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

Clare didn’t want to hear any more. Pulling the towel more tightly round her shoulders, she started up the steps again. Then paused, as she was struck by the sudden conviction that, despite his grovelling protestations, he was still standing there, laughing at her behind her back. She swung round to challenge him, but apart from the discarded cigarette, burning on the ground, there was no sign of him.

She thought, good riddance, and went on up to the cabin.

At some point, she thought, stepping under the shower, she would have a word with Tonio Lerucci about this Marco’s precious cousin.

She peeled off the borrowed swimsuit, and wrapped another towel around her, sarong-style, as she went to her cubicle to dress.

Only to realise when she got in there that she’d made a mistake somehow. Because the dress hanging from the peg bore no resemblance to her navy linen camouflage.

Except that it was also blue, a vibrant shade, like lapis lazuli, with the added sheen of silk.

She was about to go and search the other cubicles when she realised that the pile of neatly folded underwear on the stool in the corner was certainly hers. And at the same moment she saw that the strange dress had a piece of paper pinned to its filmy drift of skirt.

She detached it, and, lips compressed, read the message.

‘Forgive me,’ it ran, ‘but it is clearly time the navy dress was consigned to a well-deserved oblivion. I hope its replacement will give you pleasure.’ No signature, but the initials ‘G.B.’—just in case she was in the slightest doubt over who was responsible for this—this outrage.

She said aloud, her voice shaking, ‘How dare he? How dare he do this—presume to criticise me?’

She dismissed from her mind the fact that the navy dress had been the one she liked least in her entire wardrobe, and that she’d chosen to wear it solely as a gesture.

And she ignored the sly voice in her head reminding her that all the Marchese had done was recognise what she was up to and respond with his own telling form of provocation.

‘He has no right,’ she stormed on. ‘I’m damned if I’ll wear his bloody dress. I’ll see him in hell before…’

And stopped right there, as she realised the other options open to her. She could either climb back into that damp and clammy swimsuit, or walk around in her undies. And neither alternative held any appeal for her.

On the other hand, Guido Bartaldi could not be allowed to get away with this high-handed behaviour.

Reluctantly, Clare donned her underwear, and slid the new dress over her head. She was half hoping it wouldn’t fit, although that would mean having to wear her towel back to the house.

But of course it moulded itself to her slender curves perfectly, the low, rounded neckline giving just a hint of the swell of her breasts and the folds of the skirt whispering silkily around her slim legs. The colour looked good on her too, she admitted grudgingly.

But somehow that made everything worse—implying that he had some in-built intimate knowledge of her—her size, her shape, even her skin tones.

She found she was shivering, and shook herself impatiently. She needed to march into this confrontation, not hang back, trembling.

But when she got back to the villa, she was halted in her tracks by the realisation that she had no idea where Guido was. And there was no kindly major-domo waiting to point the way, either.

As she stood, debating her next move, a door to the rear of the massive hallway opened and Tonio Lerucci appeared. He did not see Clare at once, because he was still looking back over his shoulder into the room he’d just vacated, and apparently finishing a conversation with its occupant.

When he turned, his brows lifted in an open surprise. ‘Signorina Marriot?’ He laughed. ‘Forgive me. Almost I did not recognise you.’

Clare smiled sweetly back. ‘Don’t worry about it, signore. Sometimes I hardly know myself.’ She paused. ‘Is our lord and master alone? I’d like to speak to him.’

‘It will be his pleasure, signorina,’ Tonio returned gallantly.

Don’t count on it, thought Clare, briskly obeying his polite indication that she should walk past him into the study.

It was a large book-lined room, and rather dark, the low ornamental ceiling of moulded plaster supported on stone pillars. But its traditional formality was offset by the French doors standing open to the sunlit garden beyond, and the very modern desk with its bank of computer equipment. And, not least, by Guido Bartaldi, totally casual in shorts and an unbuttoned shirt in thin cotton, who was perched on the edge of the desk, long legs much in evidence, as he studied the information on the screen in front of him.

As she closed the door behind her, Clare said clearly and coldly, ‘I’d like a word with you, signore.’

‘But not a pleasant one, it seems.’ He lifted his head and subjected her to a long stare which held a measure of frank appreciation. ‘I thought perhaps you had come to thank me.’

