The Forced Marriage (Italian Husbands)

by Sara Craven

  ‘It hasn’t exactly been a joyous time for your cousin Ottavia either,’ Flora came back at him sharply as she remembered the fleeting moment of pain and vulnerability that had surfaced among the spite and hysteria.

  And she realised with shock that she had barely spared a thought for Chris’s behaviour in all this.

  ‘Oh, Ottavia will survive,’ he said with insouciance. ‘She has the Baressi name and money behind her, after all, and there has been no open scandal. My aunt is a careful woman.’

  Flora bit her lip. ‘I believe you.’

  Tonio lowered his voice confidentially. ‘I think she hopes that even now she can persuade Marco to remember the ties between our families and resume his engagement to Ottavia.’

  Flora turned her head slowly and stared at him. ‘You actually think that—after everything that’s happened?’

  ‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘It was not a love match the first time. Marco, you see, does not really care about women. Oh, he likes them as decoration, to be seen with in public, and he enjoys their bodies. But that is all.’

  He shrugged again. ‘It was time for him to marry, and one woman is very like another to him. That must have been the only reason for his engagement to Ottavia. She is beautiful, certainly, but so demanding.’

  She said stonily, ‘Then you won’t be offering to console her?’

  He laughed. ‘She has never tempted me. But you, carissima, are a different proposition,’ he added, giving her a sidelong glance. ‘We could always change your air ticket to a later date. Italy has many beauties and I would be happy to be your guide. What do you think?’

  ‘You really don’t want to know what I think.’ She was suddenly aware that his hand was straying in the direction of her knee, and stiffened. ‘And if you lay one finger on me, signore, I’ll break your jaw.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, it is your loss, not mine. But then, you are a loser all round, Signorina Flora,’ he added with a sly smile.

  They completed the rest of the journey in silence. When they arrived at the airport Tonio reached into his jacket and produced an envelope which he extended to her.

  ‘What is this?’ Flora made no attempt to take it.

  ‘A further gift from my aunt.’ He peeled back a corner of the flap, revealing the substantial wad of banknotes inside. ‘She is aware that Marco would have been generous with you on parting and does not wish you to suffer financially from her intervention. She offers this as compensation.’

  ‘She’s very thoughtful.’ Flora opened the passenger door. ‘But I’m not for sale.’

  Tonio got out as well, and retrieved her bag from the boot. ‘Oh, I think you were sold, Flora mia,’ he said softly. ‘And for thirty pieces of silver. Ciao, baby.’

  As she walked to the glass doors leading to the main concourse she heard him drive away. And then—and only then—she allowed one slow, scalding tear to escape down the curve of her cheek.

  ‘You look terrible,’ said Hester, in a tone that mingled brutal candour with concern.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ Flora retorted.

  ‘I’m being serious.’ Hester poured coffee from the percolator and handed a cup to Flora. ‘Ever since you got back from that Italian trip you’ve looked like death on a stick. You barely ate enough at dinner tonight to keep a fly alive—and not for the first time. If you lose much more weight you’ll disappear altogether. And don’t think I can’t hear you pacing up and down your room every night, when you should be asleep.’

  Flora gave her a troubled look. ‘Oh, Hes, am I keeping you awake? I’m so sorry. Maybe it’s time I started looking for another place of my own.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Hester said roundly. ‘I prefer to have you here, where I can at least keep a panic-stricken eye on you. But I would like to know what’s sent you into this headlong decline.’

  Flora stared down at her coffee. She could smell its slightly smoky fragrance and was aware of an odd shiver of distaste.

  ‘It’s just frantic at work, that’s all,’ she evaded. ‘Phone ringing non-stop ever since I got back. If it goes on like this I might have to consider hiring someone else.’

  ‘Well, let’s hear it for the businesswoman of the year.’ Hester gave her a wry look. ‘So why aren’t you turning cartwheels for joy instead of looking as if ruin and misery were staring you in the face?’ She paused, then said gently, ‘Be honest, honey. Are you missing Chris—is that it?’ She sighed. ‘I know I never thought you were the perfect pair, but I wonder now if I didn’t push you into doing something you now regret.’

