Bartaldi's Bride

by Sara Craven

  She was almost afraid to turn her head and look round the room, in case she saw the shadow of his tall figure standing in some corner watching her.

  Now you’re just being paranoid, she told herself derisively.

  Because there was no sound in the room other than birdsong, and nothing to see either, except the slatted pattern of sunlight falling across the floor.

  Clare sighed, then took her watch from the night-table and studied it. It was still very early. No one in the house would be stirring yet, and there was no good reason for her to do so either. Except this vague feeling of disquiet assailing her.

  And it was also too late for further sleep, she decided, drawing up her knees and resting her chin on them. Although she was still tired after another restless, dream-ridden night.

  What is the matter with me? She asked herself angrily. I’ve always been the soundest of sleepers. And, if I had dreams, I didn’t remember them particularly. And I certainly didn’t carry them, like lumber, into the next day.

  But here they were, buzzing around her head still, refusing to be dismissed or forgotten.

  To her irritation, James had been there, of course, his smile charming her, his voice soft and cajoling as he tried to persuade her that the mere fact of his marriage to someone else did not have to interfere with their own relationship.

  And she’d sat, watching him in disbelief as he sketched out the half-life he had planned for her future. Watching him retreating backwards down some long tunnel of her imagination, getting smaller with every step until he’d finally vanished.

  The memory of it still had the power to make her shiver.

  In reality, of course, they’d had a furious row, and he’d stormed out telling her brutally that she was middle class and small-minded, and that he’d come back when she was prepared to be an adult.

  ‘Don’t you mean an adulterer?’ she’d yelled after him, anger keeping the tears of hurt and shock at bay.

  But in the dream she’d been unable to speak or move. Only feel the pain of betrayal twisting in her like a knife. The horror of knowing that James, whom she loved—whom she’d believed had loved her—was perfectly ready to sacrifice her and everything they’d had together. To relegate her to some corner of his existence while Ginny’s money bought her the status of wife.

  ‘Of course, I don’t love her like I love you,’ he’d told her over and over again. ‘You know that, darling. But it’s always been understood we’d marry each other. Fixed up by the families years ago. Her father and mine do a lot of business together, you see. I—I can’t afford to pull out. But it needn’t make any difference—to us.’

  And she’d replied, as she always had, ‘It makes all the difference in the world, James. Because I can’t afford to stay.’

  In last night’s dream she’d seen James again, standing at the altar in a great Gothic church, with Ginny beside him in her white dress and veil. And she’d tried to reach him—to run up the aisle and prevent the ceremony. To tell him he was making a terrible mistake.

  But her legs and feet had felt like lead, and the harder she’d tried, the greater the distance had seemed to become between them.

  And when, eventually, she’d got to his side and seized his arm, forcing him to turn and face her, it hadn’t been James at all who’d stood looking down at her with smiling contempt, but Guido Bartaldi, his eyes like flint.

  She could explain it all away, of course. The memories of James she’d thought were dead and buried had been revived by her conversation with Violetta. And as for the Marchese—well, he was never far from her thoughts, although it made her cringe to admit it, even to herself.

  He was there, in her mind, she thought restively, as if he’d been etched there, impossible to erase.

  But it wasn’t really impossible. Time and distance would make him fade into obscurity, and set her free again.

  She needed to be rid of him while it was still possible. Before he hurt her—damaged her beyond repair.

  And taking herself off to live under his roof was quite the worst thing she could do.

  I should never have agreed, she told herself, swallowing past the sudden tightness in her throat. It was crazy.

  Because he was another James—the kind of man she most despised. A man marrying for convenience rather than any involvement of the heart. Someone prepared to treat his marriage as a licence to do anything he wanted.

  And expecting herself, of all people, to reconcile his intended bride to this unenviable fate, she thought furiously. Although he couldn’t know, of course, what an insult this was. The kind of devastating memories it had evoked for her.

