And, as she frowned, all at once she remembered Damiano’s threat that he would stop her from seeing her son if she refused to cooperate. She felt a cold hand touch her heart. Since she hadn’t taken back her refusal, perhaps he’d decided to carry out that threat?
The next minute, with a cry of horror, she was flying from the room, then sprinting down the corridor towards the lift. Had he taken her child? Hidden him somewhere? Fear crawled through her innards as she stabbed the call button.
‘Oh, no! Alessandro!’ she sobbed, almost weeping.
The lift came at last. Quickly, she dived inside and pressed the top button for the nursery suite. She could bear anything, but not this. Her heart was pounding like a hammer. When she reached the top floor and the lift doors opened, she sprang out like some frantic, semi-deranged animal.
As she burst through the nursery door Alice was standing by the toy cupboard, busily placing some things in a box. Was she packing? Where was Alessandro? Sofia could see no sign of him. She stopped in her tracks, almost fearing she might faint. Oh, God, he’s really taken him! she thought.
But then, even as the room began to swim around her, as she was opening her mouth in a cry of pain to call his name, a small, grinning figure grimly clinging to his walker suddenly appeared from the room beyond.
‘Alessandro! My angel!’ Sofia hurtled towards him, gathering him in her arms, covering him with kisses. She felt like weeping at the avalanche of relief that tore through her.
After that, Sofia stayed for half an hour to play with him, until her heart had stopped hammering, until she felt herself again. Then she went down to her own quarters, calmly, composedly, knowing precisely what she must do.
That scare had shaken her to her foundations. It had demonstrated to her quite plainly that she would never survive if her son really were to be taken from her. She sat down on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone on the bedside table, and with stiff fingers punched in Damiano’s private number.
Emilio, his valet, answered. ‘Just a minute, Your Grace,’ he told her.
Then she stiffened as she heard her husband’s curt, ‘Hello’.
But she did not hesitate. She took a deep breath and told him, ‘What we discussed earlier...you will have my full cooperation. Anything you want me to do I will do.’
Then, without waiting for his answer, she laid the phone down, feeling as though she had just stepped through the fiery gates of hell.
CHAPTER THREE
SO SOFIA had made her decision and now she must abide by it. And her first big test would be at the opera tonight. For it was tonight that they were going to see Madame Butterfly.
Sofia was in her rooms now with Angela, her personal maid, and her personal hairdresser, Maurice, putting the finishing touches to her appearance.
‘You look quite wonderful, Your Grace.’ Maurice put a final pin in her hair, which was swept back from her face, then piled high at the crown to fall to her nape in a wonderful red-gold waterfall. ‘When they see you, no one will bother to look at the opera. All eyes will be fixed on the royal box.’
Sofia laughed. Maurice was always extremely good for her morale. ‘It’s very kind of you to say so, but I hope you’re wrong,’ she told him. ‘I hope they just forget about me and concentrate on enjoying the opera.’
The last thing she wanted was all eyes on her throughout the evening. This charade with Damiano was going to be a big enough strain without that!
She cast a look at herself in the full-length mirror, feeling a sudden nervous tightening in the pit of her stomach, and examined her reflection carefully for a moment. Though what she was looking at was not the stunning ice-blue satin dress, strapless, cut slim, with a slit to knee-height at one side, that perfectly flattered her slender figure and made her look like some supermodel about to step onto a Paris catwalk. Nor was she admiring the magnificent necklace at her throat—a choker of blue diamonds with drop earrings to match—nor observing, as she had every right to do, how beautiful she looked. No, what she was doing was studying the expression on her face.
Did she look calm and in control? Serene and untroubled? All the things her public had come to expect of her? She tried out a smile. Did it look confident and convincing? Would she be able to fool them that her life was wonderful, that she hadn’t a single care in the world? She’d been so good at that in the past, then she’d lost the knack a little during that time when her unhappiness had seemed to crush her to the ground. But now she had to get that knack back. At least, for a while.
She laughed, aware that Maurice and Angela were watching her. ‘I think I’ll do,’ she told them. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job.’
Angela smiled back at her with a sympathetic look, for she had been with Sofia ever since her marriage and perhaps understood a little of what was going on in her head. Sofia had never discussed her problems, but Angela had seen what was going on, and she knew that Sofia was feeling a little nervous about this first public appearance with the Duke for several months.
‘You look wonderful,’ she told her, ‘and you’re going to get through the evening with flying colours. You’ll see, it’s going to be a big success.’
Sofia carefully kept these words of optimism in mind as she made her way downstairs from her second-floor west-wing apartments, only a stone’s throw from Damiano’s private quarters, though for all the times their paths crossed they might have been on different planets, and headed for the Lily Room on the ground floor where their secretaries had arranged that they meet. I shall get through it with flying colours, she told herself. Whatever happens, I won’t let him get to me.
Head high, shoulders back, a brave smile on her lips, she swept through the open doors of the Lily Room—so called because of the gold lilies painted on the ceiling—and very nearly stumbled at the sight of him.
