Bartaldi's Bride

by Sara Craven

  But this labyrinth of foundations was all the Perugians had left of the mighty Papal fortress intended to subdue their arrogance, and they’d even put up a plaque to commemorate its destruction three hundred years later.

  Arrogance seemed to be a common trait among the Umbrian population—especially the men, Clare thought broodingly as they emerged into the sunlight of the Corso Vannucci.

  And tonight she planned to dismantle a few stones from the fortress of self-assurance that the Marchese Bartaldi had built round himself.

  Like many women for whom money is not an object, Violetta was an exacting shopper, and, after two hours had passed, Clare began to wonder if she intended to visit every boutique in the city. She herself had seen several dresses which would have been a welcome addition to her wardrobe, but Violetta had dismissed them.

  ‘I know what I’m looking for,’ she had declared, as she’d swept to the door. ‘And that is not it.’

  But eventually she said, ‘Ah,’ and nodded. ‘Try this, mia cara.’

  It was a slim, fluid full-length sheath in black silk jersey, long-sleeved with a deep square neck.

  Too deep, Clare thought, viewing with dismay how much it revealed of her small rounded breasts. In fact, it moulded itself completely to her figure, clinging to her narrow waist and slender hips, and the skirt was slashed at one side to well above the knee.

  ‘Violetta,’ she protested. ‘I can’t wear this. It isn’t—me. And what can I possibly wear underneath?’

  But her words fell on deaf ears. Her godmother and the saleswoman merely exchanged speaking glances, and the dress was carried away to be reverently encased in tissue and placed in a carrying box.

  By the time Violetta’s credit card had financed high-heeled black kid sandals and a matching evening purse it was almost time for the shops to close for the long afternoon break.

  ‘Most satisfactory,’ Violetta declared with a cat-like smile. ‘And now, mia cara, we will enjoy some lunch.’

  But as they walked up the street, Clare was nudged by her godmother. ‘See—across the street? It is Bartaldi’s. Let us look.’

  Unwillingly, Clare found herself propelled across the street to the shop. The window display was as expensive and glamorous as she could have imagined—a blaze of exquisitely fashioned gold necklaces, pendants, bracelets and rings, as well as a tempting range of etui and other small, desirable objets. She felt as if she should close her eyes to avoid being dazzled.

  ‘Beautiful, is it not?’ Violetta breathed.

  ‘Amazing,’ Clare agreed levelly. ‘If a bit overwhelming.’

  Secretly, she preferred the adjoining window, which had a display of semi-precious stones. Her eyes strayed almost covetously from the glow of topaz to the mystery of aquamarine and the brilliance of jade and amethyst, again all set in gold.

  ‘Many of the designs are drawn from the Etruscan,’ Violetta explained, ‘while others have a truly Renaissance spirit, don’t you think? And they say Guido Bartaldi has been the guiding light behind it all. That he has the soul of a Renaissance prince.’

  ‘Really?’ Clare said in a hollow voice.

  The soul of a condottiere, she thought smoulderingly. A robber baron.

  She felt strange suddenly—uncomfortable—standing here outside these premises, staring at all this beauty that he’d had a hand in creating. As if she was intruding on something that was deeply personal to him.

  It was time to act, she realised—in more ways than one.

  She frowned unhappily. ‘Violetta, I’m not very hungry. Would you mind if we missed lunch and went straight home? I—I’m feeling a little giddy.’

  ‘Then we will not consider the escalators,’ Violetta said immediately, snapping her fingers for a taxi to take them down the long hill to the car park.

  Clare felt like a worm on the drive back to Cenacchio, aware of the anxious glances being directed at her, but that did not stop her from making a strangled request for the car to stop at one point.

  And when they arrived back at the Villa Rosa, she whispered a strained apology, and made an immediate beeline for her room.

  She undressed, put on a cotton wrap, and lay down on the bed, watching the sunlight play through the shutters.

  I’m a wretch, she thought penitently, but it’s in a good cause. Because there’s no way I’m going to the Villa Minerva for dinner tonight.