  But it wasn’t an insult she necessarily had to put up with…

  The thought strayed idly into her mind, then took firmer hold, making her sit bolt upright, her mouth set with sudden determination.

  ‘I don’t have to do this,’ she said aloud ‘and I won’t. I’m going to cut my losses and get out of here. Back to sanity. Back to safety.’

  Although she didn’t want to examine too closely the exact nature of the danger she was in, or its current depth.

  She pushed back the sheet, and swung her legs to the floor.

  She could leave right now, before anyone was any the wiser, she told herself. If she was quick—and quiet—she could be miles away before she was even missed. Her packing, after all, was done. All she needed was to put her bags in the rented Fiat—and drive.

  And Violetta was unlikely to disturb her for several hours. Not when Clare had left her the previous evening with the excuse that she needed an early night to prepare her for the coming ordeal.

  ‘Such an ordeal.’ Violetta had cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Most girls would give anything to take your place.’

  ‘But I’m not most girls,’ Clare had returned, kissing her cheek.

  She’d been relieved to find that Violetta’s sudden spurt of ill-temper had been short-lived, and that her godmother had soon reverted to her usual charming self once they were back at the Villa Rosa.

  But I still don’t fully understand what was going on, she admitted frowningly, as she grabbed some undies and a plain cream skirt and top and headed for the bathroom.

  But Violetta’s vagaries had to take second place in the scheme of things, as Clare showered and dressed and made her plans.

  Returning to Rome was probably her safest bet, she thought, grimacing. It would be easier to stay hidden in a crowd—always supposing anyone was to come looking for her…

  There she’d find a travel agent, and buy herself any ticket on any flight back to the UK.

  She would leave a note for her godmother, saying simply that she’d changed her mind, and gone away to avoid embarrassment. She only hoped Violetta’s invitation to the Villa Minerva would still stand in her absence, as she was clearly looking forward to it with keen anticipation.

  After all, it’s not her fault that I’m reneging on our bargain, she thought defensively. Although Guido Bartaldi might not see it that way. He would not be pleased to find his arrangements for Paola jettisoned like this.

  But—in every war there were bound to be casualties. And she regarded her dealings with Guido Bartaldi as war-like in the extreme.

  But the problem of Paola remained, of course, she admitted, biting her lip. Especially now that Fabio was around again to muddy the waters.

  Paola was still little more than a child, after all. She didn’t deserve to be left to the tender mercies of a man who was marrying her for commercial reasons—whether he was a confidence trickster, or a member of the Italian nobility, she added with a certain violence.

  No, she didn’t like the idea of leaving the girl in the lurch, but what choice did she have? Her own peace of mind had to be her priority.

  I’ll write to Violetta, she promised herself guiltily. Warn her about Fabio. She’s been targeted by men like him ever since she was widowed, and she’s seen them all off. She must be able to find some way of bringing Paola to her senses.

 
; As she made her way quietly down the stairs, she could hear faint clattering from the kitchen regions, signalling that Angelina had started her day.

  She opened the heavy wooden door with exaggerated care, wincing as the hinges creaked, and edged round it into the bright morning sunlight.

  For a moment she was dazzled, and blinked. When she could see again, she realised there was a car parked at the foot of the steps—something long, dark and sporting.

  And leaning against its bonnet was someone tall, dark and definitely unsporting.

  Guido Bartaldi, totally at his ease, and looking as if he had all the time in the world.

  Shock and disbelief turned her to stone. She stood, staring down at him, lips parted in silent horror.

  ‘Buongiorno.’ He looked up at her, and smiled, and she felt her heart turn over. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

  She found her voice. It emerged with something of a croak. ‘What—what are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to meet you—to escort you to the Villa Minerva.’ He paused, his brows slanting mockingly as he focused on her travel bag. ‘Something told me that you would wish to make an early start—and I see I was right.’ He walked up the steps and took the bag from her unresisting hand. ‘How good to know we are in such accord. It bodes well for the future, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Clare drew a deep breath. ‘It was—considerate of you to think of me, but I’m quite capable of making my own way to your house.’

