Sara Craven - The Italians - Angelo, Rocco & Stefano - Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener

She found Angelo standing by the open windows in the salotto, looking broodingly over the gardens, a glass of his usual whisky in his hand. He turned as she entered, his brows lifting. ‘Mia bella,’ he said softly. ‘You look like a bride again.’

Ellie was taken aback. She’d meant to indicate that she hadn’t taken any particular trouble with her appearance. That, for her, this was just—any evening. She said with constraint, ‘That was not my intention.’

He clicked his tongue, his smile glinting. ‘You disappoint me. Would you like a drink?’

‘Sì, grazie. Some fresh orange juice.’

‘You do not think the circumstances call for something stronger?’ He added ice to the tumbler and brought it to her.

She took the drink with a word of thanks. ‘I suppose you mean the circumstances of my learning from Assunta that you’d apparently escaped death by inches?’ She kept her voice cool and level.

‘Sì —among other things.’

The juice was sweet and refreshingly cold against her dry throat. ‘Is that why you suddenly decided you needed a child to carry on your name? Why you no longer wanted to wait for the day when you’d be rid of me at last and able to find a wife more to your taste?’

His tone was reflective. ‘It reminded me, certamente, how unexpected life can become—and how fragile. And that it is by no means certain that the future Contessa you describe even exists.’

‘But you’ll never know,’ she said. ‘Unless you try to find her.’

‘Ah,’ Angelo said softly. ‘But that could take forever, and I also realised how unwise it is to allow time to—waste.’ He paused. ‘Besides, my decision was not as sudden as you may think.’

She said huskily, ‘And if I say I still find it—unacceptable.’

‘Then I shall try to persuade you to change your mind. I have not forgotten, carissima, how sweet your lips once tasted.’ His gaze travelled slowly from her mouth down to the slender curves now hidden by the discreet vee of her neckline. ‘I believe, with your permission, that I could make you happy.’

‘A practical demonstration of your famed skill with women?’ Ellie lifted her chin. ‘I don’t think so.’

There was another silence, then he said, ‘I would not have described my intentions in those terms.’

‘Then we must agree to differ. In any case, it hardly matters.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The truth is you wish me to have your child. We do not have to be—lovers in the usual sense to achieve this.’

He said, frowning, ‘Perhaps I sustained some blow on the head this afternoon, for I find myself singularly stupid tonight. Have the goodness to explain what you mean, per favore.’

‘You told me earlier you wished me to—live with you—as your wife.’ She stared down at the melting ice in her glass.

‘But I—I wouldn’t find that acceptable. However, if you simply wanted to change the manner of your—visits to me at night in order to make me pregnant, I would agree to that. But only that.’

There was a further, more ominous silence, then Angelo said quietly and courteously, ‘I am still not sure I understand you. At least,’ he corrected himself, ‘I hope I do not. Are you saying, effettivamente, that you will allow me occasional access to your body solely for the purpose of procreation?’

‘Yes.’ She did not look at him.

He said hoarsely, ‘Santa Madonna, Elena, you surely cannot mean that.’

‘I do mean it,’ she said. ‘Those are my conditions for having your child, and ensuring the Manzini succession. They won’t change.’

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to stroke her cheek, and Ellie recoiled, her heart skipping a beat as she retreated a step. He must believe, she thought, that he would only have to touch her.

Angelo halted, the dark brows snapping together as he studied her. He said at last, ‘So am I never to hope that we will spend our nights sharing a bed together—sleeping in each other’s arms after we have made love?’

She bit down on her lip. ‘Why not hope instead, signore, that I waste none of the time you mentioned, and give you a son very quickly.’ She paused. ‘And I’m quite sure your nights won’t be lonely without me, so you could be getting the best of both worlds.’

‘How curious you should think so.’ He drank the remainder of his whisky with an angry jerk of the arm, then walked to the door, holding it open for her with exaggerated politeness. ‘And now, my dear wife, shall we have dinner? After which, I shall, of course, avail myself of your unparalleled generosity. Or do I perhaps need your consent in writing first? No? Then— avanti!’

In spite of some formidable past competition, it was quite the most difficult meal she had ever eaten in his company.

Except that she didn’t really eat it, but merely pushed the food round her plate as if doing so.

Angelo, however, much to her resentment, ate everything placed in front of him as though he did not have a care in the world, or a thought in his head besides the enjoyment of his cook’s delicious food.

Afterwards, in the salotto, he swallowed his coffee as if his throat was lined with asbestos, then offered her a smile which did not reach his eyes.

‘I think it is time to retire, carissima. I shall inform your maid that her services will not be required tonight. I look forward to joining you prima possibile.’

‘As soon as possible.’ The loaded words tormented her all the way upstairs to her room.

She undressed and washed, before slipping into one of the chiffon and lace nightgowns provided in her trousseau. Then, sitting at her dressing table, she began to brush her hair, just as she had done on her wedding night, seeking once again a tranquillity which was beyond her.

Maybe, she thought, swallowing, she should simply settle for courage instead. Or at least the ability to conceal she was trembling inside.

She had just put the brush down and got to her feet when Angelo came noiselessly into the room, wearing his usual black silk robe. He paused, looking her up and down, his mouth twisting.

‘Is it not a little late for such modesty?’ he asked ironically. ‘Particularly when your virginity is about to be sacrificed.’

Colour burned in her face. ‘Please,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Please don’t say things like that.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see. You may treat me as if I were the dirt on your shoe, but I must still behave with consideration. Is that it?’

Ellie stood where she was, looking wretchedly down at the floor, and heard him sigh, quickly and sharply.

He said, ‘It is still not too late, Elena. We can forget everything that has been said today—put the last months behind us, if you will come to me now as my bride on our marriage night.’ His voice was low and very gentle. ‘Trust me, mia cara, with your innocence and, this first time, give yourself to me completely so that we can remember it with joy for the rest of our lives.’

Ellie walked to the bed, and slid under the covers, remembering with a stab of pain how Silvia’s hand had touched them in possession. Had in the past touched him.

She kept her tone cool. ‘I think you have enough memories, signore. I have no wish to add to your tally.’

For a moment, he was very still. When he spoke, his voice was harsh. ‘I shall not ask again. Let it be as you wish.’

He flung off the robe and got into bed beside her, propping himself on an elbow as he looked down at her. He muttered what was undoubtedly an obscenity under his breath, then drew her towards him, under him, his hand stroking the skirts of her nightdress away from her body as he did so, before parting her thighs.