comes to Cesare di Mondave you won’t go and do something unforgivably stupid.’ She took a breath. ‘Promise me that you won’t go and fall in love with him!’

  There was silence. Absolute silence. And then Marlene’s voice again, sounding hollow now.

  ‘Please promise me that, Carla—please.’

  But Carla could not answer. Could not answer at all...

  Emotion was pouring over her like an avalanche. Wiping the breath from her lungs. Suffocating her with a blinding white truth...

  * * *

  Cesare was out on the terrace, hands curled around the cold stone of the balustrade. Above the gardens and the valley the moon was rising, casting its silver glow over the world. His expression was studied.

  Francesca.

  Francesca delle Ristori—Donna Francesca—daughter of a marchese, granddaughter of a duke on her mother’s side, daughter of one of his father’s best friends, and ideally suited to be the next Contessa di Mantegna.

  Ideally suited to be his wife.

  He’d known her all his life. Known her and liked her. And what was not to like? She was intelligent—extremely so—sweet-natured, good-tempered, and, as a bonus, beautiful. She had a pale, ash-blonde beauty that would adorn his arm...that some of their children, surely, would inherit.

  Into his head, memory pierced. His father talking to him...at him...shortly before the seizure that had killed him.

  ‘She’ll be the perfect wife for you—if you’ve any sense at all you’ll see that! She’s serious, committed and would be an ornament in her role as your mother’s successor!’

  It was impossible to disagree with hi
s father’s judgement. Francesca would, there was no doubt in his mind whatsoever, make a perfect wife, the perfect next Contessa di Mantegna and mother of the future Count.

  When the right time came.

  If it was to come at all.

  His jaw tightened. That, he knew, was the meat of Francesca’s letter to him. Was this long-mooted marriage of theirs to take place—or not? A decision was necessary. And very soon.

  And that was the problem he had.

  It’s come too soon.

  As the words formed in his head his inner vision blotted out the moonlit valley before him. He was seeing Lake Garda, sunlight bright on its deep, dark waters, the reflection of the jagged mountains in its surface, seeing his arm casually around the woman beside him as they leant against the stone balustrade on the hotel terrace overlooking the vista.

  The memory burned tangibly in him—he could almost feel the soft curve of her hip indenting into his, her hand around his waist. More vivid memory came now, of the last time they had made love, her body threshing beneath his, her mouth hungry for his, her passion released, ardent and sensual, so arousing a contrast with her air of English composure when she was not in his embrace.

  I don’t want to give that up—not yet.

  Oh, one day he would marry—of course he would—but his own preference would have been to postpone marriage for some time. For him there was no necessity to do so yet. But his marriage must be a partnership—with his wife an equal partner. Not for him a marriage like his parents’. His wife would not live the life of his mother, shaping herself around his father’s wishes, giving up everything else in her life but her role as Contessa. No, Francesca would be very different—and that included her very understandable desire to marry when the time was right for her.

  And that time seemed to be now.

  He could not ask her to delay—not given the information she had shared with him in her letter. Whatever his reluctance to make that decision now, it had to be done.

  He stared out over the valley one long, last time. Slowly, very slowly, his thoughts reached their conclusion. Slowly, very slowly, he exhaled, inclined his head.

  Decision made.

  * * *

  In the bedroom that had been hers since her teenage days, up until the time she’d moved out to her own apartment, Carla lay in bed, sleepless, staring up at the painted ceiling. Her eyes were huge, distended. Words ran like an endless litany round and round the inside of her skull—like rats in a trap. Desperately seeking escape.

  I’m not in love with Cesare! I’m not! It’s just passion—desire—that’s all! The way it was from the very start! He makes my heart beat faster just looking at him—but that isn’t love! I won’t let it be love. I won’t.

  But even as the litany was repeated she could hear another voice speaking.

  So why do you fear not knowing how long he’ll want you? Why would you fear a future where you have nothing of him any longer? Why have you kept trying to prove to yourself that you have no need to cling to him, no need to want to be with him more than you are? Why did you make yourself turn down his invitation to stay longer with him today in Milan?

  She knew the answer to those questions—knew why she did not want to hear them, did not want to answer them. Did not want to face the truth of what had happened. Fear beat up in her, firing through her veins.

  It mustn’t be love—what she felt for Cesare, what she felt about him. It just mustn’t...

  I’m not that stupid! Dear God, I’m not that stupid! To have fallen in love with Cesare di Mondave...

  But as the dawn came she knew, with a hollowing of her heart, that what her mother had feared—what she herself had guarded against, right from the start—had happened. And in her head, her mother’s warning tolled like doom.

  ‘There can be no happy ending for you—’

  A fearful coldness filled her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CESARE HANDED THE keys of his car to the valet parker and headed into the restaurant. He was running late, and he knew why. Emotions spiked across his mind, troubling and unwelcome. Tonight was not going to be easy—but it had to be faced. He had to say what he had to say, do what he had to do. No escaping it.

