His Reluctant Bride

by Sara Craven

  But she obeyed him, quickly, almost nervously sliding under the sheet he’d turned back for her. Knowing with a kind of sick certainty that this was not going according to any plan of hers.

  He pushed the papers to the floor and turned to her, the topaz eyes sombre as he looked down at her.

  Once he kisses me, she thought desperately, it will be all right. I can make it all right …

  But Sandro did not kiss her. His hands slid down her body in an almost perfunctory caress, then moved under her flanks, lifting her towards him. She was already aroused, wildly receptive to even the prospect of his possession, so there was no physical barrier to his invasion of her body, which was wordless, clinical and immediate.

  And as she lay beneath him, stunned, it was apparent that it was also going to be over very quickly. He cried out once, harshly, and she felt the scalding heat of his climax. Then he rolled away from her and lay, his chest heaving as he recovered his breath, one arm across his eyes.

  When he spoke his voice was muffled. ‘I hope I have performed my duties as stud satisfactorily, marchesa. I trust, also, that your wish for conception will be granted, as I would not wish to undergo this experience a second time.’

  ‘Is that—that all you have to say to me?’ The husky words were forced from her dry throat. Her bewildered, unsatisfied body was aching for the fulfillment he had never before denied her. Burning for him to love her.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘cara mia.’ He made the endearment sound like an insult. ‘I could think of much more, but you would not wish to hear it, believe me. And now perhaps you will leave me to sleep.’

  She was dying inside, but somehow she managed to reach her robe, and huddle it round her before she fled.

  Too late, she thought, her heart thudding, as she almost fell into her own room and slammed the door shut behind her. He had told her it was too late as they left the house that morning. But she hadn’t understood. Or had she just been deliberately blind and deaf?

  Now comprehension had finally dawned, and with it a heartbreak that threatened to destroy her utterly. And she pressed herself against the unyielding hardness of the heavy door, and let the fierce agony of tears have their way with her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  POLLY got into the rear of the limousine, placing the bouquet of flowers she’d been given on the seat beside her, then leaned forward to wave a smiling farewell to the women who’d thronged out of the restaurant to see her depart.

  As the car threaded its way through the narrow streets crowded with tourists, she leaned back and closed her eyes, kicking off her high-heeled sandals and wriggling her toes, the nails enamelled in an elegant pale pink to match her fingers.

  Teresa had advised her well, she thought, looking down at the deep blue of her silk suit. Whatever else might be wrong with her life, at least she dressed well.

  Today she had been the guest of honour at a charity luncheon in aid of a local children’s home, and she’d made a small speech at the end of it in her increasingly fluent Italian, and been warmly applauded.

  She took lessons several times a week with a retired schoolmaster, who lived with his plump, cheerful wife in a small white-painted villa on the edge of town. Usually they sat under an awning on the patio, and when work was finished the signora would serve coffee with tiny almond biscotti, often accompanied by a glass of her home-made limoncello.

  The first time it had been offered, Polly had felt wrenched in half, remembering with vivid poignancy how Sandro had once teased her about making the delicious citrus liqueur for him. But she had smiled gallantly, and praised it extravagantly, to the delight of her hostess.

  But then smiling radiantly, and behaving with grace and modesty, were all part of the public persona she was establishing. A façade behind which she could hide the lonely, heartsick girl that she was in reality.

  It was almost three weeks since her humiliated flight from Sandro’s bedroom. And it had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to face him the next day, instead of staying in her room, pleading a headache.

  And when they had finally met, she was able, somehow, to match his cool politeness with her own. She had even found herself painfully wondering what had happened to the nightgown she’d left on the floor, but she did not mention the subject.

  Which was how it still was, she thought, her mouth twisting. Nothing was ever mentioned. She and Sandro were like satellites, pursuing their separate orbits round the small, beloved moon that was Charlie.

  By mutual, if tacit, consent, they were never alone together. She went down to the swimming pool with their son only in the mornings, when she knew Sandro would be working in his study, or out. And she was thankful that he respected her privacy. The thought of being caught by him in a bikini, or any other form of undress, made her shrivel inside.

  And in the afternoons, after siesta, she remained in the shade of the terrace so that he could have Charlie to himself.

  The little boy could swim like a fish now, and he was also learning, under his father’s supervision, to ride the pony that was kept at one of the farms.

  Although Sandro was not always at Comadora. She was kept abreast of his schedule by Signora Corboni, who was not nearly as dour as she looked, and who presented her with a printed list of his engagements each week, including the occasions when he would be away from the palazzo. Polly knew this was only so that she could make the appropriate domestic arrangements, and not because Sandro wished her to keep track of him. And she could not help noticing painfully that two of these absences had been spent in Rome.

  But with each day that passed, she found she was learning more and more about her new life, and becoming absorbed into the established routine at the palazzo.

  For instance, she had soon discovered that Sandro had far more than a hotel chain and the family’s banking and corporate interests to occupy him. The Valessi estate owned acres of olive and citrus orchards, together with vineyards, and even a small quarry. In addition, the farms produced enough fruit and vegetables to supply most of the local tourist facilities.

