Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage

Minutes later, the car negotiated a gateway guarded by tall stone pillars, and drove into a large paved courtyard fronting the house, where a fountain in the Baroque style sent lazy arcs of water curving into the sparkling air.

Guido had barely stopped the car at the foot of the short flight of steps which led up to a massively timbered front entrance, when Paola came running out to meet them.

‘Clare, you have come.’ Face and voice were stormy. ‘I did not think it would happen—not when Guido has set his other jailer on me,’ she added, giving the Marchese a venomous look as he emerged from the car.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then Tonio is here. Bene.’

‘It is not good—’ Paola began rebelliously, but Clare stepped in.

‘Pardon me,’ she said levelly, ‘But I understood I was coming here as your companion, Paola. As a friend. Not a jailer. But if that’s how you see me, I’ll leave now.’

‘No, I did not mean it.’ Paola put a placatory hand on her sleeve. ‘I spoke hastily. I was just so angry when Tonio arrived.’

‘I cannot think why,’ Guido said coldly. ‘He is here on estate business to consult with me, and it is more convenient for him to stay in this house. His presence should not affect you. You need not even speak to him.’

‘Not speak to him?’ Paola’s voice lifted in outrage. ‘Someone I have known my entire life? Of course I shall talk to him.’ She grabbed Clare’s hand. ‘Now come and see your room.’

‘My luggage,’ Clare began.

‘Matteo will see to that.’ Paola tugged her into the house.

‘Matteo?’

‘Guido’s maggiordomo. And his wife, Benedetta, is the housekeeper.’

Clare found herself in a big, shadowy entrance hall with a flagged floor. At the far end, a wide stone staircase led the way to the upper floor, its harsh lines softened by a central strip of thick crimson carpet.

High, narrow windows admitted slanting pools of sunlight, and as she was whisked towards the stairs Clare noticed a number of double doors spaced at intervals around the hall. But before she could speculate where they might lead, she was halfway to the first floor.

‘Are they the only staff?’ she queried with slight breathlessness.

‘Dio, no.’ Paola gave a little laugh. ‘There is a cook, and two maids, as well as Guido’s driver—and his secretary. Then there is Alberto, the gardener, and the men who work for him. And Franco, who looks after the horses…’

‘A cast of thousands,’ Clare commented drily. ‘I didn’t realise there’d be horses here.’

‘Guido likes them.’ Paola’s tone was offhand. ‘When he was younger, of course, he played polo.’

‘You don’t ride?’

Paola shuddered dramatically. ‘No—nor play tennis, although Guido wishes me to learn.’

Clare smiled. ‘It’s a terrific game. You might enjoy it.’

Paola tossed her head. ‘Oh it is far too hot, and, besides, I do not like to run about. Although sometimes I swim in the pool,’ she added on a note of self-congratulation.

The Marchese might have been right about Paola’s lack of stamina after all, Clare thought wryly, following the younger girl along a broad gallery.

‘Do you play tennis—and ride—and go for long walks?’

‘Why—yes.’

‘And you truly like these things?’ Paola sighed gustily at Clare’s affirmative nod. ‘I shall never understand—never. But it’s good, because you can be a companion for Guido, and I shall have some peace.’

But that’s not the plan at all, Clare thought, appalled, and was about to say so when Paola announced, ‘You are here,’ and threw open a door with a flourish, allowing Clare to walk past her into the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen.

She had always considered that Violetta lived in a fair amount of luxury, but now her eyes widened as she took in the huge bed which dominated the room, its canopy and curtains in ivory silk, and the matching coverlet ornamented with medallions exquisitely embroidered in gold thread.

The rest of the furniture was correspondingly large, and made from some dark, heavily carved wood, and the far wall was occupied by tall shuttered windows giving access on to a wide balcony with a delicate wrought-iron balustrade.

The chill of the marble-tiled floor was relieved by beautiful tapestry rugs in blue, green and gold.

The adjoining bathroom was equally glamorous, tiled in grey and silver, with a sunken bath deep and wide enough for multiple occupation. There were stacks of white linen towels emblazoned with the Bartaldi family crest, and mirrored shelves of toiletries.

