Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven
‘Dio, no.’ Paola gave a little laugh. ‘There is a cook, and two maids, as well as Guido’s driver—and his secretary. Then there is Alberto, the gardener, and the men who work for him. And Franco, who looks after the horses…’
‘A cast of thousands,’ Clare commented drily. ‘I didn’t realise there’d be horses here.’
‘Guido likes them.’ Paola’s tone was offhand. ‘When he was younger, of course, he played polo.’
‘You don’t ride?’
Paola shuddered dramatically. ‘No—nor play tennis, although Guido wishes me to learn.’
Clare smiled. ‘It’s a terrific game. You might enjoy it.’
Paola tossed her head. ‘Oh it is far too hot, and, besides, I do not like to run about. Although sometimes I swim in the pool,’ she added on a note of self-congratulation.
The Marchese might have been right about Paola’s lack of stamina after all, Clare thought wryly, following the younger girl along a broad gallery.
‘Do you play tennis—and ride—and go for long walks?’
‘Why—yes.’
‘And you truly like these things?’ Paola sighed gustily at Clare’s affirmative nod. ‘I shall never understand—never. But it’s good, because you can be a companion for Guido, and I shall have some peace.’
But that’s not the plan at all, Clare thought, appalled, and was about to say so when Paola announced, ‘You are here,’ and threw open a door with a flourish, allowing Clare to walk past her into the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen.
She had always considered that Violetta lived in a fair amount of luxury, but now her eyes widened as she took in the huge bed which dominated the room, its canopy and curtains in ivory silk, and the matching coverlet ornamented with medallions exquisitely embroidered in gold thread.
The rest of the furniture was correspondingly large, and made from some dark, heavily carved wood, and the far wall was occupied by tall shuttered windows giving access on to a wide balcony with a delicate wrought-iron balustrade.
The chill of the marble-tiled floor was relieved by beautiful tapestry rugs in blue, green and gold.
The adjoining bathroom was equally glamorous, tiled in grey and silver, with a sunken bath deep and wide enough for multiple occupation. There were stacks of white linen towels emblazoned with the Bartaldi family crest, and mirrored shelves of toiletries.
‘My room is further down the gallery, and Signora Andreati will be placed next door to you,’ Paola continued, as they returned to the bedroom. ‘Do you think you will be comfortable here?’
Clare drew a deep breath. ‘More than just comfortable,’ she said. ‘It’s all—quite amazing. I can hardly believe it.’
Paola shrugged. ‘It’s old-fashioned. Antiquato,’ she said dismissively. ‘And Guido refuses to change anything.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘You should see my stepmother’s apartment in Rome. Now that is truly elegante—and so modern.’
She sighed, then pointed to a silken rope hanging beside the bed. ‘If you need anything, ring the bell and Filumena, one of the maids, will come. She will also unpack for you if you wish.’
Clare shook her head. ‘I can manage my own unpacking. And I can’t think of a thing that hasn’t been provided already.
‘Well, Guido will wish you to be contented.’ Paola pulled a face. ‘Whatever I may think about him, I cannot deny he is a good host. And I am pleased that he brought you so early—so that we can have breakfast together. Come down when you are ready, and we will eat.’
She walked to the door, then looked back, lowering her voice mysteriously. ‘And later we will talk. Make plans. Ciao.’ And she vanished, leaving Clare feeling winded, and slightly apprehensive.
To try and ensure that Paola had a say in her own future was one thing, but plotting with her, especially if Fabio was involved, was something else.
She thought, I’m going to have to be very careful.
But, in the meantime, she could enjoy herself a little. She took another long, pleasurable look round the room, her gaze coming speculatively to rest on the big bed, wondering if it was really as soft and luxurious as it appeared.
Well, there was only one way to find out, she decided gleefully.
She took a flying leap and landed in the middle of it, bouncing up and down to test the springs, which met the challenge nobly.
She turned over and lay voluptuously, lazily supine, her arms tossed wide, one leg slightly drawn up, staring at the silken canopy above her.
This, she thought dreamily, must be what it’s like to float on a cloud. I shall sleep well in this bed. In fact, I could sleep right now. Just—drift away…
The tap on the door signalled the end of that particular dream, and the arrival of her luggage. What was the maid’s name? Had Paola said Filumena? Yes, she was sure of it.
She called, ‘Come in.’ And, as the door opened, ‘Please leave my bag by the cassetone, Filumena. I’ll see to it later.’
‘As you wish, signorina.’ The amused drawl which responded had no feminine tone whatsoever.
Clare jack-knifed into an upright position, tugging down her rumpled skirt, shocked colour flooding her face as Guido walked across the room and deposited her bag by the chest of drawers.
‘I am sorry to have startled you,’ he went on. ‘I brought your things myself so that I could make sure you had everything you needed.’
Clare swallowed. ‘Yes—I—everything…’ she managed.
She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking, finding her sprawled across a probably priceless bedspread like this.
He walked slowly across the room and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at her, smiling faintly. ‘You like the bed.’
It was a statement rather than a question, and Clare nodded mutely.
‘This was the room my mother used when she came to stay here before her marriage, while my father was paying court to her.’ His voice was almost meditative. ‘It was considered to be a safe distance from his room, on the other side of the gallery, and besides, her mother was next door.
‘But I have often wondered if, during the long, hot Umbrian afternoons, love did not sometimes find a way.
‘It is, after all, a serious temptation to find yourself under the same roof as the one you desire—don’t you think, Chiara?’
‘I—I don’t know.’ Her mouth was dry, but her body was suddenly melting, stirred into arousal by the images he had created.
She could feel a trickle of sweat running down the valley between her breasts, as her nipples swelled uncontrollably into hard peaks against the clinging fabric of her top. The damp, potent heat between her thighs seemed to be spreading through her entire being, engulfing her. Prompting her to madness. To ruin.
Because some secret, atavistic wisdom was telling her that all she had to do was reach out a hand to him—draw him down beside her—and her body would be his.
She knew it as surely as she knew she must draw air into her lungs to breathe.
And, for a few, brief honeyed moments, he would belong to her, too. But only in the most basic, physical sense. There could never be any more to it than that.
Whereas she was offering him her heart and soul. The year’s most unwanted gift, she realised with sudden, savage anguish.
And only she would ever know how close she had come to betraying her own pride and self-respect.
From somewhere, she found a voice. Cool,