He turned on the cold tap over the huge washbasin and stuck his head under it for a minute. Then he straightened and shook his head, splashing the mirror with a rain of water, grabbed a towel from the rail and gave his hair a quick rub. As though the situation weren’t bad enough without Sofia making it worse!
As he turned away from the washbasin and tossed the towel aside, Damiano didn’t even so much as glance at his reflection in the mirror, as most men with his looks and physique undoubtedly would have done. For he had the most glorious face—it wasn’t just Sofia who thought that—and the tanned, exquisitely muscled body of an athlete. But the way he looked was something Damiano had never paid much attention to—which of course simply had the effect of making him even more impossibly attractive.
His unconcern grew out of the fact that he tended to have his mind on higher things, namely the duties and responsibilities that went with his position as reigning duke. Responsibilities to his people. Duties to his crown. For what drove Damiano was his absolute conviction that his principal role in life was to serve his country and honour the name of Montecrespi. All else in his life took second place to that.
He strode through to his dressing room where Emilio had already laid out his riding gear—creamcoloured breeches, burgundy jacket and high leather boots polished as bright as conkers—and, pulling off his trousers, began quickly to get dressed.
These rumours about divorce had upset him deeply. Never in all the years of his family’s rule of San Rinaldo had a royal Montecrespi been divorced. Of course, divorce happened all over. It was a fact of modern life. And it would never have occurred to Damiano to impose his views on others. But divorce was out of the question for him and Sofia. And the rumours were pernicious. They simply had to be stopped.
As he emerged from the dressing room, Emilio was waiting to inform him, ‘I’ve spoken with Kurt, Your Grace. He’s preparing Sirdar for you now.’
‘Thanks, Emilio.’ Damiano smiled at him. Emilio, who had been with him for over twelve years, was as much a valued friend as a valet. ‘If anyone phones for me, tell them I’ll be back in about an hour.’
On swift strides now he headed down to the stables. As he had explained to Sofia, he needed her cooperation, and it had been his fondest hope that she would offer it freely, though he might have known, of course, that to hope for that was madness. He cursed beneath his breath, recalling the bitter finale of their meeting. And now look what her hard-headedness had forced him into!
The last thing Damiano had wanted was to be pushed into making threats, especially threats that involved Alessandro. For, in spite of all her faults, Sofia was a wonderful mother—the best mother a man could ever wish for his son. And he esteemed her for that, deeply and sincerely, and he felt profoundly uneasy about the threat he had made. He’d been praying with all his heart that it would not come to that.
But now that the deed was done, would he stand by his threat? he wondered. Would he really be prepared to deprive Sofia of her son and little Alessandro of the mother he so adored? In the end, if it came to it, would he actually be capable of behaving like the monster Sofia had accused him of being?
Over the next hour, as he pounded across woodland and through thicket, Damiano continued to ask himself these questions. And when, once more calm, he finally arrived back at the stables and slid from Sirdar’s steaming back he knew the answer.
As a strictly temporary measure he would carry out his threat. Very reluctantly perhaps, but he would force himself to do it. Desperate situations, after all, called for desperate measures and it would be a short, sharp shock guaranteed to bring Sofia to her senses. But, with any luck, such drastic steps would not be necessary. The threat alone would be enough to persuade her to cooperate.
So, it’s up to you, Sofia, he thought as he headed back to the palace. Do the wise thing and capitulate if you don’t want a ‘monster’ on your hands.
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER Damiano had gone and a maid had come to clear up the mess—which fortunately wasn’t as bad as it had sounded, for only one cup had been broken, though most of the tea had spilled over the carpet—Sofia walked unsteadily over to the window and stood staring unseeingly down into the garden, struggling desperately to calm herself. Surely this was about as low as things could possibly go?
She bit her lip. I hate him, she told herself. And at that thought a wretched sadness twisted at her heart. Once, she would have been incapable of even thinking such a thing. Once, she had been filled with the sheer joy of loving him and with the conviction that she would love him until the day she died.
