Julia James - The Italian's Token Wife

‘Rafaello,’ she murmured. ‘Such a surprise.’ Her voice was neutral, her eyes assessing. Rafaello returned her look blandly.

‘As you see, the prodigal returns,’ he observed laconically. ‘Have you had a pleasant day?’

‘Very,’ returned Lucia. ‘Tio Enrico accompanied me to the launch of an art exhibition in Firenze. A new artist I enjoy.’

A polite smile grazed Rafaello’s mouth. ‘And does he enjoy you, too?’ he murmured.

Lucia’s face stiffened immediately. ‘You offend, Rafaello!’ she snapped.

He shrugged elegantly. He shouldn’t bait her, he knew—but he was well aware that Lucia Foscesca took her lovers mostly from artistic circles. Young men who were likely to put up with her in exchange for the influence she could bring to bear on their careers. It was one of the—many—reasons that Rafaello refused to gratify his parent’s insistence on the suitability of marriage between the cousins. Call him old-fashioned—and Lucia frequently did, with a taunting laugh that could not quite hide her annoyance—but he would prefer his bride to be less well acquainted with the opposite sex.

He stilled. The word ‘bride’ pulled him up short. The idea that upstairs a scrawny, unlovely, sexually undiscriminating twenty-one-year-old English girl, with a nameless, fatherless child in her arms, was actually, in the eyes of the law, his bride of less than twelve hours struck him as completely unbelievable. Had he really gone through with it? What he had done still felt completely unreal. Insane. Then he hardened his resolve.

Yes, he had done it—put his name and hers on a wedding certificate. He had had no other option. His hand had been forced. Angry resentment seethed through him, but he banked it down. He’d get his revenge for what his stubborn, pig-headed father had made him do—get it right now.

His father was speaking again.

‘And to what, may I ask—’ his father’s voice sounded biting ‘—do we owe this unexpected honour?’

Rafaello’s dark eyes glinted. ‘Why, Papà, tomorrow is my thirtieth birthday. Surely you knew I would come?’

Enrico di Viscenti’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did I?’ he countered.

His son smiled. ‘And here I am—as dutiful as ever. Come,’ he went on, ‘join me on the terrace—I believe a little…celebration…is in order.’

He was aware of Lucia’s piercing scrutiny and sudden, riveted attention, and his gaze moved from his father to meet her assessing gaze. He smiled blandly, his eyes glinting just as his father’s had done.

‘Lucia—you will join us, of course.’

His voice was urbane, but it signalled volumes. He watched as a slow expression of satisfaction, swiftly veiled, passed over her handsome features.

‘Good,’ said Rafaello, and smiled again. But beneath the smile a hard, tight band seemed to be lashing itself around his heart.

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