  Flora forced a smile. ‘I wasn’t pushed—I jumped. And I have no regrets at all. I realised that my feelings for Chris were only lukewarm at best, and, anyway, he—wasn’t the man I’d believed him to be. End of story.’

  ‘Really?’ Hester asked sceptically. ‘Somehow I feel I missed out on a few vital episodes, but I won’t pry. However, I’d like to know what I can do to help.’

  ‘You’ve already done it,’ Flora said with swift warmth. ‘Letting me move in with you while my flat is being sold—and not asking questions,’ she added with difficulty.

  She wanted to add, ‘One day I’ll tell you everything,’ but she wasn’t sure she ever could—not even to Hester, her best friend in the world.

  How could she confess to anyone what a monumental, abject fool she’d made of herself? she thought, as she lay awake that night. Let alone admit the even more damaging truth that, try as she might, she was unable to dismiss Marco Valante from her mind and heart?

  It was the shame of that knowledge—of the yearning that the mere thought of him could still engender—that pursued her by day and haunted her at night, driving her to walk the floor, fighting the demons of desire that warred within her.

  It was nearly six weeks since her headlong flight from Italy, and yet she was no nearer to putting his betrayal in the past, where it belonged, or blocking him from her consciousness.

  Each day she’d waited for him to get in touch—to explain the indefensible, or at least apologise. But there had been no contact at all. No letter. No phone call.

  Perhaps he’d grown secretly tired of the game he was playing with her, and had been glad of his godmother’s intervention.

  After the first two weeks of silence she’d taken a cab to his cousin’s house in Chelsea, only to find a removals van outside and the new owner’s furniture being carried in.

  Vittoria, too, had gone. But even if she’d been there, and Flora could have summoned up the courage to introduce herself, what could she have found to say to her? Is Marco well? Is he happy?

  And just how pathetic is that? she asked herself with bitter self-derision.

  Especially when he seemed to have had no trouble in forgetting her existence altogether.

  Her first action on her return had been to put her flat on the market, her next to vacate her rented office space for alternative premises in a different area.

  All that trouble to cover her tracks, she thought with irony, when in fact there’d been no need. But she’d had to get out of the flat. She couldn’t bear to live with its memories.

  She’d found a clutch of increasingly desperate telephone messages from Chris when she returned. Somehow she’d forced herself to dial his number and listen to the impassioned outpourings and demands that they should meet and talk.

  At last she’d said, in a voice of quiet steel, ‘I think you should be saying this to Ottavia Baressi,’ and replaced the receiver, cutting off the ensuing stunned silence.

  In spite of Hester’s assurances, she knew it was time she started looking for another place to live. Before too long Sally would return and want her room back.

  And I have to draw a line under the past and get on with my life, she thought. So I’ll take positive action—start flat-hunting tomorrow.

  But in the morning she felt so horribly ill that she was more inclined to reserve space in the nearest cemetery.

  ‘It can’t be anything I’ve e
aten, because we’ve had exactly the same and you’re fine,’ she said as she emerged pale and shivering from the bathroom. ‘I must have picked up some virus.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Hester agreed cordially. ‘I hope you feel better soon.’

  And, oddly enough, Flora did. She even recovered sufficiently to go into work, and managed a full day there without further mishap. Although she found herself recoiling from the harmless ham and lettuce sandwich that she’d ordered for her lunch.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ she commented to Hester that evening.

  ‘Extraordinary.’ Hes tossed a bag with a chemist’s label into her lap. ‘Try this.’

  Flora broke the seal and stared down at the slim packet it contained.

  She cleared her throat. ‘It’s a pregnancy testing kit,’ she said at last.

  ‘Good,’ Hester said affably. ‘I was afraid they’d swapped it for a mystery prize. You’ll find the instructions inside.’