‘To thank you?’ Her voice rose sightly. ‘For what? For insulting me?’

‘In what way?’

‘You know perfectly well.’ She took a fold of the dress between thumb and forefinger and held it out with distaste. ‘With—this.’

‘I am sorry you don’t like it,’ he said, after a pause. ‘But we can always find something else. Is it the colour which offends you, or the fabric?’

‘Neither.’ Clare bit down hard on her lip. ‘It’s—the concept that you should buy me clothes.’

He looked surprised. ‘I supply uniforms for all the staff in this house. None of them complain.’

She gasped. ‘You call—this a uniform? You must be joking.’

‘Well, let us compromise and call it work clothing,’ he said smoothly.

Clare drew a deep breath. ‘Let us do nothing of the kind,’ she said stonily. ‘In my previous employment I’ve always worn my own clothes.’

‘And did they all resemble the garment you wore to breakfast—or was that a special choice?’

The note of amusement in his voice did nothing to improve Clare’s temper. Nor the fact that he’d seen so effortlessly through her little ploy.

She said tautly, ‘I’m sorry, naturally, if my fashion sense doesn’t meet your exacting standards, but I still prefer to wear my own things. And I’d like my navy dress back, please.’

‘Ah,’ he said, after a pause. ‘That could be a problem.’

‘I fail to see why.’

‘There are several reasons,’ Guido said calmly. ‘Firstly my uncle, who is, you understand, an art historian, and whose sense of the aesthetic was crucified this morning by your decision to shroud yourself in an ill-fitting sack. He’s no longer so young, and I must consider his feelings. You see how it is?’

‘No,’ Clare said roundly. ‘I don’t.’

‘Then there is the actual fate of the dress itself,’ he went on musingly. ‘I told Filumena, who made the substitution, to burn it. I am sure she has obeyed me by now.’

Clare stared at him. ‘You—burned my dress?’ she asked with ominous calm.

‘It seemed the easiest solution.’ He nodded. ‘Otherwise I could foresee it would continue to haunt us all during your time here.’

‘But this is an outrage.’ Her voice shook. ‘You can’t do this.’

‘Unfortunately, it is already done.’ He paused. ‘Although I cannot pretend my regrets are sincere. Not when you are standing here in front of me, wearing the replacement.’

He swung himself down from the desk. ‘Dio, Chiara.’ There was a sudden fierce, uneven note in his voice. ‘Don’t you know how beautiful you are?’

Clare looked down at the floor, detaching herself from the dark gaze consuming her, feeling her throat close.

‘You have no right to speak to me like that,’ she said quietly. ‘No right to say those things to any woman except Paola.’

‘There is no need to say it to Paola,’ he retorted harshly. ‘She is already secure in the power of her own attraction. But you, mia bella, are a different matter. And I am not blind.’

‘You promised you wouldn’t talk like this,’ she said shakily. ‘You said if I came here, I’d be safe.’

‘And so you are, Chiara.’ His voice was husky—strained. ‘Safer than you will ever know. But I never pretended it would be easy. Or that I would not be tempted.’

‘I’d better go.’ She still did not dare to look at him. ‘If I must keep this dress, signore, then I insist that you deduct its cost from my salary. No one pays for my clothes except myself.’

‘As you wish.’ The words were clipped.

‘As for Paola,’ she continued, with a kind of desperation to have the last word, and leave the confrontation on a winning note, ‘she may not be as secure as you think. You see—she knows about your lady in Siena.’

As she turned to the door, she was aware of movement behind her, then her arm was grasped and she was whirled round to face him.

‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded harshly. ‘What has she told you?’

‘Not the details.’ Clare tried unsuccessfully to free herself. ‘Just that you had another interest.’

‘And you believed her?’

‘Why not?’ she countered recklessly. ‘After all, Marchese, there hasn’t been much in your conduct so far to convince me that fidelity would ever be high on your list of priorities.’

The moment she’d said it, she was sorry. But it was too late. She saw his face darkening, the skin tautening over the elegant bone structure. Saw the cold, angry glitter in his eyes.

There was ice in his voice. ‘If that is what you think, Chiara, then why should I hesitate any longer?’