He’d been standing by the huge carved marble fireplace deep in conversation with one of his equerries, but he turned the instant she walked through the doorway, as though he had somehow sensed her arrival. As their eyes met and she looked into his impossibly handsome face, Sofia couldn’t help her reaction to him; it was like an explosion in her chest.
He was stepping towards her. ‘You look beautiful,’ he told her. ‘And your timing’s quite perfect. The car will be here any minute.’
‘Oh, good.’
Yet how could it possibly be, she was asking herself in dismay, that she could still melt at the sight of him after all the misery he had inflicted on her? What had happened to all the hate she’d told herself she felt for him? And all the anger and resentment she’d been nursing since her capitulation—for they were to be her defence against him—how could they have just suddenly fled?
But her reaction, as she knew well, had little to do with love or hate, anger or resentment, or any of that. It was sheer animal attraction. An irresistible magnetism. He was the most powerfully sexy man she had ever laid eyes on in her life, and in the perfect black dinner suit he was wearing tonight he looked even more gorgeous than usual. No man had ever looked better in a dinner suit than Damiano.
The car had arrived in the courtyard outside.
‘Let’s go.’ Damiano led the way, allowing Sofia to climb into the back seat first. Then he got in beside her and the driver slammed the door shut, then the big black Rolls was nosing out of the courtyard and heading down the drive towards Rino and the Royal Theatre.
‘Have you had a good day?’
Sofia had regained her equilibrium. She glanced across at him and suppressed an amused smile at the question. So, he was going to try to be nice, even in private. Well, she might as well go along with that and put in a bit of practice for later!
‘I had an excellent day,’ she told him. ‘How about you?’
‘Not bad. Busy as usual. We have a German trade delegation visiting. I spent most of the day in various meetings with them.’
Sofia flicked him a look. One thing you had to give him—he was a totally dedicated and diligent ruler. Hard
-working almost to a fault. Tirelessly energetic. Up at seven every morning, he was at his desk before eight and rarely finished with official duties until late in the evening. And as he could so easily not have bothered she admired him for that.
She said, ‘Are these the people who’re thinking of setting up a new car plant just outside Rino? It sounds like it might be a pretty beneficial scheme.’
‘I reckon it will be. Highly beneficial. It’ll provide new jobs and give the area a boost.’ As he spoke he turned to look at her with a smile of curiosity. This was surprising, he was thinking. Sofia showing an interest in such things. She had never done so in the past.
Sofia saw the smile and understood it. She too had been aware of the strangeness of the exchange. Well, I’m different now, she told herself. I no longer have only one thing on my mind, namely the need to please a husband I’m quite incapable of pleasing anyway.
She was never likely to become an expert in such matters as trade and industry, but these days she read the papers and took an interest!
‘So, how did your meetings with the Germans go?’ she asked him now, rather pleased with herself for taking him by surprise like this. ‘Did you come to an agreement? Will the factory be built?’
‘We’re in the final stages. I think we’ll be signing an agreement soon.’ Damiano let his dark gaze fix on her lovely, serene face, seeming to search the grey-blue eyes for a moment. Then he smiled. ‘So, how did you spend your day?’
‘A couple of charity meetings in the morning and a visit to some new sheltered housing.’ For these days Sofia, too, was a hard-working royal. ‘And then I spent most of the afternoon at the Primo Ballet.’
‘Ah. And how is the Primo Ballet these days?’
Sofia detected a distinct edge to his tone as he asked that. It was no secret that Damiano had mixed feelings about the Prime Ballet. Or rather about its fiery, slightly eccentric director, the colourful Madame Ulana, formerly of the Kirov.
She and the Duke’s office had crossed swords just over a year ago over her refusal to incorporate her world-renowned company into the new arts and crafts project that Damiano was heavily involved in. And, to be truthful, aside from her quite genuine love of ballet, one of the prime motivations for Sofia getting involved with the Primo Ballet had been her awareness that Damiano was still mad at Madame Ulana. She’d done it partly to spite him. That was the long and the short of it.
Sofia knew of course that Damiano was perfectly aware of this. There were very few things that he was not aware of. And though he had never actually ordered her to sever her ties with Madame Ulana she knew that he would much prefer it if she did, and he had passed the occasional pointedly disapproving remark, just as he more or less proceeded to do now.
‘So what is the witch up to these days? What’s she got brewing in her cauldron?’
Sofia suppressed a smile. Damiano always referred to Madame Ulana as ‘the witch’, something which even the fiery Russian was well aware of and happened to find immensely amusing.
‘It’s so flattering,’ she’d once told Sofia, ‘that such an important and handsome man should go to the trouble of thinking up such a dear little nickname for me!’
‘She’s brewing up Cinderella, as a matter of fact,’ Sofia told him now. ‘And I think it’s going to be a very special production.’
‘With the witch no doubt playing the two ugly sisters.’
‘No, they’re going to be played by men, pantomime style.’ As she said it, Sofia glanced away, suddenly remembering her secret, for there was one aspect of the new production that she had no intention of revealing. Damiano would find out eventually, of course, but for now she would keep it to herself.
She added, glancing back at him, ‘I hope you’ll go along and see it.’
Damiano met her gaze, the black brows lowered with disapproval. ‘I doubt that very much.’