  In the end, she dozed a little, only to be rudely awoken by the unexpected arrival of Violetta’s own doctor from Cenacchio.

  Groaning inwardly, Clare submitted to having her pulse taken, her heart sounded, and her blood pressure checked.

  ‘I think perhaps it’s stress,’ she ventured in response to his questions, and gave a condensed history of the past thirty-six hours. ‘I had nightmares last night, and I can’t stop thinking about those men with guns.’ She shuddered and put her hands over her face.

  The doctor made shocked noises, then prescribed rest, quiet, and a mild sedative. All of which Clare agreed to with outward meekness and inward jubilation.

  ‘Such a terrible pity,’ Violetta said mournfully, after the doctor’s departure. ‘I will phone the Villa Minerva, and tell the Marchese that we are unable to join him for dinner.’

  Clare lifted herself on to an elbow. ‘But there’s no need for that,’ she exclaimed. ‘You can go, darling. And I’ll just stay here quietly, as the doctor said.’

  ‘But I cannot possibly leave you.’ Her godmother was shocked. ‘You are ill. I must take care of you, cara.’

  ‘By sitting here watching me sleep? Because that’s what I shall do once I’ve taken these tablets.’ Clare shook her head. ‘Violetta, that’s just silly and I won’t allow it.’

  Violetta protested, but Clare gently but firmly overruled her.

  ‘You know you’re dying to see the house,’ she said. ‘And you can tell me all about it afterwards. Besides, you can give the Marchese my sincere regrets,’ she added mendaciously.

  ‘Well, if you are sure,’ Violetta said reluctantly. ‘And, of course, Angelina will be here to keep an eye on you.’

  And watch me stage a lightning recovery as soon as the Marchese’s car has departed, Clare thought with guilty relish.

  When her godmother had gone to dress, Clare got off the bed and went and sat by the open window, watching the late-afternoon sunlight dance on the leaves of the flowering vine that grew up the side of her balcony.

  She had a good view of the wide gravelled sweep in front of the house, and was able to see when the car from the Villa Minerva arrived, punctual to the minute.

  What she did not expect was to see Guido Bartaldi emerge from the driving seat, casting an appraising glance at the façade of the house.

  Hell’s bells, Clare groaned to herself, shrinking back behind the shutter. He’s come to fetch us himself. I hope he didn’t see me.

  She flew across the room and got into bed, pulling the thin cover up to her chin, as if seeking some kind of sanctuary.

  With luck Violetta, looking in to say goodnight, would think she was asleep, and leave her undisturbed.

  But Fortune wasn’t disposed to smile on her.

  A few minutes later she heard a tap on her door, and Violetta saying softly, ‘You have a visitor, mia cara.’

  Clare wanted to shriek, No, but instead she kept her eyes closed, and her breathing soft and regular.

  She heard footsteps approaching quietly.

  ‘Ah,’ Violetta whispered. ‘The sedative the doctor left must have done its work.’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  Perhaps it was Clare’s imagination working overtime, but she could have sworn there was a note of irony—even amusement—in Guido Bartaldi’s deep drawl.

  ‘Poor little one. She was so distressed to have to excuse herself tonight. She wanted so much to pay this visit.’

  ‘I must make sure that there are other opportunities,’ the hated voice said softly. ‘You must let me know if she continues to feel ill. I have an inter
est in a good clinic near Assisi where she could be admitted for observation. As a precautionary measure, you understand. Now perhaps we should go, signora, and leave her in peace.’

  Clare heard Violetta murmur her assent, and move away. A strand of hair was tickling her nose, and she wanted to brush it away, but something—some sixth sense—warned her to keep still.

  Because Guido Bartaldi was still standing beside the bed, just waiting for her to betray the fact that she wasn’t asleep at all.

  She could feel the warmth of him, absorb the fragrance of his cologne. The knowledge of his presence made her skin tingle.

  ‘A great actress has been lost to the stage, mia bella.’ His low-voiced sardonic comment confirmed her worst suspicions. ‘But I will not torment you any longer. Sleep well—and dream beautifully.’