‘My room is further down the gallery, and Signora Andreati will be placed next door to you,’ Paola continued, as they returned to the bedroom. ‘Do you think you will be comfortable here?’

Clare drew a deep breath. ‘More than just comfortable,’ she said. ‘It’s all—quite amazing. I can hardly believe it.’

Paola shrugged. ‘It’s old-fashioned. Antiquato,’ she said dismissively. ‘And Guido refuses to change anything.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘You should see my stepmother’s apartment in Rome. Now that is truly elegante—and so modern.’

She sighed, then pointed to a silken rope hanging beside the bed. ‘If you need anything, ring the bell and Filumena, one of the maids, will come. She will also unpack for you if you wish.’

Clare shook her head. ‘I can manage my own unpacking. And I can’t think of a thing that hasn’t been provided already.

‘Well, Guido will wish you to be contented.’ Paola pulled a face. ‘Whatever I may think about him, I cannot deny he is a good host. And I am pleased that he brought you so early—so that we can have breakfast together. Come down when you are ready, and we will eat.’

She walked to the door, then looked back, lowering her voice mysteriously. ‘And later we will talk. Make plans. Ciao.’ And she vanished, leaving Clare feeling winded, and slightly apprehensive.

To try and ensure that Paola had a say in her own future was one thing, but plotting with her, especially if Fabio was involved, was something else.

She thought, I’m going to have to be very careful.

But, in the meantime, she could enjoy herself a little. She took another long, pleasurable look round the room, her gaze coming speculatively to rest on the big bed, wondering if it was really as soft and luxurious as it appeared.

Well, there was only one way to find out, she decided gleefully.

She took a flying leap and landed in the middle of it, bouncing up and down to test the springs, which met the challenge nobly.

She turned over and lay voluptuously, lazily supine, her arms tossed wide, one leg slightly drawn up, staring at the silken canopy above her.

This, she thought dreamily, must be what it’s like to float on a cloud. I shall sleep well in this bed. In fact, I could sleep right now. Just—drift away…

The tap on the door signalled the end of that particular dream, and the arrival of her luggage. What was the maid’s name? Had Paola said Filumena? Yes, she was sure of it.

She called, ‘Come in.’ And, as the door opened, ‘Please leave my bag by the cassetone, Filumena. I’ll see to it later.’

‘As you wish, signorina.’ The amused drawl which responded had no feminine tone whatsoever.

Clare jack-knifed into an upright position, tugging down her rumpled skirt, shocked colour flooding her face as Guido walked across the room and deposited her bag by the chest of drawers.

‘I am sorry to have startled you,’ he went on. ‘I brought your things myself so that I could make sure you had everything you needed.’

Clare swallowed. ‘Yes—I—everything…’ she managed.

She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking, finding her sprawled across a probably priceless bedspread like this.

He walked slowly across the room and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at her, smiling faintly. ‘You like the bed.’

It was a statement rather than a question, and Clare nodded mutely.

‘This was the room my mother used when she came to stay here before her marriage, while my father was paying court to her.’ His voice was almost meditative. ‘It was considered to be a safe distance from his room, on the other side of the gallery, and besides, her mother was next door.

‘But I have often wondered if, during the long, hot Umbrian afternoons, love did not sometimes find a way.

‘It is, after all, a serious temptation to find yourself under the same roof as the one you desire—don’t you think, Chiara?’

‘I—I don’t know.’ Her mouth was dry, but her body was suddenly melting, stirred into arousal by the images he had created.

She could feel a trickle of sweat running down the valley between her breasts, as her nipples swelled uncontrollably into hard peaks against the clinging fabric of her top. The damp, potent heat between her thighs seemed to be spreading through her entire being, engulfing her. Prompting her to madness. To ruin.

Because some secret, atavistic wisdom was telling her that all she had to do was reach out a hand to him—draw him down beside her—and her body would be his.

She knew it as surely as she knew she must draw air into her lungs to breathe.

And, for a few, brief honeyed moments, he would belong to her, too. But only in the most basic, physical sense. There could never be any more to it than that.

Whereas she was offering him her heart and soul. The year’s most unwanted gift, she realised with sudden, savage anguish.

And only she would ever know how close she had come to betraying her own pride and self-respect.