  When Sandro was at home, many of the lunches at the palazzo were working affairs, where she was expected to act as hostess, and, although she did not understand all that was being discussed, she picked up enough to take an intelligent interest. And invariably she was rewarded by a brief, formal word of thanks from Sandro as their guests departed.

  She knew that was probably just for the sake of appearances, but it was a crumb of comfort to be cherished, all the same.

  On the downside, there’d been a few moments of nightmare embarrassment the previous week when she’d felt obliged to seek him out and tell him that there would be no baby after all.

  Sandro had been at his desk, making notes in the margin of some report, and his pen had stilled momentarily. Then he’d said with remote courtesy, ‘My regrets for your disappointment,’ and returned to his report.

  And she had turned and left the study, and gone to talk to the cook. Because life went on, and people had to be fed and welcomed, even if she felt she was breaking up emotionally.

  So, she told herself with bitter self-mockery as the car turned onto the long hill that led up to the palazzo, I shall become known for my good works—and Charlie, poor babe, will remain an only child.

  Hardly enough to fill her days, she thought with a stifled sigh. While she could not even bear to contemplate the long, restless, driven nights that were already her torment.

  She knew that most of the people who saw her in her chauffeur-driven car and designer clothes thought that she had nothing else in her life to wish for.

  Only Polly knew that the Valessi family now had another closely guarded secret—her total estrangement from the only man she had ever loved.

  On arrival at the palazzo she went straight up to her room, where Rafaella was waiting for her. She took Polly’s flowers to place in water, and waited for her to change out of the suit, so she could restore it to its usual pristine condition.
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br />   Polly took a quick shower and changed into a jade-green halter-necked sun-dress, which was cool and decorous at the same time. Then she collected her sunblock, and the book she was reading, and made her way towards the stairs and her intended destination of the terrace.

  She was halfway down the wide sweep, when she heard a man’s voice in the entrance hall below, and hesitated, finding herself oddly reluctant to proceed any further. For one thing, this was not the usual time of day for visitors, she told herself. For another—there was something disturbingly familiar about the visitor’s smooth tone, as if he was someone she should recognise.

  Moving cautiously to the balustrade, she leaned over and looked down.

  She saw him at once, talking to Teodoro. A tall, well-dressed man with a smile that seemed to have been painted on his thin mouth. As he spoke he was hunching his shoulders, spreading his hands to emphasise a point, and always that smile—quite unforgettable and still with the power to scare her even three years on.

  She would have known him anywhere, she thought. It was the man who’d told her to leave Sorrento—and who’d offered her Sandro’s pay-off. And who was now here at the palazzo.

  Suddenly her stomach was churning, and she lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle her startled cry of recognition. And as she did so the bottle of sunblock fell, and rolled down the stairs.

  Both men turned and looked up at her, so her planned retreat was impossible. Cursing her clumsiness, she made herself walk down the rest of the stairs, moving slowly and gracefully, steadying her breathing with an effort. Teodoro had retrieved her sunblock, and returned it to her with a respectful bow. Polly thanked him mechanically, knowing that the other man’s flat dark eyes were devouring her.

  ‘So,’ he said in English. ‘The charming Signorina Fairfax. Or should I say—the Marchesa Valessi? An honour I had not anticipated.’ The smile widened. ‘Your ladies’ luncheon was expected to last longer, I think.’

  The significance of that was not lost on her. I’m not supposed to be here, she thought, stiffening.

  She turned to Teodoro. ‘Does this person have business here?’ she asked in Italian, with an assumption of coolness.

  ‘Sì, vossignoria. He had an appointment with the marchese, but his excellency has not yet returned from his own lunch engagement.’

  ‘You do not ask why I am here,’ the other man intervened mockingly. ‘But perhaps, marchesa, you already suspect the nature of my business with your husband. After all, it would not be the first time.’

  Polly lifted her chin. ‘My husband sees a great many people, I do not question his business with them—or his choice of associate.’

  Teodoro was regarding her round-eyed, having never heard his mistress speak so dismissively to a visitor before.

  She looked stonily back at him. ‘Please show the marchese’s—guest to the salotto.’

  ‘I already know my way,’ he said. ‘But I thank you for your graciousness.’ He paused. ‘Would a cold drink be possible?’

  Polly said, ‘Will you see to it, per favore, Teodoro?’ She walked away, her head high, but she was quaking inside, and a block of ice seemed to have settled in the pit of her stomach.

  The terrace was altogether too accessible from the salotto, she realised, so she walked down into the gardens, finding a secluded stone bench under a flowering hedge, and sinking onto it.

  So it was true after all, she thought with desolation, her hands clasping the edge of the bench so tightly that her knuckles turned white. He had been working for Sandro after all, and any lingering hopes that she might have misread the situation were stone dead.

  And now he had returned, which could only mean that Sandro had decided to put an end, once and for all, to the tragic farce their marriage had become. And with unbelievable cruelty, he’d summoned his stooge, all over again, to conduct the negotiations and offer her a final settlement.

  Go away and keep quiet, would be the ultimatum once more, as it had been three years ago.

