“And Simon? It’s as you said yesterday. How do we explain such a complicated past to him?”
He dropped a kiss on her head. Her hair smelled of grass and vanilla and the rich earth of Tuscany. “With Simon we will be patient and tell him only as much as he asks to know, and only when the time is right. For the present, we will simply be a family of three forging new bonds. But he is strong and courageous like his mother. When he is ready to hear how we came together, he will bear the truth bravely.”
“I’m not so brave,” she said in a muffled voice. “If it weren’t for Corinna, I’d still be dithering about telling you the truth. You were right to call me a coward.”
“You are the bravest woman I know, my lovely Stephanie.”
“You’re not disappointed in me?” She looked up at him from beneath the fringe of her long eyelashes.
He shook his head. “We’ve wasted enough time mired in past mistakes. It’s time to move on to a better tomorrow. Te amo, Stephanie, and that’s what matters.”
She let out a long, trembling sigh. “I love you, too.”
He looked around. Neat rows of grapevines climbed up the hillside opposite. The long grass had stained her dress and she had a smudge of dirt on her nose. A farm cart rumbled along the road toward them, stirring up a cloud of summer dust. The worker perched high on the seat was whistling. He had a dog sitting next to him.
“This isn’t how I’d pictured it happening,” Matteo said, “but when the moment is right, a man must act.” He pulled her to her feet, then dropped to one knee before her and held her hands. “Stephanie Leyland-Owen, will you marry me? Will you live with me and let me love you ’til death do part us?”
She bit her lip and a tear splashed down her face to land on the back of his hand. “Sì,” she said. “I’d be honored to be your wife.”
He stood up and pulled her into his arms. “I have not kissed you in far too long,” he told her, and brought his mouth down on hers.
She tasted of paradise. Of all the heated scents of summer in Italy, and the cool northern winters of her home-land. She tasted of forever.
The cart rumbled to a stop. The worker grinned and raised his thumb in approval. “Viva l’amore!” he shouted.
“Viva l’amore,” Stephanie echoed, her smile tremulous. “Viva you and me, Matteo.”
“Sì,” he said. “Per eternità, la mia bella.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ON HER wedding morning, they came together in her suite at the Villa Valenti, the way women do, to help her get ready, and it didn’t matter that they barely knew each other. They were mothers, and they wanted this day to be unforgettable—for her, for them, for the man already waiting in the chapel, and for the son he’d chosen to be his best man.
She didn’t wear a long white gown with a sweeping train, or a lace veil held in place with a pearl tiara. This was not, after all, her first wedding, nor could she, by any stretch of the imagination, pass herself off as a virgin bride. Instead, she chose champagne silk kissed with the faintest blush of pink dawn, with a portrait neckline, and a full skirt which fell from a narrow fitted waist to whisper in soft folds around her ankles. Her shoes were satin, the same color as her dress, with elegant, three inch heels so that she had only to tilt up her face a little to look her husband in the eye as they exchanged their vows, and to receive his kiss to seal their union.
Of course, a dress and shoes weren’t quite enough, not even with the addition of a nosegay of champagne bud roses secured by a wide satin ribbon.
“This,” Signora De Luca said, presenting her with a wide-brimmed lace hat trimmed with exquisite silk roses, “is what I wore at Matteo’s baptism. If you would like to wear it today—”
Delighted, Stephanie exclaimed, “Something old, and so beautiful! I’m honored, Signora De Luca!”
“No more of the Signora, cara! Today, I become your suocera, your mother-in-law, and you become the daughter I always longed for—la mia nuora. So, per favore, call me Madre.” She exchanged a warm smile with Stephanie’s mother. “We will share our children and double our blessings, sì, Vivienne?”
Close to tears, Vivienne nodded. “In case I haven’t said so a dozen times before, I’m so grateful you and Matteo found each other again, Stephanie. All I’ve ever wanted is to see you happy. But never in my wildest dreams did I think you and your father would arrive at the kind of understanding you’ve reached in the last two months. He’s very proud of you, and has enormous respect for Matteo. Even though you’ll be making your home here in Italy, please visit us often. We all want very much to be part of your new family.”
“Well, praise heaven, a family at last!” Stephanie’s grandmother said. “Don’t go all weepy on us, Vivienne, you’ll ruin your mascara. Stephanie, darling girl, I have something you may borrow just for today, although you will, one day, inherit it.” She opened a navy velvet jeweler’s case and took out a pair of pink diamond earrings. “Your grandfather gave these to me on our wedding day and it’s only fitting that you should wear them on yours. They go very well with your lovely dress, don’t you think?”
“I think Mother’s not the only one about to ruin her mascara,” Stephanie said, managing a smile even though her throat ached with an overload of emotion. “Thank you, Grandmother! I’ll take very good care of them.”
“As Matteo will take very good care of you,” Nonna decreed, presenting her with a handsome blue leather photograph album engraved in gold with the De Luca family crest, the date, and Stephanie and Matteo’s initials. “Which is why I am giving you this, so that, starting today, you may begin recording the many good years ahead. There you have it, cara mia: something old, something blue and something borrowed. Only something new is missing.”
“And I took care of that,” Vivienne said. “I bought you this, for your honeymoon, Stephanie.” She produced a long, flat box in which a delicate lace and chiffon peignoir, extravagantly beribboned, nestled between layers of tissue paper. “Every bride should have at least one utterly impractical item in her trousseau and I know you’re too down-to-earth to have indulged in anything as fanciful as this. Shall I put it in your suitcase?”