From somewhere, she found a voice. Cool, calm and almost collected. A stranger’s. ‘Those were other times, signore. And other people. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to unpack. Would you tell Paola that I’ll join her in a minute?’

There was a silence, then he said quietly, ‘It will be my pleasure.’

She did not watch him walk away. And she sensed rather than heard the door close behind him.

And even when she knew she was alone she did not move, but stayed where she was, crouched tensely on the bed, her arms wrapped round her body. As if remaining quiet and still would somehow shield her from disaster. From the danger she’d sensed in the first moment she saw him. The danger of total self-betrayal.

She said with a new and passionate intensity, ‘I shall indeed have to be careful. Very careful.’

And shivered.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SHE could not, of course, stay where she was, hiding in her room, however much she might want to.

Out of the confusion of her thoughts, that much at least was plain.

Because to skulk ignominiously upstairs would be a complete give-away. An acknowledgement that he had got to her. Penetrated the guard she had thought virtually indestructible. Set her emotions in turmoil. And she could not allow him such a victory.

He had chosen Paola and he intended to marry her, and that was it. That was everything. Anything else was game-playing, probably because he was bored with his tepid courtship.

So, she had to fight him—but not by meeting fire with fire. She could see what a perilous course that might be. No, her best—her safest bet was a war of attrition. Following her own rules of play instead of being beguiled by his. Demonstrating politely, even smilingly, that she was totally indifferent to his lethal charm. That he couldn’t reach her any more.

It might take time, but he would eventually get the message. He was an experienced, sophisticated man. A one-sided contest would soon hold little interest for him.

And for her, the real struggle would be with herself, she acknowledged painfully. Forcing herself to control her vulnerable senses—to subdue every female instinct she possessed.

And somehow she had to begin now. She had to walk down that imposing staircase and join Guido Bartaldi and his family in the dining room for breakfast, and it would require every shred of composure in her being.

She dived into her travel bag and extracted a dress, straight-cut and businesslike in navy, with short sleeves and a discreetly rounded neck, adding low-heeled navy sandals. She brushed her hair back severely from her face, and confined it at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell barrette.

That was better, she thought, viewing herself critically in one of the full-length mirrors. She looked quiet and professional, and that was the image she needed to put over. It was an armour that had served her well in the past.

She drew a deep, steadying breath, then started downstairs. Matteo was waiting in the hall to conduct her to the dining room.

‘Grazie.’ She returned his smile. ‘So many doors.’

‘You will soon become accustomed, signorina.’ He nodded. ‘Si, very soon you will be quite at home.’

Which was the last thing she wanted to hear.

But it helped that the dining room seemed full of people as he showed her in. She was able to smile round and return the polite chorus of ‘Buongiornos’ which greeted her, and pretend to be unconscious of the tall figure standing by the window at the end of the room.

‘So there you are. What an age you have been.’ Paola came over to her, slipping an arm through hers. ‘Everyone is waiting to meet you.’ She led Clare over to the handsome older man she’d glimpsed outside the Villa Rosa. ‘This is Guido’s uncle, the Conte di Mantelli. May I present Chiara Marriot, who is to be my companion?’

‘It is a pleasure, signorina. And one too long delayed.’ The Count’s handshake was firm, and his face kind. ‘But I have heard a great deal about you, of course.’

‘I can’t think that the Marchese can have found to say. After all, we hardly know each other.’ Clare’s tone was repressive, and he looked surprised.

‘Guido? But I was referring to your godmother, the Signora Andreati. She has been my informant.’

‘Oh,’ Clare said in a hollow voice. ‘I see.’

Well done, she berated herself silently. An own goal in the first minute.

She was horribly aware that Guido had heard every word of the little exchange, and was looking frankly amused.

She turned with something like relief to meet Tonio Lerucci, introduced by Paola with a casualness that bordered on rudeness.

He was younger than she’d imagined, and of medium height, with a charming smile that lit his dark monkey face.

‘It is good to meet you, signorina. Let me get you some coffee.’

She thanked him, chatting lightly while she filled a plate from the display of cold meat, sausage and cheese on the massive sideboard, and took a hot roll from a covered basket proffered by a maid.