Even now she could remember when she had first fallen in love with him. She had been ten years old, spending a summer holiday at the royal palace, the fabulous rosy-stoned Palazzo Verde which stood high on a promontory overlooking the sea and had been the home of the ruling Montecrespis for centuries. And she’d been sitting in one of the courtyards waiting for Caterina—Damiano’s younger sister, who was two years older than herself—when suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Damiano had appeared.
He’d been dressed in his riding gear—cream breeches and burgundy jacket—his high polished boots making a sharp clack-clack sound as he strode across the cobbled courtyard. He’d been about to walk past her, for she was half-hidden in a corner, but then, at the last minute, he’d spotted her and paused.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘And who are you?’
Sofia looked up at him and felt her heart turn over in her chest. Surely she must be dreaming? This had to be some fairy-tale prince? For she had never seen a more dashingly arresting sight in her life. He had the most wonderful face, long-lashed eyes as black as treacle and the most glorious head of hair, which in those days he wore a little longer and was as black and glossy as washed coal. And he was smiling at her with a warm smile that was turning her flesh to jelly.
She finally found her voice. ‘I’m Sofia,’ she said.
‘Sofia? Now which Sofia is that?’ He frowned a little. ‘I don’t think I know you.’
‘Sofia Riccione.’ Her tongue felt like cardboard. ‘My mother’s a friend of your mother, the Duchess, and I’m a friend of Caterina’s. I—’
‘Oh, that Sofia!’ He smiled more broadly, understanding, and Sofia caught a glimpse of perfect strong white teeth. ‘I’ve heard all about you from my sister. You’re the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Romano.’
Sofia nodded, wondering if she dared ask him who he was, though she had already guessed that he was probably Caterina’s elder brother. She’d already met Leone, her other brother, who was younger. But, even as she was wondering, he held out his hand to her.
‘Pleased to meet you, Sofia,’ he told her. ‘I’m Damiano. No doubt we’ll be bumping into one another from time to time.’
And they did, though not nearly as often as Sofia would have liked. Still, even just a glimpse of him was enough to make her day sublime—and to bring a blush to her cheeks, as, to her dismay, Caterina noticed.
‘You’re in love with my brother!’ she accused, shrieking with laughter. ‘You’re in love with Damiano! I’m going to tell him!’
Sofia nearly died. ‘Oh, no, don’t!’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t, Caterina! I’m not in love with him, I swear!’
‘Yes, you are!’ Caterina’s blue eyes were sparking with devilment. ‘I know the signs. I saw you blushing!’ Then she took pity on the distraught expression on poor Sofia’s face, for she would sooner have died than have her secret made public. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing,’ she promised solemnly. ‘And, anyway, I don’t blame you. Damiano’s terribly handsome. Both my brothers are, but especially Damiano. And one day, you know, he’s going to be the Duke.’ She laughed a teasing laugh. ‘How would you like to be his duchess?’
Quite frankly, Sofia thought that that would be the most wonderful thing imaginable. Not the duchess bit particularly. She didn’t care about that. But to be Damiano’s wife. That was what she dreamed of. And as the years went by and she returned
again and again as a guest at the sumptuous Palazzo Verde it became a dream that established itself deep within her. Though it was just a make-believe dream, not one she ever believed might really come true. Damiano was way out of her reach and she knew that.
For a start, he was so much older. Fourteen years divided them. He was so sophisticated, smart, worldly and wise and she, by comparison, knew nothing at all. In his eyes all she was was an immature child.
On one particular occasion when she was about thirteen years old she was having lunch with the Duke and Duchess and her own parents and Damiano—Caterina, for some reason, wasn’t present—and the conversation became terribly obscure and adult, with words like ‘deflation’ and ‘equities’ being bandied about, and she didn’t have a clue what on earth they were talking about. She didn’t care either. She was perfectly happy just to sit there secretly feasting her eyes on Damiano. On those wonderful jet-dark eyes, on the way his mouth curled at the corners, on the glossy black hair that flopped down over his forehead. She kept wishing she could reach across the table and touch it, and she would shiver at the thought of its cool silkiness against her fingers.