“Oh, please do!” Stephanie said, laughing. “Mother, I had no idea you were such a romantic.”
A knock sounded at the sitting room door.
“I expect that’s Bruce, come to walk her to the chapel,” her grandmother said, ushering the women from the bedroom. “Come along, my dears, let’s not delay the proceedings. Stephanie needs a moment alone with her father, and although it’s one thing for a bride to be fashionably late, it’s quite another for her to leave her guests wondering if she plans to show up at all.”
“So, after you and Mom are married, does that make me your son?”
Matteo bent down to adjust the knot in Simon’s pearl-gray tie, and secure the white rose boutonniere in the lapel of his morning suit jacket. “Very much so,” he said. “You will be my son in every way.”
“And I can call you ‘Dad’?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, caro. I want the whole world to know we are father and son.”
“Do I get to be called Simon De Luca, instead of Simon Leyland-Owen?”
“Indeed, yes. As we explained to you yesterday, your mother and I have completed formal adoption arrangements. You are a true De Luca in every sense of the word.”
“I forgot you’d told me about that.” Simon’s face lit up with mischievous glee. “We had fun yesterday, didn’t we? I got to stay up late and dance with my new Nonna. Even Grandfather was smiling. I heard Great-Grandmommy say he’s a lot easier to be around when he’s had a snootful of champagne.”
Stifling a burst of laughter, Matteo turned away and made a mental note to watch what he said when his son was within hearing range. But Signora Anna’s remark was right on target. Bruce Leyland had shown himself almost pathetically eager to please at last night’s rehearsal dinner, being fulsomely attentive to Madre and Nonna, clapping Matteo fondly
on the back, and making a lengthy speech, formally welcoming him to the family.
A different tune from the one he’d been playing two months ago! When he’d first heard Matteo was Simon’s father, he’d threatened to disown the boy. Everything had changed overnight, though, when he also learned the man he considered beneath contempt owned the villa in which he was staying, had a pedigree a mile long, and could buy and sell the Leylands with pocket change, if he so chose. Suddenly, claiming a De Luca as a son-in-law was something to brag about.
Victor had followed suit, even going so far as to volunteer to be his best man, an offer Matteo had refused. What, did the man think he had no real friends, not to mention cousins, who’d be more than happy to fill the role? But Victor was, after all, Stephanie’s brother, and therefore to be accorded civility, if nothing else. So Matteo had pointed out as gracefully as possible that he’d chosen his son to stand beside him on his wedding day.
“Do you have the ring, Simon?”
Simon patted his pocket. “Yep. Right here.”
“And you know what to do when Padre Agnolo asks for it?”
“Yep. Give it to him, not you.”
“And if I look a little pale, as if I’m afraid of what I’m letting myself in for?”
“You’re never afraid,” his son said, hooting with mirth. “You could kill a bear with one hand. Two bears, even! My mom won’t scare you, not ever!”
“That’s my boy!” He resisted the urge to ruffle Simon’s hair and settled instead for man-to-man grin, then cast a last look over the garden.
Long tables were set out under a blue and white striped canopy on the terrace. Champagne chilled in huge barrels of ice. A flock of imported help bustled back and forth, making certain everything was in order for the wedding luncheon. The sun was high, the sky a pure unclouded blue.
Beyond the grounds, the grapevines climbed in orderly rows up the hillsides, heavy with fruit waiting to be harvested. It would be a good year. The best yet.
“Okay, amico,” he said, taking his son’s hand. “Let’s get ourselves to the chapel. It wouldn’t do to keep the bride waiting.”
They were there already, filling the pews—his cousins, his friends. Jacomo and Andrew giving him the thumbs-up sign as he took his place before the altar. Corinna, her eyes just a little regretful, but her smile heartfelt. His mother and grandmother, shining with happiness for him. Stephanie’s mother and grandmother, exchanging warm glances with his, the bond between them already strong. Her grandfather, the old grief which had marked his features for so long replaced by a serene acceptance. Victor being…Victor.
On a signal from the priest, the organist segued from Bach to Pachelbel’s Canon, at which the congregation rose and turned to watch as Stephanie made her entrance. Matteo had heard that brides were supposed to look radiant; had even seen a few who merited such a description. But never had he beheld anything to compare with his Stephanie as she made her way down the short aisle to his side.
Quite simply, she shimmered from the inside out. Was so luminous with joy and beauty that he refused even to blink, because to do so would have cheated him, however briefly, of the sight of her. And had to blink anyway, because raw emotion rose up to threaten his vision with the blur of tears.
He would remember this moment until his dying day, he vowed. He would love this woman as no man had ever loved before. Per eternità.
“Hey,” he said, when at last she stood beside him.
She smiled, and his heart swelled. “Hey, yourself.”
“Te amo.”
“I love you, too.”
It was enough. It was everything. Taking her hand, he turned to the family priest. “Marry us, Padre,” he said. “Make my beautiful bride my wife.”
ISBN: 978-1-4268-5797-3
THE ITALIAN’S SECRET CHILD
First North American Publication 2006.
Copyright © 2004 by Spencer Books Limited.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.eHarlequin.com
The Italian's Secret Child Page 17