Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven
she knew, was only the beginning.
In response to some hidden switch inside the house, the shaded lamps on the terrace came on, and instantly moths appeared, drawn by the lights and flinging themselves against them.
She thought, I know how they feel…
Violetta returned. ‘Has the Marchese gone? Such a pity.’ She sighed. ‘If I were only twenty years younger. Sit down, cara, and Angelina will freshen our drinks.’
Clare sat, principally because her legs were shaking under her.
A thought occurred to her.
She said, ‘Violetta, what’s the scent that you put in my bathroom? The one I’m wearing?’
‘But I was telling you about it, dear one. It’s Bartaldi’s own “Tentazione”. Why?’ Her godmother gave her a shrewd glance under her lashes. ‘Did he recognise it?’
‘Yes,’ Clare said bitterly. ‘Yes. I’m afraid he did.’
Dinner was not the relaxed, comfortable meal that Clare had anticipated after all.
For all her very real sophistication, Violetta was clearly thrilled to have received an invitation to the Villa Minerva, and eager to discuss it exhaustively.
‘It is a very old house,’ she said. ‘Parts of it are said to date back to the time of the Etruscans, who, as you know, cara, fought the Romans for supremacy and lost.’
Pity, Clare thought, crumbling her bread. If they’d won the Bartaldis might never have seen the light of day.
‘You’ve never visited there before?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Violetta returned regretfully. ‘But here at Cenacchio we are not exactly near neighbours to Veraggio. We move in our own circles.’
‘Then it’s a pity we agreed to go,’ Clare argued. ‘Particularly if it’s a long way away.’
‘The Marchese is aware of the inconvenience, and is sending a car for us.’ Violetta sighed happily. ‘He thinks of everything.’
She sent Clare a twinkling look. ‘I think I have you to thank for this pleasant invitation, dear one.’
Clare bit her lip. ‘I can’t think why,’ she said constrainedly.
‘But naturally he wishes to make amends for all the confusion and unpleasantness of today.’ Violetta nodded. ‘He seems full of remorse for the hasty judgement he made.’
He’s full of something, Clare thought broodingly. But I don’t think it’s repentance.
‘Naturally, I have seen the Marchese at various social functions,’ Violetta continued. ‘But, as he says, he is not in the region very often. Perhaps when he marries, and has a family, that will change.’
She paused. ‘Although his estates are excellently run in his absence, I understand. His manager, Antonio Lerucci, is said to be a charming young man, and most loyal and efficient.’
She chattered on, and Clare responded with interested noises and the occasional nod of her head, while trying to mentally detach herself.
She’d planned to stay at Cenacchio for at least two weeks. That might need revision now, she decided unhappily. She’d ring her agency tomorrow, and ask them to find her a job which would necessitate her urgent return to England.
And she would let a very long time elapse before she took another job in Italy, she decided broodingly. First she’d had Signor Dorelli to deal with, but, in retrospect, that had been no problem at all compared with Guido Bartaldi.
Dorelli had simply been a lecher and a fool. But the Marchese Bartaldi had a very different agenda. She knew it, although she couldn’t even begin to make an educated guess at what it contained.
Every instinct, however, was shrieking at her to remove herself immediately from his sphere of influence.
I need to put the whole sorry mess behind me, and get on with my life, she thought. So I can’t afford to stay.
‘In the morning we will go into Perugia,’ Violetta planned. ‘And find a dress for you to wear. Something that will show you to your best advantage, carissima. It will be my birthday present to you.’
Clare was taken aback. ‘I’m sure I have something that will do.’
Violetta tutted. ‘When one is dealing with the Bartaldis, there is no question of making do. And you are too modest about your looks. We need something simple yet stunning.’ She looked arch. ‘The right setting for the jewel. Something the Marchese understands very well.’
‘Violetta.’ Clare was appalled. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking, but…’
Violetta shrugged. ‘I think only that it would be good for you to be admired by an attractive man.’ She paused. ‘Has there been anyone since—what was his name?— James?’
‘No,’ Clare said quietly. ‘Nor have I wanted there to be.’
‘But that is so wrong,’ her godmother protested. ‘You are a warm and lovely girl. You cannot close yourself off from life because one fool preferred someone else.’
‘I don’t shut myself off,’ Clare denied defensively. ‘I have a job I like—friends—and I travel all over Europe. A lot of people locked into stale relationships would envy me.’
‘I do not speak of those.’ Violetta waved her hand. ‘I speak of love, silly girl. Of overwhelming and complete love—like Dante felt for Beatrice, and Petrarch had for his Laura.’
Clare sighed. ‘And Romeo for Juliet, I suppose, and we all know what happened to them.’
‘Oh, when you are in this mood it is impossible to reason with you,’ Violetta said huffily.
‘That’s certainly true if you’re trying to pair me with the Marchese Bartaldi.’ Clare tried to speak lightly, but she could feel the shoulder he’d kissed burning through the soft fabric of her dress.
Thank God Violetta didn’t know about that, she thought ruefully.
She said. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but the Marchese is the last man in the world I’d ever get involved with. Simply crossing his path has been more than enough, believe me. I’ve no wish to attract any more of his attention.’
She paused. ‘Besides, you seem to forget that he’s already chosen Paola,’ she added carefully.
‘Pah,’ Violetta said. ‘There has been no announcement. No formal engagement.’ She gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘In your shoes, cara, I would not hesitate.’
‘A couple of hours ago, you seemed to think Paola would suit him ideally,’ Clare said with asperity.
Violetta gave her a beatific smile. ‘I had not met him then,’ she said simply.
In spite of her tiredness, Clare found sleep frustratingly elusive that night. Her comfortable mattress seemed to have been stuffed with sand, and the big feather pillows moulded from concrete.
She tossed from one side of the big bed to the other, seeking a restful spot, while her mind turned endlessly, denying her any peace. And every thought that plagued her seemed to lead inexorably back to Guido Bartaldi.
Something else to thank him for, she thought peevishly, punching a pillow into submission.
Consequently, it was a wan, rather shadowy-eyed girl who joined Violetta for a breakfast of cold meats, fresh fruit and coffee.
Not that she’d done anything to improve her appearance or disguise the ravages of her bad night. If the plan she’d formulated in the small hours was to work, she needed to look fairly deathly.
‘Are you unwell, cara?’ Her godmother, who’d been going through her morning mail, removed her reading glasses and gave her a concerned