There was an unmistakable edge of censure in his tone now, but Sofia was aware that she was not reacting as she would once have done. For at the beginning, rather startled by her own defiant gesture, she had invariably found herself plunged into a quagmire of doubts every time Damiano passed some disapproving remark. Perhaps she ought to sever her links with the Primo Ballet? she would wonder, and she had been on the verge of doing so at least a dozen times. It was simply her anger against him that had kept her hanging on.
Now, however, she felt no guilt whatsoever and not the tiniest urge to sever her links with the company. For one thing, these days she was far too involved in it and it had become an important and fulfilling part of her life, no longer just a way of cocking a snook at Damiano. And this change in her was just part of the shift in her attitude towards everything.
She no longer viewed everything solely in terns of Damiano: how would he react? Would it displease him? Her involvement with the Primo Ballet was of value to all concerned and these days that was all the justification she needed.
Besides, she reminded herself, casting him a quick sideways glance, she would never please him anyway, whatever she did. Why, there was only one thing she had ever done that had pleased him, and that was giving birth to their son.
They were approaching the magnificent floodlit Royal Theatre, making their way slowly past the enormous cheering crowd that had gathered on the pavement outside.
Damiano glanced across at her. ‘OK, this is where the performance starts. Yours and mine, I mean. So I hope you’re ready to go into action?’
Sofia felt a flash of annoyance at the edge of warning in his tone. She smiled back at him tightly. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be. I’ll do my best to be convincing.’
‘No, you won’t just do your best. You will be convincing.’ This time the warning was much more explicit. He held her eyes for a shimmering moment and reminded her, ‘I trust you haven’t forgotten what will happen if you don’t?’
She was hardly likely to forget that. Sofia responded with a glacial look, feeling a tug of mingled anger and alarm. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t give you cause to carry out your foul threats. I told you I intended to cooperate and I shall.’
A moment later she was proving she really meant it. As the Rolls drew up outside the theatre the door was pulled open and the crowd, recognising the car’s occupants, let out a loud cheer. Sofia stepped out behind Damiano with a radiant smile on her face, then took his arm as he offered it to her and allowed him to lead her up the steps into the foyer.
And as they turned for a final wave before disappearing inside she cast a quick, apparently adoring glance up at her husband—a glance which, thanks to some sixth sense, he instantly reciprocated—and the moment was captured by a hundred flashing press cameras and would appear on the front pages of a score of newspapers next morning. Project Fake Reconciliation, as Sofia had privately dubbed. their little charade, was off to a flying start.
‘You’re doing well,’ Damiano told her as they finished shaking hands and chatting with the reception committee in the foyer and began to make their way upstairs to the royal box. ‘Just make sure you keep it up.’
‘Oh, I’ll keep it up,’ Sofia promised him. ‘I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of providing you with an excuse to carry out your threats.’
And she did keep it up. She put on a wonderful performance, as, it must be said, did Damiano himself. Though they were both careful not to overdo it. Their performances were perfectly judged. They just looked relaxed and happy and pleased to be in each other’s company as they sat together in the gilded royal box in the marvellous newly decorated theatre—all crimson plush and sparkling crystal chandeliers—where not a pair of eyes had failed to notice how utterly spectacular Sofia was looking and how devoted she and her handsome husband appeared to be.
When the lights went down at last Sofia found herself reflecting that it really was a very strange situation. Pretending to be thrilled with his company seemed an odd thing to be doing. Once, the problem had been trying to pretend that she wasn’t! And what was not so much strange as a littl
e disturbing was how just sitting next to him was making her feel. She found his near physical presence distracting in the extreme.
More than once during the performance she caught herself sneaking a glance at him, at the strong, broad shoulders, the firm, hard thighs, the latter tantalisingly outlined against the fine black fabric of his trousers. And she found herself remembering how desperately she’d missed the physical side of their relationship when he’d stopped making love to her nearly eight months ago.
She’d thought then, though she wouldn’t have exchanged Alessandro for the world, that her fate might have been less cruel if she’d given birth to a girl. Then, at least, though of course he would still never have loved her, she wouldn’t have lost him quite so totally. For out of duty, to sire an heir, he would have come to her bed from time to time. It might not have been much but it would have been something.
Of course, she didn’t feel that now and she’d been crazy to feel it then. It was just a symptom of how hopelessly in thrall to him she’d been. But, all the same, she was aware of an emptiness inside her. He would never again be her lover and she would never want any other.
‘Are you enjoying it?’ He leaned towards her as they were brought champagne at the interval. ‘You looked as though you were. You appeared to be totally wrapped up in it.’
He was right, she had been—at least, when she hadn’t been thinking of him! Madame Butterfly was one of her favourite operas. But why on earth had he been watching her? she was wondering.
She looked back at him. ‘Was I?’ And, belatedly, it struck her that it was perfectly obvious why he’d been watching her: as part of the monstrous fraud they were enacting!
‘While I was watching you I was thinking how beautiful you’re looking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking more lovely.’
Damiano paused and let his eyes roam her face for a moment and there was something so unexpected in his expression, so warm and appreciative, almost intimate, that just for a moment Sofia very nearly blushed.
The Duke's Wife Page 5