Stephanie Howard - The Duke's Wife

As he turned away from the washbasin and tossed the towel aside, Damiano didn’t even so much as glance at his reflection in the mirror, as most men with his looks and physique undoubtedly would have done. For he had the most glorious face—it wasn’t just Sofia who thought that—and the tanned, exquisitely muscled body of an athlete. But the way he looked was something Damiano had never paid much attention to—which of course simply had the effect of making him even more impossibly attractive.

His unconcern grew out of the fact that he tended to have his mind on higher things, namely the duties and responsibilities that went with his position as reigning duke. Responsibilities to his people. Duties to his crown. For what drove Damiano was his absolute conviction that his principal role in life was to serve his country and honour the name of Montecrespi. All else in his life took second place to that.

He strode through to his dressing room where Emilio had already laid out his riding gear—creamcoloured breeches, burgundy jacket and high leather boots polished as bright as conkers—and, pulling off his trousers, began quickly to get dressed.

These rumours about divorce had upset him deeply. Never in all the years of his family’s rule of San Rinaldo had a royal Montecrespi been divorced. Of course, divorce happened all over. It was a fact of modern life. And it would never have occurred to Damiano to impose his views on others. But divorce was out of the question for him and Sofia. And the rumours were pernicious. They simply had to be stopped.

As he emerged from the dressing room, Emilio was waiting to inform him, ‘I’ve spoken with Kurt, Your Grace. He’s preparing Sirdar for you now.’

‘Thanks, Emilio.’ Damiano smiled at him. Emilio, who had been with him for over twelve years, was as much a valued friend as a valet. ‘If anyone phones for me, tell them I’ll be back in about an hour.’

On swift strides now he headed down to the stables. As he had explained to Sofia, he needed her cooperation, and it had been his fondest hope that she would offer it freely, though he might have known, of course, that to hope for that was madness. He cursed beneath his breath, recalling the bitter finale of their meeting. And now look what her hard-headedness had forced him into!

The last thing Damiano had wanted was to be pushed into making threats, especially threats that involved Alessandro. For, in spite of all her faults, Sofia was a wonderful mother—the best mother a man could ever wish for his son. And he esteemed her for that, deeply and sincerely, and he felt profoundly uneasy about the threat he had made. He’d been praying with all his heart that it would not come to that.

But now that the deed was done, would he stand by his threat? he wondered. Would he really be prepared to deprive Sofia of her son and little Alessandro of the mother he so adored? In the end, if it came to it, would he actually be capable of behaving like the monster Sofia had accused him of being?

Over the next hour, as he pounded across woodland and through thicket, Damiano continued to ask himself these questions. And when, once more calm, he finally arrived back at the stables and slid from Sirdar’s steaming back he knew the answer.

As a strictly temporary measure he would carry out his threat. Very reluctantly perhaps, but he would force himself to do it. Desperate situations, after all, called for desperate measures and it would be a short, sharp shock guaranteed to bring Sofia to her senses. But, with any luck, such drastic steps would not be necessary. The threat alone would be enough to persuade her to cooperate.

So, it’s up to you, Sofia, he thought as he headed back to the palace. Do the wise thing and capitulate if you don’t want a ‘monster’ on your hands.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER Damiano had gone and a maid had come to clear up the mess—which fortunately wasn’t as bad as it had sounded, for only one cup had been broken, though most of the tea had spilled over the carpet—Sofia walked unsteadily over to the window and stood staring unseeingly down into the garden, struggling desperately to calm herself. Surely this was about as low as things could possibly go?

She bit her lip. I hate him, she told herself. And at that thought a wretched sadness twisted at her heart. Once, she would have been incapable of even thinking such a thing. Once, she had been filled with the sheer joy of loving him and with the conviction that she would love him until the day she died.

Even now she could remember when she had first fallen in love with him. She had been ten years old, spending a summer holiday at the royal palace, the fabulous rosy-stoned Palazzo Verde which stood high on a promontory overlooking the sea and had been the home of the ruling Montecrespis for centuries. And she’d been sitting in one of the courtyards waiting for Caterina—Damiano’s younger sister, who was two years older than herself—when suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Damiano had appeared.

He’d been dressed in his riding gear—cream breeches and burgundy jacket—his high polished boots making a sharp clack-clack sound as he strode across the cobbled courtyard. He’d been about to walk past her, for she was half-hidden in a corner, but then, at the last minute, he’d spotted her and paused.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘And who are you?’

Sofia looked up at him and felt her heart turn over in her chest. Surely she must be dreaming? This had to be some fairy-tale prince? For she had never seen a more dashingly arresting sight in her life. He had the most wonderful face, long-lashed eyes as black as treacle and the most glorious head of hair, which in those days he wore a little longer and was as black and glossy as washed coal. And he was smiling at her with a warm smile that was turning her flesh to jelly.

She finally found her voice. ‘I’m Sofia,’ she said.

‘Sofia? Now which Sofia is that?’ He frowned a little. ‘I don’t think I know you.’

‘Sofia Riccione.’ Her tongue felt like cardboard. ‘My mother’s a friend of your mother, the Duchess, and I’m a friend of Caterina’s. I—’

‘Oh, that Sofia!’ He smiled more broadly, understanding, and Sofia caught a glimpse of perfect strong white teeth. ‘I’ve heard all about you from my sister. You’re the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Romano.’

Sofia nodded, wondering if she dared ask him who he was, though she had already guessed that he was probably Caterina’s elder brother. She’d already met Leone, her other brother, who was younger. But, even as she was wondering, he held out his hand to her.

‘Pleased to meet you, Sofia,’ he told her. ‘I’m Damiano. No doubt we’ll be bumping into one another from time to time.’

And they did, though not nearly as often as Sofia would have liked. Still, even just a glimpse of him was enough to make her day sublime—and to bring a blush to her cheeks, as, to her dismay, Caterina noticed.

‘You’re in love with my brother!’ she accused, shrieking with laughter. ‘You’re in love with Damiano! I’m going to tell him!’

Sofia nearly died. ‘Oh, no, don’t!’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t, Caterina! I’m not in love with him, I swear!’

‘Yes, you are!’ Caterina’s blue eyes were sparking with devilment. ‘I know the signs. I saw you blushing!’ Then she took pity on the distraught expression on poor Sofia’s face, for she would sooner have died than have her secret made public. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing,’ she promised solemnly. ‘And, anyway, I don’t blame you. Damiano’s terribly handsome. Both my brothers are, but especially Damiano. And one day, you know, he’s going to be the Duke.’ She laughed a teasing laugh. ‘How would you like to be his duchess?’