  To her fury, she felt his hand smooth away the annoying wisp of hair. Then his fingers took her chin, turning her head slightly on the pillow. And his mouth, briefly and sensuously, kissed her parted lips.

  It took all the self-control she possessed to go on lying there, unmoving and unmoved, when she longed to leap up and slap him hard across that dark, mocking face. To call him all the names she could lay her tongue to.

  Instead, eyes tight shut, she heard him walk away, and the bedroom door close behind him. Or had it? Maybe it was another trick.

  It wasn’t until she heard the sound of the car moving off down the drive that she dared relax her new rigidity and sit up.

  There were tears of anger in her eyes, and she scrubbed fiercely at her mouth with the back of her hand, as a child might do.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she vowed aloud, her voice shaking. ‘Tomorrow I’m going home. And I’m making sure that I never—ever—have to set eyes on that bastard again.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  VIOLETTA did not return home from the dinner party until well after midnight.

  Clare, lying sleepless, saw the headlights of the car sweep across her ceiling and tensed, wondering if the Marchese had acted as chauffeur again, and whether she could expect another visit.

  But, to her relief, she was left undisturbed, even by Violetta.

  She’d spent a restless evening. In the end, sheer hunger had driven her downstairs, and Angelina, delighted to hear how much better she was feeling, had conjured up a thick bean soup followed by a creamy omelette served with tiny mushrooms and grilled baby tomatoes.

  Clare had stretched out on one of the sofas in the salone and put on some music, but even this tried and tested procedure had not persuaded her to relax.

  Her mind had been too full, and revolving almost exclusively around one subject—Guido Bartaldi.

  It was infuriating to have to acknowledge the hold he’d taken on her imagination. His image seemed locked immutably into her brain, and she resented it.

  She couldn’t handle his constant and almost casual reappearance in her life. But she couldn’t speak her mind about them for fear of upsetting Violetta, who was clearly happy to accept the Marchese at his own valuation.

  But a man who was planning to marry, even if it was a marriage of convenience, should not be conducting a flirtation with another girl, she argued, biting her lip. It was a despicable thing to do.

  After James, she’d made a private vow to avoid any man who wasn’t free to commit himself. And what a lot of them there seemed to be, she thought bitterly.

  But with Guido Bartaldi it had already gone beyond simple flirtation—because he had touched—and kissed.

  Her whole body shivered at the memory of his mouth on hers.

  The worst part of it was her certainty that he knew exactly the effect that his caresses would evoke. It was a delicate, subtle form of torment, devised to punish her. To ensure she didn’t embark on any more grand gestures to annoy him.

  It was a stupid thing to do, she acknowledged sombrely. I should have seen that he was way out of my league as an adversary. Far better to have thanked him nicely, then stuffed the money in the poor box at the nearest church. Honour would have been satisfied on my part, and he’d have been none the wiser.

  But it’s too late for regrets. All I can do is cut my losses and go.

  The shopping trip to Perugia had prevented her phoning the agency as she’d planned, but she’d do it first thing in the morning, she promised herself. And all she had to do then was find herself a flight back to Britain. Any class, any time, any airport, she added, pulling a face.

  She felt tense, facing Violetta at the breakfast table the next morning, expecting a blow-by-blow account of everything that had been eaten, said and done at the Villa Minerva, but her godmother, surprisingly, said very little about it, apart from acknowledging that the house was indeed beautiful, the food had been delicious, and that she had enjoyed herself. After which she relapsed into an unusually pensive state.

  While, paradoxically, Clare found she was thirsting to know more.

  ‘What did you think of Paola?’ she asked, in the end.

  ‘Paola?’ Violetta echoed. ‘Ah, the young girl. She seemed subdued. I think she was disappointed that you were not there,’ she added after a reflective pause. ‘As, indeed, were they all.’

  She gave Clare a kind smile. ‘Are you feeling more yourself today, mia cara?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Clare flushed slightly. ‘The medication the doctor gave me seems to have worked miracles.’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘In fact, I’m fighting fit, and I was thinking I really ought to get back to work again.’

  ‘And I think you should enjoy your rest here with me,’ Violetta said firmly.

