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

CHAPTER EIGHT

WHEN SHE WAS calm again, Ellie washed the tearstains from her face, dried her hair, placed her discarded clothing in the linen basket, and put on her robe.

As she tied its sash, her attention was attracted by the noise of some heavy vehicle in the courtyard below. When she went to the window, she was surprised to see Angelo’s car being loaded on the back of a transporter. As the truck departed with its load, there was a rap on the door, and Assunta entered carrying a pile of clean towels.

Ellie turned. ‘Is there something wrong with the signore‘s car, Assunta?’

The older woman stared at her, astonished. ‘But it was damaged in the accident, Contessa. You must know that.’

‘Accident?’ Ellie queried, startled. ‘I—I don’t think I understand.’

Assunta shook her head. ‘There was nearly a collision with another car overtaking when it should not have done so.’ She crossed herself. ‘The signore escaped without injury, may God be praised, through his own swift action. Otherwise he might have been killed.’ She paused. ‘Did he not tell you this?’

‘No,’ Ellie said slowly. ‘He—didn’t mention it.’

‘Perhaps he did not wish to cause you concern.’ Assunta’s warm, inquisitive gaze scanned Ellie’s slim figure, as if seeking for a reason for the Count to show such consideration to his young wife.

‘Yes,’ Ellie agreed quietly. ‘Perhaps.’

‘The Count wishes me to say that dinner will be served at eight o’clock this evening,’ Assunta continued. ‘After his ordeal, he will need an early night, senza dubbio.’

‘Sì,’ Ellie said after a pause. ‘No doubt he will.’

When Assunta had delivered her towels to the bathroom and left, Ellie wandered back to the chaise longue and sat down, staring into space.

He might have been killed …

An uncontrollable shiver ran through her. Yes, she’d have had the promised freedom but at what kind of terrible cost? Didn’t they say—Be careful what you wish for, because it could be granted?

She suddenly had an image of him standing in front of her, as he had been so short a time before. Could see the lean, long-legged body, his powerful shoulders undisguised by his elegant suit, the dark incisive face, the fathomless eyes and the swift, slanting smile as if they’d been etched on her brain.

Was aware of a tug of something which was almost like yearning, secret and unbidden, and which she had never experienced before. And could not afford to experience again.

A real marriage.

His words seemed to take on the impact of a siren song, with the power to beckon her to disaster, and she knew she could not allow that to happen.

He had married her from necessity not desire, and necessity was still driving him. It would be futile and dangerous to think otherwise.

At the same time, maybe she should re-think the bluntly negative response she’d been planning. Find some other way to tell him what he asked was impossible.

Silvia had said that she could not imagine her surrendering to Angelo on that bed. Well, she could not do so either. Could not, she told herself as her heart thundered against her ribcage. And would not.

Or not in the way he would undoubtedly have in mind.

Because she was simply a matter of expediency to him—as she always had been and always would be. And having his baby would be no different either. She would be little more than a surrogate mother. Stories in the papers suggested that women were well paid to use their bodies for such a purpose, but under strict terms and conditions.

She could formulate her own, she told herself. Rules to be strictly observed which would also safeguard her against harbouring any absurd fantasies about him, or about her role in his life.

And the price of her compliance would be her eventual escape from this meaningless existence that had been forced on her and the regaining of her freedom. That would be made totally clear.

For a moment, she quailed inwardly at the prospect of telling him, then rose, squaring her shoulders. After all, she thought, as long as he gets the heir he wants, why should he care? It may even be a relief.

She waited until it was almost eight o’clock before she ventured downstairs. To Donata’s obvious disapproval, she’d insisted on wearing her plainest dress, a simple crossover style in white silk, and left her hair loose.

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.

Eyes closed, Ellie experienced the first intimate touch of a man’s fingers. She had quite deliberately made him angry, yet this initial exploration was gentler than she’d expected—or probably deserved—and she felt sudden shame mingled with another emotion, less easy to decipher.

Angelo sighed again, very quietly this time, and his other hand lifted to cup one small pointed breast through its veil of chiffon, his thumb moving softly, rhythmically against the nipple until Ellie pushed it fiercely away.

‘Don’t!’

‘Carissima,’ he whispered urgently. ‘I am not some brute. Must I be denied one caress—or even a kiss?’

Yes, she thought, you must. Because I want to be able to protect myself by hating you, so that I’ll never be tempted to allow you near me in any way or to want more than this.