  ‘I never doubted your capability, mia cara,’ he tossed back over his shoulder. ‘Merely your willingness to comply with our bargain. But perhaps I have a naturally suspicious mind.’

  He put her bag in his boot, then walked round and opened the passenger door. ‘Shall we go?’

  Clare lifted a defiant chin. ‘I have my own car, thank you.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘The rented Fiat. It is no longer here.’

  Clare swung round and found the parking place next to Violetta’s car was indeed empty.

  ‘Where is it?’ she demanded.

  His voice was silk. ‘I arranged to have it collected earlier today, and returned to the hire company’s office in Perugia. And also for the bill to be settled on your behalf. I hope this is agreeable to you.’

  ‘It’s far from agreeable,’ Clare said fierily. ‘How dare you make such arrangements without consulting me?’

  ‘It is not easy to consult you,’ he said, ‘when you insist on being so determinedly asleep so much of the time.’ He paused. ‘Your godmother thought it was a good idea, when I spoke to her last night, and was happy to hand over the documentation and the keys.’

  ‘Quite a little conspiracy,’ Clare said icily. She realised now what had woken her. The sound of the Fiat being removed. ‘I wasn’t aware that hire companies started their activities at dawn.’

  ‘They don’t. But my associates do, when necessary.’ He let her digest this, then went on smoothly, ‘Now, shall we drop the subject, or continue this argument on the journey? The choice is yours.’

  ‘Really?’ Clare queried bitterly. ‘It seems to me that all my choices have been pre-empted.’

  He laughed. ‘Not all of them, cara. Just those that would not be to your advantage—or mine.’

  Clare stood her ground. ‘I haven’t said goodbye to my godmother yet.’

  ‘I did not realise you had planned to,’ he murmured, his mouth twisting. ‘As it is, she asked last night not to be disturbed, and said she would see you very soon.’ The dark eyes met hers. Held them. ‘Is there another problem, or may we begin our drive?’

  Now, if ever, was the moment to tell him she’d changed her mind. That she had no intention of going anywhere with him. This was her chance to go back into the house, shut herself into her room, and tell Angelina that she did not wish to meet the Marchese Bartaldi again while she was under Violetta’s roof.

  But the words wouldn’t come. Not when he was—looking at her. Making her look back at him.

  Making her realise that there was no escape. Because Fate had intervened, and the die had been cast for her.

  She thought, with a kind of frantic calm, It’s too late. It’s all far too late—and—somehow—it always has been.

  And walked slowly down the steps to the waiting car.

  ‘You are very quiet.’

  Clare, who’d been sitting, staring rigidly through the windscreen, her hands gripped together in her lap for the first fifteen minutes of the journey, started slightly as Guido spoke.

  ‘I think “stunned” would be a more apposite word,’ she returned constrainedly.

  ‘Are you a nervous passenger? Am I going too fast for you?’

  Now there, thought Clare, was a loaded question.

  Aloud she said, coolly, ‘I’m not nervous. As I’m sure you already know, Marchese, you’re a very good driver.’

  The road they were taking twisted and twined between tall, heavily forested hills, but she’d been aware from the first that the car’s power was being tightly, even ruthlessly controlled.

  As he controls everything else, she thought tautly.

  And she was deeply conscious, too, of Guido Bartaldi’s own physical proximity to her in the comparatively confined conditions of the vehicle. Watching his hand change gear only inches from her thigh. The play of muscle in his forearms as he turned the wheel.

  Each slight action or reaction made its own individual impact on her senses.

  It was an effort to breathe normally, she realised, swallowing. To ignore the heightened pulsing of her bloodstream. Her whole body’s tense response to his nearness.

  He shot a glance at her. ‘Then perhaps you’re sulking because I whisked you away with me.’