Guido had taken his seat at the head of the table, so she contrived to manouevre herself into a chair at the other end, finding herself next to the Count.

‘So, signorina, what do you think of the Villa Minerva? Or is it too early to make a judgement?’

‘By no means. I think it’s—beautiful.’ She glanced up at the exquisitely painted ceiling. ‘That must be very old.’

‘Nearly four hundred years,’ he agreed. ‘As you see, it is a representation of Leda and the god Zeus who came to her in the guise of a swan.’ He pointed. ‘And there is the goddess Hera, watching jealously.’

‘As she had to do so often,’ Clare said drily. ‘The painting’s in wonderful condition.’

‘It has undergone certain restoration work, as most of the house’s treasures have done.’ He turned his head towards the Marchese. ‘I am telling Signorina Marriot, Guido, that you are an excellent guardian of your heritage.’ He nodded. ‘Your son will be a fortunate man.’

Clare, wincing inwardly, saw Paola look up with a mutinous scowl, and hastily intervened with a question about the date of the present house, which the Count was happy to answer.

He was clearly an enthusiast, and very knowledgeable, and after a while Clare forgot her self-consciousness in the sheer pleasure of listening to him.

During their conversation, she learned that he had been married to Guido’s aunt, but had been a widower for nearly five years.

‘To our sorrow, we had no children,’ he said. ‘So Guido was always more than a nephew to us, and, since I have been alone, he has made sure I continue to be part of his family.’ He smiled faintly. ‘He has a keen sense of his obligations, although, admittedly, he has waited longer to marry than his father would have wished.’

Clare bit her lip. ‘Perhaps he’s been waiting for his bride to grow up,’ she suggested awkwardly.

‘Or maybe he wished to be sure that she was the one woman to fill his life,’ the Count said gently. ‘He has made no secret of desiring a marriage as happy as that of his parents.’

Then why is he marrying Paola? Clare bit back the question. It was not her place to ask, she told herself raggedly. And, if he was determined enough, he could probably salvage something from such an ill-matched relationship, anyway.

Breakfast over, Clare found herself commandeered by Paola, on the pretext that she wished to show her the gardens.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But then we must do some work. After all, I’m here primarily to give you language lessons.’

Paola pulled a face. ‘School. Always it is more school with Guido.’

‘Well, it’s important that you should be able to talk to foreign clients with him,’ Clare said reasonably.

Paola giggled. ‘But that is not going to happen, silly one. And Fabio speaks only Italian, so you can just pretend to give me lessons.’

I think, Clare mused wearily, as she followed the younger girl into the sunlit grounds, that I already have as much pretence in my life as I can handle.

In spite of her misgivings, Clare found her first day at the Villa Minerva passing more tranquilly than she could have hoped.

She toured the gardens with Paola, turning a partially deaf ear to the torrent of half-formed and generally unworkable plans for her future that the younger girl assailed her with.

The villa’s grounds were extensive and immaculately kept, and Clare, who loved plants, and had always worked alongside her father in their own garden, would have liked to have absorbed it all in peace.

But, as this was clearly impossible, every so often she tried to introduce a note of sceptical and practical reality by asking what Fabio did for a living, where they would live after they were married, and how their bills would be paid. But Paola was inclined to dismiss all that as irrelevant.

‘All that matters,’ she declared passionately, ‘is our love for each other. And, besides, I shall have money when I’m older. I shall just have to make Guido give some of it to me now.’

Clare raised her brows. ‘After you’ve made a fool of him by running off with Fabio?’ She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

‘Ah,’ Paola said triumphantly. ‘But he will not wish it to be known that I have fooled him. Therefore, for the sake of his pride, he will do what I want, so that people will think he does not care.’

In which there was a certain twisted logic, Clare was forced to admit.

She said, ‘Well, I hope everything works out for the best. Now, can you tell me the names of these flowers in English?’

But this Paola could not do, cheerfully admitting she didn’t know what they were called in Italian either.

‘Instead, we will go down to the pool and swim a little,’ she announced.

‘Paola, I’m here to work, not vacation.’

