by Craven, Sara
‘It’s hardly that.’ She tried to speak lightly. ‘More a temporary reprieve.’
‘And one which we all deserve.’ The dark face was brooding, coldly introspective. ‘Even Angela has the chance to be alone with her amante,’ he added, with bite.
The sudden silence between them seemed to lengthen into pain.
Lucy found herself wondering if he had told her the story of Dante’s hopeless love for Beatrice deliberately, as a warning of how quicky and how fatally love could strike. One glimpse and the young Alighieri had been lost for ever, without kisses or the promise of passion to fire his ardour either, she remembered.
And maybe Giulio wished to remind her too that she also could hope for nothing but heartache and endless yearning. And that hope itself was futile. Because Giulio’s future was already mapped out for him for ‘reasons of policy and sense’.
But I knew that already, she thought wearily. And it’s far too late for any warning.
Before she could stop herself, she said huskily, ‘Don’t you—care about—that? About Angela’s affair?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was grim. ‘I find that this time I care very much.’
She swallowed. ‘You—you could always put a stop to it,’ she ventured.
You could ask Angela to marry you, she cried out to him in her heart. That would end her relationship with Philip in a flash, because she’s only using him to make you jealous. Because she’s greedy and ambitious, and he can’t offer her what you can.
‘I could,’ he said. ‘But it would solve nothing. What would be the point?’.
Past the tightness in her throat, she said, ‘When you—love someone...’
‘Ah, love.’ His voice was soft—mocking. ‘That little dangerous word that can cover such a multitude of sins.’ He leaned forward, his amber eyes lambent, intent. ‘How far should one go for love, I wonder, Lucia?’
She looked down at the table, tracing meaningless patterns with a fingertip on the white cloth. ‘For the real thing, to the ends of the earth—to infinity,’ she answered quietly.
‘But is it right to love, and to go on loving someone when they have shown you plainly that they do not return that love? When they have hurt you quite deliberately—and very deeply too.’ There was anger there, just below the surface, and anguish. Lucy heard them and winced.
‘Maybe we can’t control our emotions so easily,’ she suggested with difficulty. ‘Perhaps real love—the kind that lasts—doesn’t allow any choice.’
‘I hope,’ he said grimly, ‘that you are wrong.’ He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. ‘And now I had better take Emilia to feed II Porcellino again.’
‘Not your usual lunchtime pursuit?’ She was glad to change the subject, lighten the atmosphere.
‘No.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Normally at this time I would go back to my apartment for a brief riposo. A rest, columbina, in the cool and shade.’ The amber eyes were hooded. ‘Does the idea appeal to you?’
Her mouth felt dry. ‘I suppose it’s usual—in this kind of heat...’
‘Quite usual.’ A faint smile played round the comers of his mouth. ‘And most enjoyable.’ His voice sank huskily to a whisper as he leaned towards her across the table. ‘Would you come with me, Lucia mia? Would you lie on my bed, in my arms, when the shutters are closed, and watch the sun make patterns on the ceiling?’
She was lost, whirling in the complex of emotions aroused by his words, in an agony of longing, of desire, that clenched her entire body, In that moment, she knew she would go anywhere—become anything he asked.
Then Emilia’s shrill voice broke in impatiently, shattering the spell. Drawing her back from the brink of the abyss. ‘Zio Giulio, II Porcellino is waiting for us.’
Giulio sighed, briefly and harshly, then turned away, smiling at the child. ‘And it would never do to make a wild boar impatient, of course. So, let us go.’
Lucy watched him walk away. She supposed she should be thankful that she’d not been required to answer. That Emilia had been there as an unwitting chaperon. Otherwise she could have put herself in Giulio Falcone’s power for ever.
She shook herself mentally, glancing around her at the other tables, watching almost wistfully the people wandering past, many of them couples, their footsteps slow in the heavy midday heat.
The ever vigilant Giovanni, spotting her restlessness, appeared at her side. ‘More coffee, bella signorina?’
She smiled and thanked him, told him haltingly how good the meal had been, and watched his delighted reaction.