  Flora let the packet fall as if it was red-hot. ‘No.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Hester shrugged. ‘I just thought it was a possibility you might want to eliminate.’ She gave her friend a level look. ‘Well—don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Flora bit her lip. ‘I suppose so—damn you.’

  Even before she checked the result she knew it would be positive. She’d blamed the recent disruption in her monthly cycle on stress, but she knew now she’d simply been burying her head in the sand.

  She stared down at the coloured bands on the kit and the bathroom swung round her in a sudden dizzying arc, forcing her to cling to the side of the basin until the moment passed.

  She put a hand on her stomach. She thought, Marco’s baby. I—I’m going to have Marco’s baby… And felt joy and anguish clash inside her with all the force of an electric charge.

  Then she opened the door and went slowly back to the living room.

  Hester took one look at her white face and trembling mouth, put her into a chair, made her a cup of strong, scalding tea, and stood over her while she drank it.

  She said gently, ‘I think you’ll have to contact Chris, my pet, whether you want to or not.’

  ‘Chris?’ Flora looked at her blankly. ‘What has Chris got to do with it?’ She paused. ‘Oh, God, you thought…’

  ‘A reasonable assumption, under the circumstances.’ Hester drew up the opposite chair and gave her a searching glance. ‘But totally wrong, it seems. I presume you’re telling me, instead, that this baby is the result of the torrid affair with your glamorous Italian?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it. My God, I almost feel sorry for Chris.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ Flora said with a flash of her old spirit. ‘Because I didn’t start this. I—I discovered, you see, that Chris had met someone else too, while he was on holiday that time in Bahamas.’

  ‘And you decided what was sauce for the goose?’ Hester gave a tuneless whistle. ‘Very unwise, my pet.’

  ‘No,’ Flora denied tiredly. ‘It wasn’t like that. I actually only learned about Chris quite a while after—afterwards,’ she added, biting her lip.

  Hester was silent for a moment. ‘Are you going to tell Marco Valante that fatherhood awaits him?’

  ‘There’s no point. He doesn’t feature in my life any more.’ Flora spoke with difficulty, her voice constricted. ‘It was a terrible mistake, and—it’s over.’

  ‘Not completely,’ Hester said bluntly. ‘As there are consequences.’

  Flora forced a travesty of a smile. ‘Only one consequence—I hope. And it’s my problem, so I’ll deal with it.’

  Hester nodded meditatively. ‘What are you planning to do? Request a termination?’

  Flora had a sudden vision of Ottavia Baressi, struggling to hide a nightmare of pain behind defiant words. Suddenly—defensively—she wrapped her arms round her body, as if protecting the tiny life within her.

  How could I possibly do that to Marco’s child? she thought with a pang. When it’s all I’ll ever have of him.

  Aloud, she said slowly, ‘I know it would be the sensible solution—only I’ve never been very wise. I can’t do it, Hes.’

  Her friend frowned. ‘Think about it, love,’ she urged quietly. ‘Yes, you have a career, and a home, so you’re better off than a lot of women in your situation. But it still isn’t easy trying to bring up a child single-handed. Even with the active support of the father there are all kinds of difficulties.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you quite sure you won’t contact your Italian about all this?’

  ‘No.’ Flora shook her head wearily. ‘That’s quite impossible, and he’s not my Italian.’

  ‘Whatever, you don’t think he has the right to know that you’ve created a life together?’

  ‘No, he forfeited that—totally.’ Flora sent her an appealing look. ‘Please don’t ask me to explain.’

  Hester lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’ll shut up here and now,’ she said. ‘But I can think of several people who won’t. Starting,’ she added gently, ‘with your mother.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Flora said wretchedly. ‘She’s not even speaking to me at the moment as it is.’

  ‘Well, that could be a good thing,’ Hester said, straight-faced. ‘Keep the fight going and the baby could be in university before she finds out.’

