The Padova Perals

by Wilkinson, Lee

  When Sophia stayed silent, the Marquise asked contemptuously, ‘Have you no comment to make?’

  ‘Only that your choice of words is unbecoming, to say the least. But then if someone is jealous—’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that? Why should I need to be jealous of a working class little nobody like you? Do not imagine that you pose a threat. Stefano and I have the same social status, the same background…’

  Knowing there was quite a lot of truth in the Marquise’s words further depleted what small amount of self-confidence Sophia had left.

  ‘And make no mistake about it,’ the other woman went on viciously, ‘I am the one he loves, the one he intends to marry…

  ‘Oh, yes, he may be amusing himself with you at the moment. Judging by the glow about you, I dare say he is. But amusing himself is all it amounts to.

  ‘Stefano is a very attractive man, and if a cheap little slut chooses to throw herself at him, who can blame him for accepting what is offered?

  ‘But you are wasting your time if you think you have the faintest chance of catching him merely by going to bed with him. Women much more beautiful than you have tried and failed.

  ‘Stefano is mine. He’s always been mine. We were intended to be together. If I had not been foolish enough to—’ She broke off abruptly, then repeated, ‘Stefano is mine.’

  Struggling to hold on to her composure, Sophia asked, ‘If he is, as you say, yours, why should he want to take me to bed?’

  ‘Because he is a red-blooded man and I am still officially in mourning. But after we are married and I am his wife, his little flings will be over and done with. All in the past. He will remain faithful to me because that is the kind of man he is.

  ‘So you see, Signorina Jordan, you have nothing to keep you in Venice and, as I pointed out a little while ago, it might be dangerous to stay.

  ‘My earnest advice to you is, pack your things and go home now, today, before something unpleasant happens to you—’

  A knock at the door, which she had left slightly ajar, cut across the Marquise’s words.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  The door opened further and Rosa came in.

  ‘What do you want?’ the Marquise demanded sharply.

  Her face and voice without expression, Rosa said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but Signor Longheni is on the phone. He said he was hoping to catch you before you left…’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.’

  As Rosa vanished to do her bidding, the Marquise looked at Sophia with glittering eyes. ‘Don’t forget what I’ve told you.’

  She swung on her heel and headed for the door.

  Sophia was just breathing a sigh of relief when, her hand on the latch, the Marquise turned to deliver her parting shot. ‘If you know what is good for you, you will say nothing of this conversation, simply tell Stefano you are not up to the job and get the next plane home.’

  A second later the door closed behind her with a decisive click.

  Standing staring after her, badly shaken in spite of her outward show of composure, Sophia wondered how much, if anything, of what had been said was true.

  While she didn’t want to believe any of it, she was forced to admit that some of it might be.

  Her remaining confidence ebbed away.

  It might be true that Stephen was simply amusing himself. She had been aware of that possibility right from the start.

  Even so, her own feelings were so overwhelming that she had been unable to help herself.

  But, just because she had been weak enough to sleep with him last night, it didn’t mean that she had to sleep with him again.

  Surely it would be better to call a halt before she got in any deeper? Hold back at least until she was more certain of just what his motives were?

  If he did love the Marquise, and she couldn’t rule it out, then she didn’t want to be involved with another woman’s man, didn’t want to be used…

  Yet something told her that if he loved one woman he wouldn’t be taking another to bed, and that fitted in with what the Marquise had said about him being faithful after they were married.

  After they were married… The thought was like a knife turning in Sophia’s heart. But she had to face it. It could be true that Stephen intended to marry his cousin. She was a beautiful woman, they belonged in the same world, and he obviously cared about her.

  But if he was going to marry the Marquise, why had he brought her to Venice against his future wife’s wishes and, even more puzzling, why had he made love to her so passionately?

  If he could be faithful to the woman he loved after they were married, why not before?

  Unless still being ‘officially in mourning’ meant that to avoid losing her reputation the Marquise had to be particularly circumspect and, as she had herself pointed out, Stephen was a red-blooded man.

  Sophia sighed. While she wanted to think well of the man she loved, she recognized that he was only human, a man of flesh and blood with faults and failings, not some statue on a pedestal.

  But if he was only using her, how could he have made love to her so tenderly, so caringly…?

  Of course, if he didn’t love the Marquise…

  But if he didn’t love her, surely—after what he’d said about marrying for love—he wouldn’t be planning to make her his wife?

  Perhaps he wasn’t.

  It could be just wishful thinking on the Marquise’s part, a scenario that might come true if she was left with a clear field. Maybe she had made everything up simply to get rid of someone she regarded as a possible rival.

  After all, if she posed no threat to the other woman’s happiness, why had the Marquise felt it necessary to try and scare her into going?

  Sophia’s self-confidence began to creep back and her spirits, which had sunk to rock-bottom, revived with a bound.

  It would be weak and foolish in the extreme to allow herself to be driven away by the possible inventions—or the half-veiled threats—of a jealous woman.

  She was here in Venice with the man she loved, and she was staying until she had finished the job she had come here to do, or until such time as Stephen wanted her to go.

