Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven
to pack my rags,’ she added, deadpan.
‘Oh, you are an impossible girl,’ Violetta told her crossly.
‘You’re quite tricky yourself,’ Clare countered. ‘What on earth made you accept Guido Bartaldi’s invitation? You never go anywhere in the summer.’
Violetta shrugged. ‘He is not an easy man to refuse—as you have discovered, carissima,’ she said airily. ‘And it means we shall not be separated—which is kind of him.’
‘Oh, he’s a regular Good Samaritan,’ Clare agreed with irony. ‘And, of course, you’ll be meeting—people too.’ She gave a swift gurgle of laughter. ‘Who knows? Maybe your life will be the one to change.’
‘Now you are being ridiculous,’ Violetta said with unwonted coolness. ‘You know quite well that I shall never consider another relationship.’
‘So you’ve always said.’ Clare was taken aback. ‘But surely you can’t rule out the possibility.’
‘I can and I will.’ Violetta was looking positively ruffled. ‘And I find I do not care for this foolish conversation.’ She picked up her bag. ‘If you are ready, let us go. And do not forget,’ she threw over her shoulder, ‘you were the first to change her mind.’
Clare followed her meekly to the car, bewildered by this sudden display of asperity.
It must be the Villa Minerva, she thought. The place has some kind of disruptive, discordant influence on everyone. And tomorrow I’ll be there. So what effect will it have on me?
And she found a sudden warning shiver tingling down her spine.
CLARE woke with a sudden start, and lay for a moment, staring towards the shuttered window, wondering what had disturbed her.
On the last occasion that she’d been startled out of sleep it had, of course, been the doing of Guido Bartaldi.
She was almost afraid to turn her head and look round the room, in case she saw the shadow of his tall figure standing in some corner watching her.
Now you’re just being paranoid, she told herself derisively.
Because there was no sound in the room other than birdsong, and nothing to see either, except the slatted pattern of sunlight falling across the floor.
Clare sighed, then took her watch from the night-table and studied it. It was still very early. No one in the house would be stirring yet, and there was no good reason for her to do so either. Except this vague feeling of disquiet assailing her.
And it was also too late for further sleep, she decided, drawing up her knees and resting her chin on them. Although she was still tired after another restless, dream-ridden night.
What is the matter with me? She asked herself angrily. I’ve always been the soundest of sleepers. And, if I had dreams, I didn’t remember them particularly. And I certainly didn’t carry them, like lumber, into the next day.
But here they were, buzzing around her head still, refusing to be dismissed or forgotten.
To her irritation, James had been there, of course, his smile charming her, his voice soft and cajoling as he tried to persuade her that the mere fact of his marriage to someone else did not have to interfere with their own relationship.
And she’d sat, watching him in disbelief as he sketched out the half-life he had planned for her future. Watching him retreating backwards down some long tunnel of her imagination, getting smaller with every step until he’d finally vanished.
The memory of it still had the power to make her shiver.
In reality, of course, they’d had a furious row, and he’d stormed out telling her brutally that she was middle class and small-minded, and that he’d come back when she was prepared to be an adult.
‘Don’t you mean an adulterer?’ she’d yelled after him, anger keeping the tears of hurt and shock at bay.
But in the dream she’d been unable to speak or move. Only feel the pain of betrayal twisting in her like a knife. The horror of knowing that James, whom she loved—whom she’d believed had loved her—was perfectly ready to sacrifice her and everything they’d had together. To relegate her to some corner of his existence while Ginny’s money bought her the status of wife.
‘Of course, I don’t love her like I love you,’ he’d told her over and over again. ‘You know that, darling. But it’s always been understood we’d marry each other. Fixed up by the families years ago. Her father and mine do a lot of business together, you see. I—I can’t afford to pull out. But it needn’t make any difference—to us.’
And she’d replied, as she always had, ‘It makes all the difference in the world, James. Because I can’t afford to stay.’
In last night’s dream she’d seen James again, standing at the altar in a great Gothic church, with Ginny beside him in her white dress and veil. And she’d tried to reach him—to run up the aisle and prevent the ceremony. To tell him he was making a terrible mistake.
But her legs and feet had felt like lead, and the harder she’d tried, the greater the distance had seemed to become between them.
And when, eventually, she’d got to his side and seized his arm, forcing him to turn and face her, it hadn’t been James at all who’d stood looking down at her with smiling contempt, but Guido Bartaldi, his eyes like flint.
She could explain it all away, of course. The memories of James she’d thought were dead and buried had been revived by her conversation with Violetta. And as for the Marchese—well, he was never far from her thoughts, although it made her cringe to admit it, even to herself.
He was there, in her mind, she thought restively, as if he’d been etched there, impossible to erase.
But it wasn’t really impossible. Time and distance would make him fade into obscurity, and set her free again.
She needed to be rid of him while it was still possible. Before he hurt her—damaged her beyond repair.
And taking herself off to live under his roof was quite the worst thing she could do.
I should never have agreed, she told herself, swallowing past the sudden tightness in her throat. It was crazy.
Because he was another James—the kind of man she most despised. A man marrying for convenience rather than any involvement of the heart. Someone prepared to treat his marriage as a licence to do anything he wanted.
And expecting herself, of all people, to reconcile his intended bride to this unenviable fate, she thought furiously. Although he couldn’t know, of course, what an insult this was. The kind of devastating memories it had evoked for her.
But it wasn’t an insult she necessarily had to put up with…
The thought strayed idly into her mind, then took firmer hold, making her sit bolt upright, her mouth set with sudden determination.
‘I don’t have to do this,’ she said aloud ‘and I won’t. I’m going to cut my losses and get out of here. Back to sanity. Back to safety.’
Although she didn’t want to examine too closely the exact nature of the danger she was in, or its current depth.
She pushed back the sheet, and swung her legs to the floor.
She could leave right now, before anyone was any the wiser, she told herself. If she was quick—and quiet—she could be miles away before she was even missed. Her packing, after all, was done. All she needed was to put her bags in the rented Fiat—and drive.
And Violetta was unlikely to disturb her for several hours. Not when Clare had left her the previous evening with the excuse