  But this time there was Charlie to put into the equation, and the kind of deal she might be offered made her feel sick with fear.

  He would stay in Italy, of course, because this was a battle she could not fight without weapons. All she could hope for was to be allowed to spend time with him on some regular basis. Surely Sandro would permit that, and not send her off into some kind of limbo of isolation and misery.

  The contessa, she knew, was now installed in the house on Capri, with a nurse-companion. Was similar accommodation being planned for her somewhere? They said, she thought numbly, that Ischia was very beautiful …

  She heard someone moaning, and realised that the low, desperate sound was coming from her own lips.

  Had Sandro decided it was time for her to be finally dismissed from his life when she’d told him that she was not pregnant by that brief, soulless coupling a few weeks earlier?

  But what difference did it make? she asked herself, wrapping her arms round her shivering body. Even if she was expecting another child, it would only win her a temporary reprieve at best.

  She rose, and began to pace up and down the flagged walk, suddenly unable to keep still. Needing to do something—anything—while her raging, unhappy mind tried to find its focus. A way forward into a future that was no future at all.

  But she would not wait meekly to be told, she thought with sudden determination. If it killed her, she would take matters into her own hands and leave with some kind of dignity.

  And she would take nothing from him except the right to see Charlie. That, surely, he could not deny her …

  The salotto was empty when she returned to the palazzo, and Teodoro was just coming from the direction of Sandro’s study, having presumably delivered the unwelcome guest to his host.

  He gave her a wary look, and she couldn’t blame him. She’d behaved with an outstanding lack of hospitality, and she probably looked like a madwoman.

  She laid a detaining hand on his sleeve. ‘Teodoro, so silly of me. I’ve forgotten the name of my husband’s visitor.’

  His expression changed to astonishment. ‘It is Signor Ginaldi, vossignoria. The avvocato from Salerno.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Grazie.’

  A lawyer, she thought. Why hadn’t she guessed? Sandro was bound to have more than one. There was Alberto Molena, the acceptable, trustworthy face of the law, and, in the shadows, this other to do his dirty work.

  She forced a smile. ‘Will you be good enough to tell me when he’s gone? I—I need to talk to the marchese.’

  ‘Of course, vossignoria.’ He paused. ‘And a package came for you earlier, which I have placed in your living room.’

  A package, Polly thought. She wasn’t expecting to receive anything. And surely it couldn’t be divorce papers already? Wasn’t there some minimum time for a marriage to exist before it could be legally dissolved? Maybe this was another point for Sandro to consult his shady lawyer about—whether the process could be hurried on in some way.

  She closed the living-room door, and stood looking round her.

  My room, she thought, her throat tightening. Created specially for me. But why—when he must have already known I would not be staying? Why pretend that he cared—even this much?

  The package was lying on a side-table, a large padded envelope addressed to her in her mother’s handwriting. Polly picked it up, frowning a little, weighing it in her hand. This was the first direct communication she’d received from Mrs Fairfax since she’d arrived in Italy.

  She’d written to both her parents, of course, and she telephoned several times a week, but conversation with her mother was still faintly stilted, and confined to strictly neutral subjects.

  Oh, God, she thought, wincing. What would her mother say when she came back without Charlie? Her father had said only last week that she seemed to be recovering from her depression, but this latest blow was bound to have a profound effect on her.

  And what consolation can I possibly offer? she wonder
ed.

  She sat down and opened the envelope. A sheet of folded notepaper fell out, followed by another package, wrapped in plastic and heavily taped.

  Her mother had written,

  Dearest Polly,

  This is not an easy thing for me to tell you, but it has to be done. After you came back from Italy three years ago, these letters began arriving, sent on by the travel company you used to work for.

  I realised, of course, that they must be from him, and I opened the first ones and read them. My excuse was that I saw how unhappy he’d made you, and I didn’t want him to cause more misery and disruption in your life. But that wasn’t all of it. It was obvious that he wanted you to come back, and I knew I couldn’t bear to part with you or the baby you were expecting. I told myself that I had a right to see my grandchild born. That he’d had his chance, and blown it, as people say these days.

  The letters continued coming for months. I meant to burn them because you seemed to have accepted the situation and settled down. And I didn’t want your father to find out about them either, because I knew he’d say I must hand them over.

  When your husband came here, one of the first things he asked was why he’d never received a reply to any of them. I tried to tell him that we hadn’t received any letters, but I can’t be a very good liar because he guessed immediately. He was terribly angry, and very bitter, but I begged him not to tell you, because I was afraid you would never forgive me. And he eventually agreed he would say nothing to you if I didn’t fight him for Charlie. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I see now I deserved it.

  Some of the letters were heartbreaking, Polly, and I had to stop reading them, but I had no right, even so, to keep them from you. There were things in them that you needed to know. And maybe you still do, because I can tell from your voice that you’re not as happy as you make out.

  While we were in Cornwall I told your father everything, and he was very shocked. He said I had to make things right between you both, and that is what I’m trying to do now.

  He has forgiven me, bless him, and I hope so much, darling, that you’ll feel able to do the same one day. And your husband too, perhaps.