  She gasped indignantly. ‘I don’t sulk. But are you quite so high-handed with all your staff?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ There was a note of amusement in his voice. ‘And I am also the wrong person to ask. Maybe you should consult them.’

  He paused. ‘But I should make one thing clear, Chiara. I do not regard you simply as a member of staff.’

  She stiffened. Her swift sideways glance was wary. ‘I don’t understand. You asked me to work for you. That was the deal.’

  ‘Si,’ he agreed. ‘But I would much prefer you to work with me—as a colleague. Even a friend.’

  Pain lanced through her. ‘That—can’t happen.’

  ‘Why not? After all, while you live under my roof, cara mia, you will be almost a member of the family.’

  ‘You’re paying me a salary, signore. In my book that makes me an employee—and I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she added with emphasis, then hesitated. ‘And while we’re discussing preferences, I’d rather you didn’t use—endearments when you speak to me. I feel it’s—inappropriate.’

  There was a silence, then, ‘So what do you wish to be called?’

  She bit her lip. ‘I—I don’t know. How did you address Paola’s previous companion?’

  ‘As “signora”,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Then maybe we should be equally formal.’

  ‘The two cases are hardly the same. The Signora was a much older woman. And she did not have hair like sunlight and a honey mouth. You see the difficulty?’

  ‘If you persist with remarks like that, signore,’ Clare said coldly, ‘working for you will not just be difficult—but impossible. Maybe you should stop the car right here and now.’

  ‘Per Dio,’ he said. ‘So I am forbidden even the mildest flirtation?’

  ‘By no means,’ Clare returned primly, furiously aware that he was laughing at her. ‘Just as long as it’s directed at Paola.’

  ‘How dull,’ he murmured.

  Clare swallowed. ‘If that’s how you feel, maybe you should think again about being married. It seems to me that you’re heading for disaster.’

  ‘And it seems to me,’ he said, ‘that you are very candid—for an employee.’ He allowed the point to register, then continued smoothly. ‘But put your min
d at rest. I promise I am becoming more reconciled to my fate with every day that passes.’

  ‘But yours isn’t the only point of view that counts. Can you honestly say the same for Paola?’

  He shrugged. ‘That is for you to find out.’

  ‘And if I can’t do what you want?’ she said slowly. ‘If she won’t accept this marriage—what then?’

  He laughed. ‘I have infinite faith in your powers of persuasion, mia bella. Besides,’ he added, his voice hardening slightly, ‘you must see that Paola needs to be married. There are no other options open to her. She is not trained for a career, although she has spoken vaguely of modelling, and she has no qualifications. At school, she was regarded as a charming feather-brain.’

  ‘Maybe she’d be very good at modeling,’ Clare suggested, without much hope.

  ‘She has the looks,’ he agreed. ‘But no discipline. A life that required her to get out of bed before midday would have little appeal. I doubt she has the stamina either. It is a physically taxing existence.’

  Clare bit her lip. ‘Poor Paola.’

  He shook his head. ‘You need not pity her. Because she will be happy—and safe. She needs above all someone who will look after her, and prevent her from doing something reckless and ruinous.’

  ‘Like marrying the wrong man,’ Clare said bitterly.

  He slanted a smile at her. ‘But by the time the wedding takes place, mia bella, she will not think that. I guarantee it.’

  A curious emotion stirred inside Clare, compounded of anger and something perilously like envy.

  She said, ‘Heaven help her.’

  ‘Heaven is where the best marriages are made, Chiara.’ The undercurrent of laughter in his voice goaded her. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’

  ‘I think,’ Clare said coldly, ‘that “they” talk an awful lot of nonsense.’ And relapsed into a fulminating silence.

  The Villa Minerva lay at the head of a small valley, a tawny sprawl of a house, crowned in faded terracotta tiles and enclosed protectively by the encircling arms of the craggy dark green slopes which reared behind it.

  Like an old, proud lion sleeping in the sun, Clare thought with an involuntary lift of her heart, as she caught her first glimpse of it through the trees that lined its steep, private road.