‘You tell Conte Falcone that next time he bring you for dinner I cook special meal. There will be candles, music.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Very romantic.’
Lunch, Lucy thought ruefully as she sipped his hot, aromatic brew, had been quite perilous enough.
‘Ciao, sweetheart. Have you escaped, or are you just out on parole?’
The drawled words brought her head round in shock. So this, she realised with irritation, was why she’d thought she was being watched. Hal, in brief shorts and with a shirt tied casually at the midriff, was standing beside her. The smile he gave her was frankly proprietorial. ‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Actually, yes.’ Lucy reached for her bag. ‘I was just leaving.’
‘You keep telling me that,’ he complained. ‘You’re not very friendly, are you?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I don’t appreciate your brand of friendship.’
He laughed. ‘You like it better Italian style?’ He sat down. ‘Nina was bug-eyed with jealousy that the handsome Count chose you out of all of them, but I told her you had hidden depths.’ He paused. ‘She hoped, when he showed up at Lussione, that he might have had a change of heart—or partner—but all he wanted was to ask a lot of questions about your background. She was spitting nails about it.’
Lucy frowned. ‘Lussione?’
‘Yes, he arrived yesterday morning just after breakfast, doing his magnifico act. Ben’s parents were terribly impressed.’ He laughed. ‘I hope he was pleased with the reference Nina gave you. I wouldn’t have been.’
Lucy could imagine. No wonder he thought she was such easy game, she thought bitterly.
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘How are the others?’ she asked quickly.
‘The in-fighting has been spectacular. You never know who’s with who, or for how long. I stay clear of it all.’ He put out a hand and ran it down her bare arm. ‘Having lost out on the one I wanted.’
His touch seemed to have left a trail of slime on her skin. Lucy wrenched her chair away to a safe distance as Giovanni materialised again.
‘You wish to order, signore?’
‘No, just exchange the time of day with the signorina.’
Giovanni stood his ground, his usually merry face unsmiling suddenly. ‘This is my restaurant, signore. People come here to order food, and nothing else.’
‘What the falcon has, he holds,’ Hal remarked mockingly. ‘Well, I can take a hint.’ His smile lingered on Lucy’s frozen face. ‘If things don’t work out with the Count—and rumour has it he loves them and leaves them in pretty short order—then you know where to find me.’
He bent towards her, and Lucy, sensing his intention, turned her head swiftly, so that his insolent kiss landed nearer her ear instead of on her mouth.
And she saw, over his shoulder, Giulio standing a few yards away, his face a bronze mask of hauteur.
‘Ciao, baby.’ Hal wore his triumph like a badge as he sauntered away.
‘Your friend from the villa,’ Giulio commented icily as he joined her.
‘You both share a curious view of friendship.’ Lucy was still shaking with temper.
‘Is that all we share?’ The question was so swift, so harsh, it was almost like a blow in the face.
Lucy felt the blood rush into her cheeks. She said sharply, ‘Just what the hell are you implying? I wasn’t aware there was anything to share.’
‘Then you have
a short memory, mia bella.’ Giulio tossed the package he was carrying onto the table, nearly overturning a glass, and signalled imperiously to Giovanni for the bill.
‘And so have you, apparently.’ She glared at him. ‘You can’t imagine—even for a moment—that I wanted that.’
‘I don’t need imagination. I know what I saw.’ His tone was harsh. ‘For a woman who claims to be deeply, even painfully in love, Lucia, you bestow your kisses with astonishing ease.’
For a moment she stared at him, stunned, mute with outrage. How dared he level such an accusation, when he himself had quite cynically tried to seduce her? When the woman he planned to marry was conducting an affair under his own roof? Not only was he totally amoral, she decided in bitter disillusion, but an expert in double standards to boot. And how could she have allowed herself to forget that, even for a moment?
Mentally squaring her shoulders, she went recklesssly on the offensive. ‘Think what you like, signore,’ she flung at him. ‘Believe whatever you were told at Lussione. I gather you went there to check up on me.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Among other things.’
