The Santangeli Marriage. Sara Craven
from this part-time course in fine arts you’re following at the moment, you’re trained for nothing except the career that’s already mapped out for you—as the wife of a multimillionaire and the mother of his children. It’s payback time, and you’re the only currency they’ll accept.’
‘I don’t believe it. I won’t.’ Marisa’s voice was urgent. ‘Renzo can’t have agreed to this. He—he doesn’t want me either. I—I know that.’
Julia’s laugh was cynical. ‘He’s a man, my dear, and you’re an attractive, nubile girl. He won’t find his role as bridegroom too arduous, believe me. He’ll fulfil his obligations to his family, and enjoy them too.’
Marisa said slowly, ‘That’s—obscene.’
‘It’s the way of the world, my child.’ Julia shrugged. ‘And life with the future Marchese Santangeli will have other compensations, you know. Once you’ve given Lorenzo his heir and a spare, I don’t imagine you’ll see too much of him. He’ll continue to amuse himself as he does now, but with rather more discretion, and you’ll be left to your own devices.’
Marisa stared at her. She said huskily, ‘You mean he’s involved with someone? He—has a girlfriend?’
‘Oh, she’s rather more than that,’ Julia said negligently. ‘A beautiful Venetian, I understand, called Lucia Gallo, who works in television. They’ve been quite inseparable for several months.’
‘I see.’ Instinct told Marisa that her cousin was enjoying this, so she did her best to sound casual. ‘Well, if that’s the case, why doesn’t he marry her instead?’
‘Because she’s a divorcee, and unsuitable in all kinds of ways.’ She paused. ‘I thought I’d already indicated that Santangeli brides are expected to come to their marriages as virgins.’
Marisa said coolly, ‘But presumably the same rule doesn’t apply to the men?’
Julia laughed. ‘Hardly. And you’ll be glad of that when the time comes, believe me.’ Her tone changed, becoming a touch more conciliatory. ‘Think about it, Marisa. This marriage won’t be all bad news. You’ve always said you wanted to travel. Well, you’ll be able to—and first-class all the way. Or, with Florence on your doorstep, you could always plunge back into the art world. Create your own life.’
‘And that is supposed to make it all worthwhile?’ Marisa queried incredulously. ‘I allow myself to be—used—in return for a couple of visits to the Accademia? I won’t do it.’
‘I think you will,’ her cousin said with grim emphasis. ‘We’re Santangeli pensioners, my pet, all of us. Yourself included. We owe our lifestyle to their goodwill. And once you’re married to Lorenzo, that happy state of affairs will continue for Harry and myself. Because they’ve agreed that we can move out of London to a bungalow, specially adapted for a wheelchair, and employ full-time care when the need arises.’ For a moment her voice wavered. ‘Something we could never afford to do under normal circumstances.’
She rallied, her tone harsh again. ‘But if you try and back out now, the whole thing will crash and burn. We’ll lose this house—everything. And I won’t see Harry’s precarious future in jeopardy because a spoiled little brat who’s spent the past few years grabbing everything going with both hands, has suddenly decided the price is too high for her delicate sensibilities. Well, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, sweetie, so make the best of it.
‘And remember, a lot of girls would kill to be in your shoes. So, if nothing else, learn to be civil to him in the daytime, cooperate at night, and don’t ask awkward questions when he’s away. Even you should be able to manage that.’
Except I didn’t, Marisa thought wearily, shivering as she remembered the note of pure vitriol in her cousin’s voice. I failed on every single count.
She sighed. She’d fought—of course she had—using every conceivable argument against the unwanted marriage. She’d also spent the next few days trying to contact Alan, who had been strangely unavailable.
And when at last she had managed to speak to him on the phone, over a week later, she’d learned that he’d been offered a transfer, with promotion, to Hong Kong, and would be leaving almost at once.
‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he told her, his voice uncomfortable. ‘And totally unexpected. I could have waited years for something like this.’
‘I see.’ Her mind was whirling, but she kept her tone light. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t consider taking me with you?’
There was a silence, then he said jerkily, ‘Marisa—you know that isn’t going to happen. Neither of us are free agents in this. I know that strings were pulled to get me this job because you’re soon moving to a different league.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think I’m really meant to be talking to you now.’
‘No,’ she said, past the shocked tightness in her throat. ‘Probably not. And I—I quite understand. Well—good luck.’
After that it had been difficult to go on fighting, once her stunned mind had registered that she had no one to turn to, nowhere to go, and, as Julia had reminded her, barely enough academic qualifications to earn her a living wage.
But in the end she’d wearily capitulated because of Harry, the quiet, kind man who’d made Julia’s reluctant guardianship of her so much more bearable, and who was going to need the Santangeli generosity so badly, and so soon.
But if Renzo Santangeli believed she was going to fall gratefully at his feet, he could think again, she had told herself with icy bitterness.
* * *
It was a stance she’d maintained throughout what she supposed had passed for his courtship of her. Admittedly, with the result a foregone conclusion, he hadn’t had to try too hard, and she’d been glad of it, reflecting defiantly that the less she saw of him the better. But the fact remained that her avowed resolve had not actually been tested.
The only time she’d really been alone with him before the wedding, she thought, staring at the screensaver on her computer, was when he’d made that strange, almost diffident proposal of marriage, explaining that he wanted to make their difficult situation as easy as possible for her, and that he would force no physical intimacies on her until she’d become accustomed to her new circumstances and was ready to be his wife in every sense of the word.
And as far as their engagement went, he’d kept his word. She hadn’t been subjected to any unwelcome advances from him.
No doubt he’d secretly believed he wouldn’t have to wait too long, she decided, her mouth tightening. He’d been sure curiosity alone would undermine her determination to keep him at arm’s length, or further.
Well, he’d learned better during the misery of their honeymoon, and their parting at the end of it had come as a relief to them both. And, although he’d made various dutiful attempts to maintain minimal contact with her once she’d moved back to London, he clearly hadn’t seen any necessity to try and heal the rift between them in person. Not that she’d have allowed that, anyway, she assured herself hastily.
So, now he seemed to have tacitly accepted that, apart from the inevitable legal formalities, their brief, ill-starred marriage was permanently over. Soon he’d be free to seek a more willing lady to share the marital bed with him when he felt inclined—probably some doe-eyed Italian beauty with a talent for maternity.
Which would certainly please his old witch of a grandmother, who’d made no secret of her disapproval of his chosen match from the moment Marisa had arrived back in Italy under Julia’s eagle-eyed escort. Harry had not accompanied them, having opted to spend the time quietly at his sister’s home in Kent, but he’d announced his determination to fly out for the wedding in order to give the bride away.
But Renzo’s next wooing would almost certainly be conducted in a very different manner.
She’d wondered sometimes