With one swift, compelling gesture, he pulled Clare into his arms, grinding her body against his. Forcing her into sudden awareness that he was not merely angry, but strongly aroused too. The stinging heat of his need penetrated the thin layers of clothing that separated them as if they no longer existed, and Clare’s breath caught in her throat as the roughness of his chest hair grazed her breasts.

For a long moment he stared down at her, scanning her dilated eyes and vulnerable mouth, the anger and coldness fading from his face to be replaced by a gentler, almost diffident expression, while his hand slowly lifted to tangle in her still-damp blonde hair, forbidding movement, holding her captive for his kiss.

She knew that she should make some protest—some attempt, at least, to push him away—but she couldn’t do it. She was too excited by his nearness, every nerve-ending in her skin tingling in anticipation of the touch of his hands, uncovering her. Discovering her.

The whimper slowly uncoiling in her throat was one of longing, not outrage.

He bent his head, and his mouth began to touch hers, lightly, almost feverishly, his tongue flickering like flame between her parted lips.

For a brief moment Clare was passive in his arms, letting the first sharp stirrings of pleasure begin to build deep within her being.

Then, as his kiss deepened, she responded, her mouth moving on his with shy ardour, and heard him murmur quietly in satisfaction.

His fingertips were stroking the nape of her neck, under the fall of her hair, then sliding down to caress the line of her throat, the curve of her shoulder.

Her nipples ached as they pressed against the confines of her dress. Her legs felt too weak to support her, and she was trembling, melting inside, her body electric with the shock of desire.

Her hands slid inside the open edges of his shirt to find his shoulders, and cling to them as if she was drowning.

Guido tipped her back over his arm, laying a trail of kisses down her throat, then slowly brushing his lips across the first soft swell of her breasts, and a tiny sob of need rose in her throat. The beating of her heart sounded like distant thunder.

Only it had been joined, with brutal suddenness, by a very different pounding.

The sound, Clare realised, of someone knocking at the study door. As Guido straightened, frowning, she freed herself from his slackened grasp and stepped backwards, pressing the palms of her hands to her burning face, and trying to control her flurried breathing.

Guido called, ‘Who is there?’

‘Matteo, signore, to tell you that Signora Andreati has arrived. Her car is outside at this moment.’

‘Grazie, Matteo. I will be with you immediately. And inform my uncle, please.’

He looked at Clare, his expression cool—even remote. ‘Your godmother’s timing is impeccable, mia bella. She has saved both of us from a terrible mistake.’ He paused. ‘I am going to greet her now, but you may prefer to go into the garden. I will send one of the maids to find you in a little while.’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘That might be—best.’

She went across to the French windows, almost running. Stumbling a little.

She thought she heard him say, ‘Chiara,’ but she didn’t stop or turn. Just kept going, out into the dazzle of the sunlight, her bottom lip caught painfully in her teeth and the phrase ‘a terrible mistake’ reverberating over and over again in her head.

CHAPTER EIGHT

PART of her wanted to die of shame. But another, and more realistic part of her knew that a life in which she’d never again feel his arms round her or taste his kisses would be total desolation anyway.

I could survive that—just, she thought. What I can’t bear is that very soon I’ll be leaving here—and I’ll never see him again. Never hear his voice, or see his mouth curve into that slow, amused smile.

It was as if she’d been afforded a glimpse of Paradise, then had it taken away for ever. And that was the most devastating realisation of her entire life.

It was useless to argue that she and Guido Bartaldi had known each other only a matter of days, and that all she was suffering from was a severe case of physical attraction, which could soon be cured.

Her heart told her unequivocally that for her it went much deeper than that. That she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him—laughing with him, fighting the occasional battle with him, making him happy as she knew only she could.

Except that wasn’t the way life worked out. Because Guido had his own plans, and they did not include herself. Unless she was content to exist on the margin of his life, like the woman in Siena.

Clearly he saw no reason why his private life could not be conducted on two levels. Which was why he planned to marry a pretty girl with whom he hardly shared a thought, while conducting other more fulfilling liaisons at a safe distance. The cynicism of it—and the sadness—made her want to weep, even though she knew she should really despise him.

But she couldn’t.

‘Fool,’ she lambasted herself. ‘Sad, pathetic idiot.’