  But she couldn’t believe that time had come quite so soon. Remembering his passion the previous night and his ardour this morning, the way he had backed her against his office door and run his hands over her while he’d kissed her…

  She sighed, already longing for the coming night and the delight that lay in store…

  The realization brought her up short. While she had been debating, trying to decide whether or not to share Stephen’s bed, her subconscious had already made the decision.

  Loving him as she did, she wanted to be with him, wanted to lie next to him and feel his naked flesh against hers, wanted his kisses and caresses, another chance, after a lifetime of waiting, to find paradise in his arms.

  And it had been paradise, she thought, remembering the magic of his hands and his mouth, the smooth ripple of his muscles beneath her palms, the length of his hair-roughened legs against hers and the driving force of his body that had brought so much shared pleasure…

  The click of the latch and the door opening brought her back to the present with a jolt.

  Smiling at her, Stephen asked, ‘How’s it going?’

  The remnants of her erotic thoughts clinging like cobwebs, she swallowed and said huskily, ‘I’ve just finished looking through the paintings.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have been such a long time,’ he apologized, ‘but Gina had some urgent business she needed my help with…’

  Then, glancing at the notes that Sophia had made, he queried, ‘So what’s your verdict?’

  Trying to sound brisk and businesslike, she told him, ‘One or two could do with cleaning, but most of them seem to be in pretty good condition.’

  ‘So there should be no problem getting the first batch ready in time?’

  ‘None at all.’

  She waited
to see if he would mention a time frame for the remainder, but he didn’t. Instead, he came over and, glancing at the last picture she’d been looking at—a depressing depiction of hell and damnation—asked, ‘Is there any that you particularly like and suggest I should keep?’

  ‘Not at first glance,’ she answered honestly. ‘I think I’m inclined to agree with you that most of them would be better in a museum.’

  ‘That’s something of a relief…’ Then, with no change of tone, ‘What were you thinking about when I walked in? You looked as if you were miles away.’

  Ambushed by the unexpected question, she stammered, ‘II was…’

  Putting a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face up to his. ‘So tell me what you were thinking about, and don’t say work.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Don’t prevaricate,’ he said severely. ‘Tell me what you were thinking about that put that look on your face.’

  ‘What look?’ she asked innocently.

  Putting a hand at her nape, he bent his head and covered her mouth with his, while his free hand found and caressed the curve of her breast.

  When he’d kissed her until every nerve-ending was in meltdown and her knees had turned to jelly, he lifted his head and said triumphantly, ‘That look.’ As she opened dazed eyes, he turned her around and held her against him, so that they were both facing one of the long gilt-framed mirrors.

  She saw a handsome fair-haired man with a slight smile on his lips and the expression of a conqueror, and a woman whose dark head came just to his chin. A woman whose green eyes were slumberous, and whose face was soft and dreamy with love.

  Had it been a picture, it could have been entitled, ‘By Right of Conquest’.

  It was a moment or two before it was borne upon her that his expression was merely that of a triumphant male, while hers gave away only too clearly how she felt about him.

  To have her deepest emotions exposed so ruthlessly while his were evidently uninvolved made her feel uncomfortably naked, vulnerable.

  His arms tightening around her, he asked, ‘Don’t you think you look—?’

  ‘If you ask me, I look half baked,’ she broke in abruptly and, hoping against hope that he had read it as straightforward passion rather than love, tried to pull free.

  Though he looked at her strangely, he let her go without further comment.

  Her legs feeling like rubber, Sophia went back to the paintings and, sliding the last one back into place, closed the heavy oak door. Then, picking up the catalogue and her notes, she said, ‘I’ll just put these away.’

  When she returned, her mask of composure pinned firmly in place, he asked, ‘Ready for lunch now? You must be starving.’

  ‘I’m getting pretty hungry.’

  ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘I’ve been craving spaghetti Bolognese since I arrived. A true taste of Italy,’ she said without hesitation.

  He laughed. ‘Then I know the perfect place. Giorgio makes the best spaghetti bolognese in Venice. But first we’ll have a drink at Harry’s Bar…Luckily they’re only a stone’s throw from each other…

  ‘Now, just before we start, let me show you how to set the security alarm. It’s quite simple.’

  The alarm set, they made their way to the door.

  As they descended the stairs a disturbing thought struck her and she asked, ‘Is the Marquise coming, by any chance?’

  He gave her a quick appraising glance. ‘No, she left a few minutes ago. She’s having lunch with Giovanni Longheni, an old flame of hers, who’s over from the States. A pleasant, considerate man and now, happily, rich, he rang a short time ago to say he’d been detained and would be half an hour late.’

  Picking up the relief Sophia was unable to hide, Stephen said carefully, ‘When Gina declared her intention of popping up to say hello to you, I wondered if she intended to make herself unpleasant.’

  Sophia said nothing and after a moment he pressed, ‘So just how unpleasant was she?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she lied valiantly.

  ‘I bet!’

  She braced herself for more probing questions but, to her relief, he let the subject drop.

  Chapter 8

  When they reached the downstairs hall Sophia asked, ‘Do you mind if I stop to pick up my bag?’