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ Clare said quickly. ‘But I haven’t told the agency about the Dorelli fiasco yet, and the chances are they’ll want to reassign me straight away. And I ought to contact Dad too.’

  ‘But not for the next two weeks.’ Violetta poured herself some more coffee. ‘He is away, dearest. He has taken her—’ she invested the word with extraordinary venom ‘—on a trip to San Francisco. He told me when I telephoned him last week to ask for your address in Rome, which I had mislaid.’

  ‘Oh.’ Clare digested this with dismay, then rallied. ‘All the more reason for me to go back, then. I should be there in case of an emergency with the business.’

  Violetta shook her head. ‘His assistant—Tricia, is it not?—is doing that. So there is really nothing to take you away,’ she added dulcetly. ‘Everything has worked for the best.’

  ‘Yes,’ Clare said too brightly, as she damned San Francisco, its bay, its hills, and its blameless citizens under her breath. ‘Yes, of course.’

  When breakfast was over, Violetta announced that she was driving into Cenacchio to the hairdresser.

  ‘Do you wish to come with me, mia cara, or shall I ask Giacomo to place a lounger down by the pool for you?’

  ‘That would be perfect,’ Clare agreed. If she was forced to be on holiday, she thought, then she would behave like a holidaymaker.

  When she went down to the pool below the rose terrace about an hour later, she found the lounger already in position, and Giacomo, Angelina’s husband, who looked after the gardens at the villa, fussing with a sun umbrella. He was a small, wrinkled man with grey hair and black twinkling eyes, and he greeted Clare with his usual gap-toothed smile.

  ‘Ah, signorina, each time you come here you are more like your dear mother, God give her rest.’ He looked at her hands, clearly searching for rings, and tutted. ‘But where is your husband? Where are the bambini?’

  Clare laughed. ‘I’m sorry to be such a disappointment, Giacomo, but we can’t all be as lucky as Angelina.’

  Giacomo shook his head reproachfully. ‘Such a waste,’ he told the sky, and went off, muttering to himself.

  It was already bakingly hot, the sun dazzling on the water. It wasn’t a very large pool, just big enough for Violetta to manage a few unhurried, decorous lengths as her token exercise for the day.

  Clare found it cramped, but it looked inviting just the same, she thought as she
discarded her towelling wrap and stretched out on the lounger in her simple black bikini.

  Now, she thought, shall I swim and then sunbathe, or work on my tan for an hour, then cool off in the water? Decisions, decisions.

  And if that was all she had to trouble her, how happy she would be. Only, it wasn’t.

  Because, try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself that she’d seen the last of the Marchese Bartaldi.

  He was there, all the time, at the back of her mind, like a shadow in the sun.

  And, more worryingly, he was physically present too, at the Villa Minerva, within driving distance.

  She picked up the bottle of high-factor sun lotion and began to apply it to her arms and shoulders. Her skin accepted the sun easily, turning a deep, smooth honey colour without soreness, but she still treated the heat with respect.

  And she must do the same with Guido Bartaldi, she thought, grimacing. Find some way to protect herself against him. Or she could end up getting more badly burned than she’d ever been in her life.

  Dark glasses perched on her nose, she flicked through some of Violetta’s glossy magazines. It was like peeping through a window into a different world, she thought, smiling. A world where money was no object and your life was designed for you, from the clothes you wore to the glass you drank from. The kind of world where a man like Guido Bartaldi reigned supreme.

  For a minute, she let her mind dwell on that shop window of jewellery, back in Perugia. There’d been one gorgeous topaz pendant, glowing like a banked-down fire in its heavy gold setting. She tried to imagine herself walking into the shop, and pointing to it. Saying, I’ll have that, without stopping to ask the price. Feeling the cool weight of the stone slipping down between her breasts…

  Some chance, she thought, her mouth twisting with derision. She was one of the world’s workers, and, though she earned a reasonable living, she’d always have to count the cost of anything she bought. And she wouldn’t have it any other way, she added with a touch of defiance.

  She felt restless again, the glamour and luxury depicted on the pages in front of her suddenly beginning to pall. Or was it that she was starting to feel a little bit envious?