She’d found a secluded bench under a flowering hedge a long way from the house, and she crouched there, her arms hugged protectively round her body, deathly cold in spite of the sun’s heat.

Telling herself that Guido would not repeat his ‘terrible mistake’ and that she’d be safe from any further advances from him was poor comfort. It would not save her from hungering for him, she thought drearily. But at least it might leave her with the tatters of her self-respect.

She glanced at her watch and got reluctantly to her feet. She’d been missing for nearly two hours, and lunchtime was approaching. She didn’t want search parties being dispatched for her.

She’d been in too much emotional turmoil to take note of the exact route to her refuge, but it hardly mattered as all the paths in the grounds would lead back to the villa.

But not necessarily to the part she knew, she discovered, as she emerged into a narrow cedar-lined avenue which took her only to a small Romanesque building with a campanile beside it, which she supposed must be the Bartaldi family chapel.

The house, she saw, was some distance away to her right, and she’d come out at the rear of it.

She checked, shading her eyes as she looked up at the elaborate stone frontage of the chapel. Some of the figures of saints that ornamented it looked as if they had seen better days, and some guttering was hanging loose.

Wondering what it was like inside, she tried the handle of the heavy wooden door, half expecting it to be locked, but it opened easily and she went in.

The interior was dark, most of the light coming from a round stained glass window above the altar which had been partly boarded up. The smell of incense lingered in the air, along with the more pungent odour of dust, but none of the candles were lit, and there was a down-beat air of disuse about the place which disappointed her.

She was turning to go when a door at the side of the sanctuary opened and Tonio Lerucci came into view, carrying a sheaf of papers.

He paused in obvious astonishment when he saw Clare. ‘Signorina Marriot—what are you doing here?’

Clare shrugged. ‘I like old churches. Am I trespassing?’

‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘At least not if circumstances were normal. But you see the chapel and, even more, the campanile were damaged during the last earthquake, and we cannot be certain how safe they are.’

‘But you’re here,’ Clare pointed out.

He laughed. ‘Yes, but I am not an honoured guest of the Bartaldi. I’m here to make a preliminary inspection before the architect comes next week to assess what will need to be done to restore the chapel again.’

‘So it’s going to be repaired.’ Clare looked round again. ‘I’m glad. It doesn’t look too bad. Just neglected.’

‘I hope not, but we cannot tell until the actual structure is examined. The campanile, I think, will have to be demolished, but perhaps the repairs here will not be too extensive.’ He grinned. ‘If they are, I can see Guido becoming very impatient.’

Clare followed him out, and waited while he locked the door. ‘I didn’t realise he was so religious.’ She tried to keep her tone light.

‘As to that, like most of us, he does his best,’ Tonio said, shrugging. ‘But the restoration of the chapel is close to his heart as he intends to be married there, and soon.’

‘Oh,’ Clare said in a hollow voice, as sudden pain transfixed her. ‘I—didn’t know.’

‘Not many people do. It is quite a recent decision.’

‘Does Paola know?’ Clare strove to keep her voice calm. ‘Because I’d have thought his bride should have some say in the matter.’

A couple of Tonio’s papers fluttered to the ground, and he bent to retrieve them. ‘No doubt he will choose his own moment for that,’ he said vaguely. ‘Maybe it would be best to mention nothing.’

‘Of course.’ Clare smiled tautly. ‘I hope she’ll find it a pleasant surprise.’

‘The Marchese Bartaldi’s wife will always have every reason for happiness,’ was the formal reply.

Oops, thought Clare. Avoid any hint of criticism when speaking of revered employer. I expect I already have a black mark for steaming in there this morning. It must have been obvious I was spoiling for a fight.

In a hurried change of subject, she asked how many people worked on the Bartaldi estates, and was shocked by his answer.

‘That many?’ She swallowed. ‘And do you know them all?’

‘I hope so. You must understand, signorina, that many generations of the same families have worked here.’

‘I see.’ Her tone was thoughtful. ‘So, if I said Marco’s cousin, you’d know who I meant?’

He frowned slightly. ‘I might not be able to put a face to him at once. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, I came across him earlier today, working in the garden.’ She paused. ‘He’s quite—spectacular. You wouldn’t overlook him very easily.’