  And, in spite of all the fear and misery threatening to crush her, Flora, to her own complete astonishment, found herself giggling weakly.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FLORA came out of the health centre and stood for a moment, hunting in her bag for her sun glasses. The noise of the city traffic hurtling past was deafening, but she was oblivious to it, locked in her own private world.

  Because there was no mistake. It was all true.

  Her doctor had just confirmed that her pregnancy test had been totally accurate, and, once Flora’s resolve to have the baby had been established, had dealt briskly with the practicalities. Her medical insurance would secure her a bed in a good, private maternity clinic, and she would be contacted in the next few days by the practice midwife who would monitor her well-being in the coming months.

  He had also assured her that the sickness that assailed her each morning would probably pass within a month or two.

  Tactfully, the doctor had not probed, nor attempted to raise any of the other issues surrounding the coming baby, and Flora was grateful for that.

  Her mind was still reeling from the knowledge that Marco’s child was growing inside her. She had to come to terms with that before she could cope with anything else, however pressing.

  And there were matters to be dealt with. The estate agent had contacted her two days earlier to say that he’d received an offer of the full asking price for her flat, and that the couple concerned were also interested in buying some of the furniture, if she wanted to sell.

  ‘And do you?’ Hester asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Flora said slowly. ‘It might be good to clear my decks—start again from scratch.’ She grimaced. ‘After all, I’m not looking for a showcase for my career any more, but a family home.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Hester. She paused. ‘You’re really taking this in your stride, honey.’

  Perhaps that was because having a baby was small potatoes compared with some of the shocks she’d experienced recently, Flora thought wryly.

  She forced a smile. ‘It’s all front. Underneath, I’m really a quivering mass of insecurity.’

  But the sale of the flat was a positive step, and, hopefully, the bed might be included in the furniture that the Morgans wanted to buy. Because there was no way that Flora could have ever spent another night in it, even though it was probably where the baby had been conceived.

  After that first incredible, rapturous night, Marco, she remembered, had always been careful to use protection.

  As an afterthought, she told herself bitterly, it had been an abject failure.

  She glanced at her watch, then walked to the kerb and hailed a passing cab. The agent had suggested it might be s
impler if she and Mrs Morgan handled the sale of the furniture between them, and she’d reluctantly agreed, so they were meeting there that morning.

  She’d listed the flat’s contents, and pencilled in realistic asking prices alongside the main items, making a separate note of the few personal things she intended to keep and which Hester was going to help her remove.

  Get it over and done with, she thought as she gave the flat’s address to the driver. And then I can move on—make some real plans. Adjust and compromise. Maybe find somewhere with enough space to enable me to work from home.

  She had mixed feelings as she unlocked the door and let herself in. This had been so much her own individual space, yet now it only seemed to speak to her of Marco.

  Chris had spent far more time there, but he’d never stamped his personality on the place in the way Marco had done in a few brief hours.

  He seemed to be everywhere, sliding his arms round her waist in the kitchen and nuzzling her neck, sharing the narrow bath, sprawling on the sofa with his head in her lap. And, of course, making love to her with heart-stopping skill in the bedroom.

  Making himself quite effortlessly part of her environment, she thought with a gasp of sheer pain. And completely essential to her life and happiness.

  God, but he’d been clever. Or had she been just a pitiable fool, wanting so hard to believe in the fairy tale?

  Whatever, she was older and wiser now, she told herself with determination. And the life and happiness she’d envisaged would have to take a wholly different form.

  Her answering machine was blinking, and she frowned as she pressed the ‘Play’ button. Most people now contacted her through work, but there were bound to be a few who’d slipped through the net.

  I’ll have to make another list, she thought, sighing, as she retrieved her notebook from her bag. And ask Mrs Morgan if she wants the line to be transferred.

  There were only three calls—the first from a girlfriend who’d only just heard about her broken engagement and clearly wanted all the gory details. The second was from her stepsister, furiously demanding to know if she’d come to her senses yet and who was going to pay for the page boy suit.