But then the Duke, Damiano’s father, who was the kindest of men and would never have knowingly embarrassed her, suddenly said, ‘But we’re boring poor Sofia with all our silly chatter. Poor thing’s been sitting there as quiet as a mouse for hours.’ He smiled kindly across at her. ‘Let’s talk about something different. Come on, Sofia, tell us who your favourite pop star is these days.’
Sofia turned the same colour as the raspberry sorbet she’d been eating. She stared back at the Duke, feeling humiliated to her very core. What kind of idiot must she look, capable only of conversing about pop stars? What a hopeless impression she must be making on Damiano.
And then Damiano spoke. ‘She used to be very keen on The Police—at least so Caterina was telling me.’ He smiled across at her, a smile in which Sofia could see only condescension, and asked, ‘Do you still like them or have you moved on to someone else?’
‘I—I don’t know...’
Sofia could feel all eyes on her. And, suddenly drowning in embarrassment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Her brain was functioning with all the clarity of a lump of sago.
‘I—’ she began again. But there was nothing to come out. And that was when something snapped inside her and she ended up making the situation a hundred times worse. She sprang from the table with a muttered, ‘Excuse me!’ and went flying from the dining room in helpless tears.
Later, she apologised to the Duke and Duchess, who told her not to be silly, that she had obviously just been tired, and the incident was never mentioned again. But it continued to haunt Sofia for years and years afterwards. What an idiot she’d made of herself in front of Damiano!
Her lingering embarrassment, in fact, was so enormous that in the years that followed, when she began to see less and less of Damiano—partly because he just never seemed to be around when she visited the palace and partly because her visits had grown more seldom anyway since her friendship with Caterina had waned a little—she told herself that it was simply a blessing in disguise. It would save her doing something else that would make her an even bigger fool in his eyes! Besides, didn’t they say that out of sight was out of mind? And it really was time she gave up her foolish fantasies.
But that was not the way it worked out. She saw him fairly seldom and then usually at some banquet, wedding or reception where she almost never had a chance to speak to him personally, but for all that he remained a permanent presence in her mind. And an even more tenacious one in her heart. For she simply loved him more with each year that passed.
There were times when these feelings seemed bound to bring her grief. Like those times when she would see him at some dinner with a girlfriend—and there were no shortage of these coming and going over the years, though Damiano had never been a playboy like his younger brother Leone. And then there was the time—perhaps the worse time of all—shortly after his thirtieth birthday, when Rino, the San Rinaldo capital, was rife with rumours that he was about to get engaged to an Austrian princess.
Sofia held her breath and prayed. And her prayers were answered. There was no engagement, the Austrian princess vanished from the scene and eventually the rumours died.
Over the years Sofia had never been conscious of saving herself for Damiano, but perhaps without realising it that was in fact what she had done. For she had never had a real boyfriend, never even been kissed. Sexually, she really had been totally inexperienced when, four and a half years ago, tragedy had struck and Damiano had suddenly found himself in need of a wife.
At just fifty-nine years old, his father was killed when the helicopter he was travelling in crashed into a mountain. And within the month, years before he’d expected to succeed, Damiano was being crowned in Rino Cathedral. He was a popular successor but one vital thing as missing. He was unmarried with no heir and that had to be put right.
At the time it was common knowledge that he’d been seeing a lot of Lady Fiona, the glamourously beautiful daughter of a local count, and that he’d actually been doing a great deal more than just seeing her—that he and the lovely Fiona were madly in love and for the past eighteen months had been having a passionate affair. Would Fiona be the one to become his duchess? people were asking. And again Sofia held her breath and prayed. Though she was being foolish, she told herself. Even if he didn’t marry Lady Fiona, he would still marry someone else. He would never marry her.