Paola pouted. ‘But this is only the first day. And Guido will not know. He and Tonio will be shut up in his study all morning, talking about farms and vineyards and the olive crop. All we need to do is avoid Zio Cesare, who is boring.’

‘He’s nothing of the sort,’ Clare said roundly. ‘I was fascinated by what he was telling me about the villa.’

Paola gave her a stare of sheer incredulity. ‘Chiara—you like to hear about Etruscans—and architecture—and the school of Raphael?’ She flung her hands in the air. ‘Then there is no hope for you.’

‘No,’ Clare agreed quietly. ‘I don’t suppose there is.’

In the event, they had the pool entirely to themselves. Clare was about to go back to the house to get her swimsuit, but Paola directed her to the stone-built cabins, on a cypress-sheltered terrace overlooking the water, which served as showers and changing rooms, and told her that there was always a supply of spare swimsuits and towels for guests.

Most of those on offer seemed to be bikinis considerably briefer than her own, so Clare opted for a one-piece in a deep bronze colour.

It wasn’t really suitable either, she thought grimly, being cut far too high in the leg and low in the neck, and fitting her like a second skin to boot.

Paola, she discovered, had simply discarded the cotton shift she’d been wearing to reveal a costume that consisted of a black thong and two minute circles of material that barely covered her nipples.

Really, Clare thought wearily, it hardly seemed worth the effort.

But the pool itself was wonderful, a great oval of gleaming turquoise water surrounded by tiled sunbathing terraces.

She walked to the edge and submerged a foot gingerly. The water felt terrific—cool, but refreshing. She poised herself, then dived in, swiftly and cleanly, completing three lengths without pausing.

‘You are crazy,’ Paola told her severely, as Clare hauled herself out on to the side and wrung the water from her hair. ‘Such exercise cannot be good. You will develop big muscles—like a man.’

Clare grinned. ‘I’ll take that chance.’ She towelled herself down, then stretched out on an adjacent lounger to Paola’s.

The morning was still, and would soon be very hot. After a few desultory remarks about her longing to hear from Fabio again, Paola drifted into silence, and then into a light doze.

But Clare had her thoughts to keep her awake. She was beginning to think she had bitten off more than she could chew where Paola was concerned. Perhaps it would have been wiser simply to tell Guido Bartaldi that, in spite of everything, his future wife was still planning to elope with her fortune-hunter, and let him deal with the situation in his own way.

If he fully appreciated Paola’s determination to be rid of him, he might even abandon the whole idea of marrying her. Or it might make him equally determined to win her over.

He wasn’t a man to easily surrender his own will, and his mind was set on Paola.

She sighed, and sat up restlessly, swinging her legs off the lounger. She was in no mood to lie around brooding.

She said softly, ‘Paola? I’m going up to the house to unpack, and make some notes about the lessons. I’ll see you at lunch.’

The only reply was a sleepy murmur which might have meant anything.

Draping her towel round her shoulders, Clare walked up the stone steps between the banks of shrubs towards the changing cabin.

The air was full of scent, and busy with the hum of insects. She drew a deep breath, and became suddenly aware of another less agreeable aroma.

Somewhere in the vicinity someone was smoking a cigarette.

Frowning, she glanced along the row of cypresses, and saw a young man standing between them, leaning on a hoe, the offending cigarette between faintly smiling lips as he stared down at the pool area. Wearing earth-stained jeans, and bare-chested, he was good-looking in an obvious way, and, if Clare was any judge, perfectly aware of his own attractions.

One of the gardeners, she thought, biting her lip, taking a sly look at Paola sunbathing, and so engrossed he hadn’t heard her approach.

She said in icy Italian, ‘Have you no work to do?’

He started, and turned to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, signorina.’ His tone was polite, even ingratiating, but his eyes were insolent, sliding swiftly and appraisingly over her body, making her regret even more the revealing nature of her swimsuit. ‘I am having my break. I did not realise there was anyone at the pool.’

Clare lifted her chin, giving him a sceptical look. ‘Well, now that you know, go and have your break somewhere else,’ she said crisply.

‘Si, signorina. At once. Naturally. Forgive me. I have not worked here very long, and I did not understand… I—I need this job, signorina. I am Marco’s cousin. He spoke for me to Signor Lerucci.’