  ‘Of course not…By the way, though there’s a breeze today, it’s even hotter than it was yesterday and the sun’s positively blazing down. So may I suggest that you put on some sunscreen and bring a pair of sunglasses, if you have them?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve brought both.’

  He chucked her under the chin, commenting, ‘Sensible as well as beautiful.’

  When she returned, well coated in sunscreen, her sunglasses in her bag, he was waiting for her in the living-room, his Polaroids tucked into the top pocket of his shirt.

  ‘Do you feel up to walking in this heat,’ he asked, ‘or shall we take the motorboat?’

  ‘The heat doesn’t bother me at all, and I’m wearing flat-heeled sandals, so if we’re really going to explore, let’s walk.’

  Draping his arm across her shoulder’s he mused, ‘Excellent woman!’

  She gave him a little smile ‘Don’t tell me…Most of the women you know don’t like to walk?’

  ‘Sassy, eh? But, as a matter of fact, you’re right. Gina won’t walk a step that isn’t absolutely necessary, unless it involves shopping.’

  The mention of the Marquise cast a shadow and, wishing she had resisted the urge to tease him, Sophia fell silent as they left the hall and—their footsteps echoing on the marble floor—took the arched passageway that led to the south entrance.

  Outside, it was baking. Even the breeze was hot and the sun was so bright that she was only too glad to put on her sunglasses.

  Crossing the same bridge they had crossed the previous evening, they headed through a maze of narrow calles and dusty campos towards San Marco.

  It was one of the quieter parts of the city and, though an occasional television could be heard behind closed shutters, and now and again through an open door they glimpsed a craftsman at work, the streets were deserted.

  When Sophia remarked on this, Stephen told her, ‘In this kind of heat most Venetians stay indoors, or else in their own shady courtyards…’

  But as they reached the busier tourist areas Sophia found that Venice was en fête. Crowds thronged the narrow streets and fondamentas, sunlight danced and sparkled on the canals, a variety of craft went past like a parade, and flags and pennants waved in the breeze.

  People sat beneath gaily striped umbrellas sipping iced drinks and eating, pigeons strutted and cooed and a variety of cats sunned themselves on balconies and window ledges.

  ‘Where exactly is Harry’s Bar?’ Sophia asked as they approached San Marco.

  ‘Just a few minutes’ walk away. It’s quite close to the waterfront.’

  When the Grand Canal widened out and became the Canale di San Marco, Stephen stopped and, pointing across the blue water, said, ‘The strip of land across there is the Giudecca.

  ‘The famous Hotel Cipriani is on the eastern tip. It’s surrounded by lush gardens and it’s the only hotel in Venice with a swimming pool…

  ‘And this is Harry’s Bar…’

  Standing on a corner, it looked quiet and discreet, with none of the overt glitz and glamour that Sophia had half expected, and inside, rather than the heavy red plush and gilt she had envisaged, the bar was light and elegant, with a telling simplicity.

  As though to confirm Stephen’s words, while they both sipped an excellent dry Martini, several very well-known faces came in and went through to the dining-room to have lunch.

  ‘If you prefer it, we can eat here,’ Stephen suggested quietly.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m quite happy to stick with the original plan.’

  ‘Very well, we can lunch here another time.’

  ‘I wonder if D
ad ever came here.’ Sophia spoke the thought aloud.

  ‘It’s quite possible. I noticed some very nice pictures of Venice in his exhibition, so presumably he knew the city well.’

  Sophia nodded. ‘Very well, I gather.’

  ‘And he liked it?’

  ‘Yes, he loved it.’

  He took her hand in his. ‘It seems strange that he never brought you.’

  ‘He always said we’d go one day, but though we went abroad while he could still travel, somehow we never got here. Whenever we discussed holiday plans and I suggested Venice, he said, “Perhaps next time”.’

  ‘You mentioned that your mother was born in Mestre…’ He paused. ‘Tell me about her. What was she like?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember much about her. I was barely seven when she died, and all I really know is what Dad told me.’ She looked up at him unsure whether to continue, but when he nodded, she told him everything she knew.

  ‘Her name was Maria. She was petite, with dark hair and eyes. Dad described her as being, “As pretty and as delicate-looking as Shelley China”. She was an only child, presumably because both her parents were middle-aged before she was born.

  ‘When she was young she suffered from recurring bouts of rheumatic fever, which seriously undermined her health so that she was never very strong.’ Sophia toyed with the fabric of her skirt.

  Stephen reached out and lifted her chin so that her eyes met his. ‘Where did she and your father meet?’

  ‘They first met in Rome, when Dad was with the Diplomatic Service. Her father—my grandfather—was an industrialist, and when he retired, he bought an apartment near the Villa Borghese and moved there with his wife and daughter.

  ‘Dad got to know the family when she and her parents attended one of the social functions at the British Embassy.

  ‘Though she did her best to settle in Rome, apparently she missed Venice and her friends very much so, after she and Dad got engaged, they went back at every opportunity.’

  She paused and took a sip of her drink. Then said thoughtfully, ‘I’ve often wondered how she coped after they were married and Dad was seconded to different embassies, whether she still regarded Venice as her home…’