‘And decided I had just sufficient moral fibre to look after the children?’ She glared at him. ‘You, of course, being a fit judge in such matters.’
‘I am the head of my family, Lucia.’ He looked past her, and she saw his profile, sculpted in bronze, as proud and remote as a hawk’s. ‘And I will go to any lengths necessary to protect its well-being and reputation.’
She achieved a small, contemptuous laugh. ‘Occupying the high ground, signore? You surprise me.’
‘And you, cara, have never ceased to amaze me.’ His voice had slowed to a drawl as he turned back to face her, the amber eyes like smouldering flames. ‘I presume you have now decided that Lussione is the ideal place to find consolation for your wounded heart?’
The silken cruelty of the words was like a knife turning in her heart.
She said tonelessly, ‘Why not? After all, I have to go somewhere when Dorotea takes over.’ She paused. ‘Have you any idea when that might be?’
‘No,’ he said icily. ‘But believe me, signorina, you will be the first to know.’
She bit her lip. ‘And while we’re on the subject, did you forget Emilia, or simply abandon her somewhere?’
His mouth thinned. ‘She is there.’ He indicated a pavement stall. ‘Choosing flowers for her mother.’ He indicated the package on the table in its black and silver wrapping. ‘As I, like a fool, chose this for you.’
Lucy’s chair scraped across the pavement as she got to her feet. She said raggedly, ‘A kiss-off present, Count Falcone? Something to remember you by, instead of a session of love in the afternoon?’ She shook her head. ‘If you’re expecting me to curtsy, and whisper, Grazie, then you’re doomed to disappointment. I want nothing from you—not now, not ever.’
‘Have the goodness to lower your voice,’ he advised coolly. ‘We are attracting attention.’
A swift glance around told her that they were indeed the fascinated cynosure of all eyes in the vicinity.
Biting her lip, Lucy rallied. ‘Don’t tell me they’re not used to it, signore. Most people here seem to conduct ordinary conversations at the tops of their voices.’
‘But not usually with me.’ His voice was satin edged with steel. ‘Now we had better leave before Giovanni has a heart attack.’ He paused. ‘I presume you have seen enough of Firenze for one day?’
‘More than enough,’ Lucy flung back at him, and retreated to join Emilia at the flower stall.
‘They are all so lovely,’ she breathed. ‘Would Mamma like these yellow flowers, do you think, or perhaps the tall pink ones?’
‘Why not a mixed bunch?’ Lucy suggested overbrightly, furiously aware that Giovanni was no longer looking nervous, but was rocking with laughter at something Giulio had said to him. A remark at her expense, no doubt, she thought, smouldering.
The flowers were paid for and wrapped elegantly in gilt-edged paper. Emlia insisted on carrying them back to the car, chattering nineteen to the dozen as she clung to her uncle’s hand.
She continued to talk throughout the journey home, happily oblivious to the icy silence that prevailed elsewhere in the car.
When they reached the villa, Emilia wanted to rush in and present her flowers to her mother, but Giulio was firm. ‘Mamma will be resting, and so should you, little one. Go with Lucia, and Teresa will put your flowers in water until later.’
Emilia pouted, but turned away with Lucy. As Giulio mounted the steps to the main door, it opened and Angela appeared. She was smiling and holding out both hands to him.
‘Darling.’ Her voice dripped reproach. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Firenze? I’d have gone with you. I simply must do some shopping at Ferragamo, and Pucci.’
‘Next time, cara.’ Giulio took her hands, raising first one then the other to his lips. He added something else in a laughing undertone, which Lucy, thankfully, was by that time too far away to hear, her head held high, her facial muscles feeling as if they’d been paralysed.
You still have a job to do, she told herself. Do it.
Once in the shaded bedroom at the casetta, Emilia made no further protest, and Lucy, moving softly round the room, picking up and folding her discarded clothes, could see she was fighting sleep. And not prepared to give in without a struggle, either.
‘Tell me a story,’ she demanded, drowsy but imperious.