‘Then he does not resemble Marco, who is like a mouse,’ he said drily. ‘You disapprove of him, signorina?’

‘Oh, please, won’t you call me Clare?’ She smiled at him. ‘After all, we both work for the Marchese,’ she added with a touch of constraint.

He hesitated oddly, then made her a slight bow. ‘As you wish—Clare. But we were speaking of Marco’s cousin.’

‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘He was hanging round the pool area, and there was just something—although I expect I’m being unfair, and he’s a very good gardener.’

‘Yet he does not feature on the estate roll,’ Tonio said musingly. ‘Perhaps the head gardener hired him as casual labour. I shall enquire.’

‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed. ‘I hope I haven’t got him into trouble.’

‘No, no,’ he soothed. ‘At busy times there are always extra people working for the estate. It is nothing.’

I hope so, Clare thought, as he stood back politely to let her precede him into the house. And now for the next ordeal…

‘Carissima,’ Violetta exclaimed reproachfully as Clare entered the dining room. ‘Where have you been? We were beginning to think you were lost.’

Clare coloured faintly, sharply aware of Guido’s unsmiling scrutiny fixed on her from the other side of the room.

‘I was—enjoying the garden, and lost track of time,’ she returned, bending to kiss her godmother’s scented cheek before sliding into the chair next to her.

‘And not alone, I see,’ Violetta whispered, giving her an arch look as Tonio took his place further down the table with a quiet apology. She looked Clare over approvingly. ‘What a beautiful dress, my dear. I don’t think I’ve seen it before.’

‘It—it’s the first time I’ve worn it,’ Clare returned, helping herself from the tureen of vegetable soup.

‘So, cara, how goes it with the little Paola?’ Violetta was eating her own soup with evident enjoyment. ‘Well, it seems. She looks—radiant.’

Surprised, Clare saw that the younger girl was laughing and talking vivaciously to Cesare di Mantelli.

‘She’s not going to be my easiest assignment,’ she returned quietly. ‘She simply hasn’t any wish to learn any of the things I can teach her. I think she plans to rely on charm to see her through.’ She paused. ‘If I can’t persuade her to buckle down soon, I’ll give up the job. Otherwise I’ll be taking the Marchese’s money under false pretences.’

‘I think he has plenty to spare,’ Violetta said calmly. ‘So I would not worry too much.’ She gave Clare a measuring look. ‘How do you like working for him, mia cara?’

‘Not very much.’ Clare put down her soup spoon. ‘In fact I mean to keep out of his way from now on.’

‘I imagine he can be demanding,’ Violetta conceded. ‘But such charm.’ She cast her eyes to heaven. ‘And you have the future to think of, dear one. Any association with the Bartaldi would be bound to bring its own rewards.’

A lifetime of heartache was hardly a reward, Clare thought wretchedly, giving a constrained smile and murmuring something in reply.

When lunch was over, and Violetta was ensconced on the terrace with her coffee, and the Count di Mantelli for company, she sought out Paola.

‘I thought we might walk to the village,’ she suggested. ‘It will give us the chance to practise some English conversation.’

‘But there is nothing in the village,’ Paola objected instantly. ‘And it is too far to walk in the heat of the day. Besides, I am already getting a headache. I spent too much time in the sun this morning. I am going to take a siesta.’

‘I see,’ Clare said levelly. ‘In that case I’d better talk to the Marchese and tell him there’s no point in my remaining here.’

Paola’s eyes widened. ‘But you cannot do that,’ she muttered. ‘I need you. You know that.’

‘But my salary is being paid by the Marchese,’ Clare reminded her. ‘And I have to start earning it. Which I can’t do unless you co-operate.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Suppose we meet here on the terrace at four.’ She gave the younger girl an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll try and make our lessons fun. Not like being in school at all.’

Paola’s look said she was unconvinced, but she gave unwilling agreement to the plan.

‘But it is such a waste of time,’ she hissed as she departed. ‘When we both know these lessons will not be needed.’

Clare sighed, and turned back to find her godmother and offer to stroll round the gardens with her, only to see her walking off with the Count down one of the paths.

‘They make a handsome couple, don’t you think?’ Tonio came to stand beside her.