  And take the consequences.

  Emotion struck again—powerful, like a leopard on a leash. His life was privileged—immensely privileged—but the responsibilities that came with it required a price. A price that he did not wish to pay.

  He felt the leashed emotion tug again, bringing to his mind’s eye the portrait of his ancestor, Count Alessandro, whom Luciezo had captured for posterity.

  You had it easier—you kept your privileges and did not have to pay for them at all!

  The triptych was testament to that. The Conte di Mantegna—flanked by his wife and his mistress. And he had kept them both—enjoyed them both. Had had to give up neither—give up nothing at all. Paid no price at all for the life he’d led.

  Cesare’s jaw tightened. Well, that was then, not now, and now, in this current century, no such arrangement was possible. Not with honour. To marry Francesca meant giving up Carla. No other option.

  As he strode into the dining room he saw her immediately. Saw how her blue-violet eyes fastened on his, simultaneously felt another, different emotion seize him.

  Her crepe dress in a luscious plum colour graced her full figure, her rich, brunette hair was coiled at her nape, and those lustrous eyes, the generous, sensual mouth, would draw male eyes from everywhere. But her attention was only for him. It had always been that way, and he was accustomed to it.

  Yet into his head at that thought came another.

  I will have to see her lavishing that same unwavering attention on another man—another man who will have her to himself...

  The thought jabbed in his mind like a spike being driven in. As he reached her, sat himself down, he found himself lifting her hand and dropping a light kiss on it.

  ‘Mi dispiace. I was delayed.’

  Her smile was instant, and he could see relief in it. But as he looked into her face he could see more than relief. He could see a sudden veiling of her expression. As if she were hiding something from him.

  A moment later, though, her expression was open again, her usual air of composure back in place. ‘Long day?’ she asked sympathetically, starting to skim down the menu.

  ‘Long enough,’ Cesare replied.

  For the first time with Carla he was conscious of a sense of deceit—it was discomfiting.

  He turned the subject away. ‘How have you been? Did you visit your mother?’

  She nodded with an assenting murmur, but said no more. Cesare did not usually ask after her family—and she never asked after his family affairs. It was an invisible line she did not cross.

  The sommelier was approaching, and Cesare turned his attention to him. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

  Or not hunger for food.

  I don’t want to do this—I don’t want to do it but I have no option. It has to be done, and it has to be done now—tonight.

  But not right now. Not over dinner. What he had to say required privacy.

  And, besides, I want one more night with her—one last night.

  He broke off such thoughts as the sommelier returned, filling their glasses. When he had gone Cesare lifted his glass. That hollow feeling came again.

  ‘To you, Carla,’ he said.

  His eyes were dark, his expression serious. For a long moment he held her gaze. He saw her face whiten suddenly, her eyes distend. Then, like an opaque lens, he saw her expression become veiled.

  Slowly, she inclined her head. ‘To you, Cesare,’ she replied. Her voice was steady, despite the whitening of her face.

  She drank, taking a large
r mouthful than she had intended. But right now she needed its fortifying strength. The tension from having waited for him so desperately, overwhelmed by the devastating realisation of what she felt for him, had made her feel faint. Emotion was knifing in her. She felt as if she were seeing him for the very first time.

  And I am—I’m seeing him with eyes that see what I have refused to admit until now—what I have guarded myself from for six long months, and what has now overcome me. The truth of what I feel for him.

  Weakness flooded through her, dissolving her. Shakily, she lowered her glass to the table, hearing in her head the echo of his simple, devastating tribute.

  ‘To you, Carla...’

  That was all he’d said—and yet within her now she could feel emotion soaring upwards like an eagle taking flight from a mountaintop. There had been such intent in his gaze...such as she had never seen before.

  Can it mean—? Oh, can it mean...?

  For a second, the briefest second, she felt an emotion flare within her that she must not feel—dared not feel. She crushed it down. It was too dangerous. Too desperate.

  Instead, she watched him set down his glass, saw the candlelight catch the gold of the crested signet ring on his little finger. He never removed it—never. It was there when he made love to her, when they showered, when they swam. It was as if it was melded into his skin. Given to him on his father’s death, passed down generation to generation, one day it would be passed to his son, the next Conte.

  She looked away, back at his face, unwilling to think such thoughts. Wanting only to drink him in as a thirsty man in a desert would drink in fresh water, feeling her heart beating heavily within her breast. The heart that had so recently, so devastatingly, revealed its truth to her. The truth that she must not show...

  ‘So, how are things in the Viscari family?’

  His casual question made Carla start. She dragged back her hectic thoughts. Collected herself. It was unusual that he was even asking, but she made her reply as casual as she could.