Sara Craven - Wed To The Italian - Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage

‘I have a house,’ he said. ‘But it is not a home. I have a great name, but no heir. I have relationships, but not with a woman who can fill my heart to the exclusion of all others. Are those good enough reasons?’

Clare looked down her nose. ‘It all sounds a little cold-blooded to me.’

‘But you are so wrong,’ he said softly. ‘As my wife will discover for herself once her nights are spent in my arms.’

She looked down at the tiles at her feet, feeling the sudden startled colour flood her face. Aware of the urgent necessity to veil her eyes from him. Feeling some unfamiliar, confused emotion composed of envy and a kind of regret tremble inside her. And trying desperately to crush it down…

She said in a low voice, ‘Maybe you should start convincing her of that now.’

‘That would not be appropriate,’ he told her coolly. ‘We are not even officially engaged to each other.’

Back under control, she looked up, lifting her brows satirically. ‘I did not think you were so conventional, Marchese.’

‘But then you know so little about me, Chiara,’ he came back at her, sardonically.

‘That,’ she said. ‘Is my choice.’ She rose to her feet again. ‘I won’t do as you ask. Because I can’t understand why you’d want to marry anyone who’s already run away from you once.’

He shrugged as he got out of his chair. ‘Perhaps it is the nature of love—the girl to fly and the man to follow.’ He paused. ‘Is that your only reservation?’

‘No.’

‘Ah,’ he said, and was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Paola will be disappointed. It was her idea that you should take the Signora’s place.’

‘Please tell her I’m sorry.’

‘I hope you will tell her yourself.’ He paused again. ‘And do not let your dislike for me prevent you from being her friend while you remain in Umbria. She would like very much for you to visit her.’

Clare swallowed ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’

‘Why not?’ Guido Bartaldi spread his hands enquiringly. ‘I have accepted your decision. So, what harm can it do?’

Oh, God, thought Clare, you have no idea. And thank God you haven’t…

Aloud, she said, ‘I may not be around for much longer. After all, I have…’ She paused swiftly, realising what she was about to say.

‘A living to earn?’ he supplied silkily, and accurately. ‘And yet you will not take work when it is offered. How strange.’

‘I’m a grown woman, signore. As I’ve said, I make my own choices.’

‘A woman?’ he queried thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if it is true.’

‘How—how dare you?’ She glared at him, shock tightening her throat. ‘My—personal circumstances are nothing to do with you.’

‘Basta. I am not claiming that you are still physically a virgin,’ he said impatiently. ‘That is immaterial. What matters is that sometimes, when I look at you, Chiara, I see a frightened child hitting out at the world—and hurting only herself.’

She said icily, ‘Thank you for the psychological profile. Remind me to do a run-down on you some time.’ She paused. ‘But tell Paola if she wants to visit me here, I’ll be happy to see her. Maybe we can have a dolls’ tea party.’ She bent and picked up her towel and the magazines. ‘Perhaps you’d excuse me now. I’m sure my godmother will be glad to see you before you go.’

‘I think she is quite happy talking to my uncle.’ He had the gall to sound amused. ‘He was hoping to meet you, but I see you are not in the mood.

He walked over to her, and stood for a moment looking down at her.

‘I have made you angry,’ he said quietly. ‘And also scared you a little, I think. I did not intend to.’ He took her unresisting hand and raised it to his lips, swiftly and gently. ‘Arrivederci, Chiara.’ His voice was low—intimate.

She felt the heat of the sun surrounding her like a golden web, closing her in with him as she stared at him mutely, caught in the thrall of the moment.

His tone changed—became brisk, almost businesslike. ‘And if you should change your mind about the job I have offered, naturalamente, you have only to let me know.’

The pang of disappointment was so sharp she almost cried out.

Instead, she snatched her hand away, offering him a smile that glittered like a razor.

She said dulcetly, ‘All hell will freeze over first, Marchese. Goodbye.’

And she walked away, her head held high, up the steps to the rose terrace, and into the house.

CLARE made her way into the house by a side door, avoiding the salone.

She went straight to her room, where she stripped off her wrap and bikini and showered, revolving slowly under the warm cascade, tilting up her face, eyes closed, to its power, then cupping her hands and pouring water over her hair, and down her breasts and thighs until she felt cleansed and revived.

She towelled down slowly and thoroughly, discovering that she was watching her own reflection warily in the bathroom’s long mirror, as if she might find some stranger she did not recognise looking back at her.

She put on clean underwear, then slipped into a pair of dark green silky culottes, and a matching sleeveless top with a scooped neckline.

As she was brushing her damp hair, she heard voices below her window, and, peeping out cautiously, saw Guido Bartaldi and an older man, tall, grey-haired and handsome, walking towards the chauffeured limousine awaiting them on the drive.

She sighed with relief, because she’d feared Violetta might have persuaded them to stay for lunch. And it would be useless to pretend ill health again.

She slid her feet into heel-less silver kid sandals, and went downstairs.

She found her godmother standing by the long glass doors leading on to the terrace, staring out at the garden, so deep in her reverie that she started when Clare spoke to her.

‘Ah, carissima.’ There was a note of reproach in her voice. ‘I was wondering where you were. I wished to present you to the Conte did Mantelli.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Clare dropped a penitent kiss on her cheek. ‘I got a little overheated in the garden, and went up to my room to cool off.’ She looked round innocently. ‘Have your visitors gone?’

‘Yes.’ Violetta gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘But I do not flatter myself that they came to see me.’ She paused. ‘I understand the Marchese had a proposition for you.’

‘Yes,’ Clare said calmly. ‘He wants me to act as chaperon for his bride-to-be.’

‘That is what his uncle the Conte told me.’ Violetta sighed. ‘The girl Paola is a big problem to them all, I think. Clearly she needs someone simpatico, but with sense, to be her companion.’ She shot Clare a sideways glance. ‘I told the Conte you would be an ideal choice.’

‘Does he know that forty-eight hours ago his nephew was trying to have me jailed?’

‘Ah, but that was just a terrible misunderstanding,’ Violetta protested. ‘So unfortunate.’

‘Unfortunate for me, certainly,’ Clare agreed. ‘I could have been deported. Unable to work here again.’

‘But that has all changed now,’ Violetta said coaxingly. ‘And it would mean you would stay in Umbria, as I have always wished. It was always a sorrow to me that I had no children. And a daughter especially. This will allow me to see more of you while you earn a living.’

Clare bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Violetta, but I turned the Marchese down. I can’t possibly work for him. You must see that.’

‘I see nothing of the kind,’ Violetta said with a touch of tartness. ‘You would live in luxury, and be paid a generous salary simply to stop a tiresome girl from causing more trouble. How can you refuse?’