But she said nothing and, after a brief hesitation, he reached for one of the pillows, and slid it under her hips, raising her towards him. He lifted himself above her, and she felt the velvet hardness of him in stark and powerful arousal between her thighs, and a shiver of apprehension ran through her at what she had invited.

She thought wildly—This can’t happen. It’s not possible. Then Angelo moved unhurriedly and with great precision, taking himself there to the hidden centre of her womanhood and beginning slowly and carefully to enter her, resting his weight on his clenched fists on either side of her body.

She heard his terse whisper warning her to relax.

Yet there was no pain. What disturbed her most was the total strangeness of the sensation—and the way her untried, unbidden flesh seemed so ready, even eager to yield in order to accommodate him and further his total possession of her.

She had not, she thought dazedly, bargained for that particular danger.

Although her eyes were still shut tight, some instinct told her that he was looking down at her, the dark gaze searching her face for signs of discomfort or fear, and she had to fight an almost overwhelming impulse to reassure him in some way. To touch his face, or his hair, maybe even to slide her arms round his neck.

Which, of course, was sheer madness, but, then, nothing that was happening seemed to be real. Except, she thought, for his body, which with one last measured thrust, was now completely sheathed inside hers. His voice saying quietly, ‘Is it well with you, Elena? I need you to tell me.’

And her whispered, ‘Yes.’

In spite of everything, he was trying to be kind, she thought, bewildered, even as some female instinct she’d not known she possessed told her that, if she had let him, he could have been so much more than that.

He began to move inside her, gently at first, then more forcefully, withdrawing a little, then pushing back ever more deeply, awakening new and threatening feelings. Making her realise with alarm she would have to fight her body’s wish to respond to the imperative drive of his loins as their force increased.

That there was an unfamiliar tide rising in her bloodstream, her bones, her skin, nudging at every atom of her consciousness that threatened to overwhelm her, urging her to lift her hips in answer to each warm and silken thrust. To make demands that were all her own.

And then—it was over. She heard his breathing change, quicken. He threw back his head, his voice crying out harshly almost bitterly and she felt a spurt of scalding heat far within her. Then he was still and there was silence.

For a moment or two, Angelo remained where he was, head bent, chest heaving, sweat slicking the bronzed shoulders, then, with the same care he’d shown her when it began, he lifted himself away from her, lying supine at her side, one arm resting across his closed eyes.

Ellie lay still too, her heartbeat going crazy as she attempted to adjust to what had happened. The words, ‘It could have been so much worse,’ were running through her brain like a ribbon unwinding, but she was not sure she believed them. Instead, and with even greater difficulty, she had to face what might have been …

He had done exactly what she’d told him she would accept, she thought. No more, no less. She had faced him and won, so why did she suddenly feel as if she had lost? Because that made no sense—no sense at all.

She turned her head slowly to look at him just as Angelo sat up abruptly, swinging his legs to the floor, and reaching down for his discarded robe.

‘Congratulations, Elena.’ He tossed the words over his shoulder. ‘You have survived your ordeal with great fortitude. Let us hope for both our sakes that you will soon have good news for me, so that you are never called upon to endure it again.’

She watched him walk to the door. Her lips parted to say something—she wasn’t sure what, it might have been just his name—then the door closed behind him, and she realised it was too late.

Too late, she repeated silently, and turned over, burying her face in the pillow.

The following April

She had learned long ago how to conduct herself at all these social events which Angelo required her to attend at his side.

Had mastered how to walk in with her hand resting lightly on his arm, and her smile already nailed securely in place. To offer all the appearance of a cherished young wife blissfully approaching the first anniversary of her wedding to one of the most glamorous men in the city. And to dazzle them with the diamonds and other jewels that would be regarded as an overt sign of Count Manzini’s satisfaction with his marriage.

Knowing that none of the eyes watching them—friendly, inimical, admiring or jealous—must be allowed to catch even a glimpse of the reality of her abject failure and his bitter disappointment. Their mutual ongoing nightmare.

Tonight—a charity reception which Contessa Cosima was helping to host in aid of an orphanage—was an occasion like any other. She moved slowly round the room, slender in her black dress, the drink in her hand virtually untouched, pausing to greet acquaintances, to laugh and talk for a while before moving on, her timing immaculate, her appearance serene.