Lucy sat down on the edge of her bed. ‘What story shall it be?’
‘Cinderella.’
‘Again?’ Lucy queried teasingly.
‘Yes, because Cinderella becomes a principessa, as Zio Giulio says I shall.’ There was a small silence. Then she said, ‘Do you hope a prince will marry you, Lucia?’
‘Most of the princes in England have other commitments,’ Lucy said drily. ‘I’d be content with a good man who loved me.’
‘Zio Giulio is a good man. And today I saw him kiss you. Will you marry him now?’
Lucy gathered her suddenly reeling wits. ‘People sometimes kiss each other for all kinds of reasons, Emilia. It doesn’t necessarily mean they want to spend their lives together. Often, they’re going to marry someone completely different.’ She saw a sudden image of Angela, smiling triumphantly, complacently, and cleared her throat. ‘Now—once upon a time...’
Emilia was asleep long before the story ended. Lucy went quietly down the stairs. She would sit in the comer of the courtyard under the pergola and do some sketching, she told herself. And she would not allow herself to think, or wonder. Or to hope. Especially not to hope.
The first thing she saw was the package in its black and silver wrapping, lying in the middle of the livingroom table, a note slipped under the ribbon tie.
He must move as quietly as a cat, Lucy thought. Because she’d not had the least inkling of his presence downstairs.
Lucy unfolded the slip of paper and looked at the words marching decisively across the page. ‘Regard this, please, as a gift without strings,’ she read. ‘Or even as compensation. And believe that I want nothing in return.’
Impelled by curiosity, and something less easy to define, Lucy tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box inside. She unfolded the layers of tissue and, hands shaking, drew out a handbag. On lines of classic simplicity, it was made of the softest, most exquisite leather, and the clasp was gold. For a moment, she stood quietly, looking down at it, running a hand over it, savouring the luxurious texture, the expensive scent of the leather. Then she undid the clasp.
Inside, she found a plain white card. Across it was written ‘Giulio’ and nothing else.
Aware of the thundering of her heart, Lucy lifted the card swiftly and gently to her lips, then slipped it back into one of the pockets in the rich silken lining.
A remembrance of him, she thought, that would remain with her, bitter-sweet, for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS a very long
afternoon. Despite all Lucy’s grittedteeth determination, her beloved drawing and painting failed to provide their usual anodyne effect. Whatever sketch she attempted, the image of Giulio’s tall figure intruded somewhere, her fingers, it seemed, powerless to exclude him.
She had, of course, to thank him for the bag. The realisation hung over her like a cloud. Somehow she had to find words that would accept the gift in the spirit with which it had been given.
Whatever that was, she reminded herself ironically. She’d read his note a dozen times, but she was still none the wiser.
It was almost a relief when Marco returned, fretful with over-excitement, clutching the latest and most expensive model car with remote control. Emilia had just woken from her nap, and, seeing the sullen lines of her mouth as Marco exuberantly demonstrated his toy, Lucy diplomatically suggested that the car should be put away, and that both children do some painting instead.
They entered wholeheartedly into the project, and preventing them covering each other and the surrounding area in her precious watercolours kept Lucy fully occupied until it was time to order them indoors to change for dinner.
As they walked up to the villa, her mind seemed emptied of everything but the prospect of seeing Giulio—facing him again. She found herself silently rehearsing over and over again the polite, formal words of thanks which seemed safest. But the first person she encountered in the hall was Philip, his face like thunder.
‘I’d like to know what the hell’s going on,’ he said savagely. ‘I’ve just learned from that aunt of hers that Angela’s going out for the evening with the Count. She’s never said a damned word to me about it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said levelly, directing the children to run on ahead of her to the salotto as she suppressed the involuntary pang his words had induced. ‘But they’re both free agents.’ She bit her lip. ‘After all, you and Angela aren’t engaged, are you?’
‘No,’ he admitted sulkily. ‘But we had an understanding—or so I thought, anyway. Now I’m not sure of anything. She’s been a different girl since we arrived in Italy.’