But then the strangest thing happened. A couple of months later she was invited with her parents to a private dinner at the palace. And at the end of it Damiano, who had been most attentive to her all evening—so attentive that she had scarcely managed to eat a bite—took her out onto the terrace and there, beneath the moonlight, told her, ‘I think it would be really nice if we could get to know each other better. What do you say, Sofia? How would you feel about that?’
Sofia was almost as tongue-tied as on that previous occasion. She blushed to her hair roots. ‘I’d like that,’ she answered. And she stared hard at the. ground, not daring to meet his eyes.
After that there followed a brief, intense courtship. Dinners together. Outings in public. And rumours quickly spread that she was to be the one. But she still didn’t really believe it, for she knew he didn’t love her. So she was totally stunned when, three months later, he proposed.
Her reaction made him smile. He looked down into her shocked face and gently reached out to touch her cheek with his fingers.
‘I appreciate that what I’m asking must seem a pretty daunting prospect. The role of Duchess is an important and extremely demanding one, though I know my mother will help you all she can. But I think you can do it. You’ve lived most of your life close to the palace. You know how things work. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
He looked into her face with those dark eyes that could melt her soul. ‘I really would be very pleased if you’d agree to be my wife.’
Sofia looked back at him, struggling for composure. It had sounded more like a job offer than a proposal of marriage. Not one word had he spoken of his personal feelings for her or of what he expected their relationship to be. But somehow that didn’t matter. She already knew he didn’t love her. But she loved him. And something else she was very sure of was that he was the only man in the world she would ever want to marry. So she took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.’
I’ll make him love me, she vowed to herself. I’ll make him love me as I love him.
The wedding took place in Rino’s splendid Gothic cathedral once the official one year mourning period for the old Duke was over. And it was a glorious occasion, with the twenty-year-old Sofia looking perfectly exquisite in a fairy-tale wedding dress, wearing a tiara that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, and with a look of blissful happiness in her wide grey-blue eyes. That day she felt she must be the luckiest girl in the universe.
They fle
w to Sicily for their honeymoon and stayed in a hilltop castle belonging to one of Damiano’s relatives. And Sofia could clearly remember how excited and terrified she’d been when they’d set off for that honeymoon.
She was a virgin, of course—one of the reasons, after all, that Damiano had chosen her to be his bride. And until that night when they found themselves alone together in the big vaulted room with the vast canopied bed Damiano had never done more than chastely kiss her. She stood there frozen, her mouth dry, her heart hammering. She wanted him. She longed for him. But she was desperately nervous. Would she do it all wrong? Would she disappoint him? Would it hurt? Did he really want her anyway?
‘Come here.’
He was standing in the open doorway to the balcony, the starlight in his hair, making it glisten like polished jet. And he held out his hand to her and smiled at her gently.
‘Come here,’ he said again. ‘I want to kiss you.’
Sofia walked towards him as though she were walking on water. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of feeling in her legs, or in any other part of her rigid body, come to that. But then he took her hand and kissed it and slipped his other hand round her waist and, as he drew her towards him and she felt the strength of him enfold her, every inch of her suddenly burst into flames of desire.
‘Don’t be afraid, Sofia. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ He released her hand and tilted her chin and delicately, unhurriedly bent to kiss her mouth. ‘I want you to enjoy this. I want it to be special.’
She looked up into his eyes, drowning, drowning. God, how I love him. How I love him, she thought. And she smiled a nervous smile.
‘That’s better,’ he said.
Damiano kissed her again then, her face, her eyes, her hair, and as she began to relax a little she laid her hands on his shoulders, then let them slide round to the back of his neck. She felt the dark hair brush her fingers and a jolt of pleasure stab through her. Suddenly her fear was slipping away, excitement growing in its place.
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