Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven
him,’ Clare said reasonably.
Paola giggled. ‘But that is not going to happen, silly one. And Fabio speaks only Italian, so you can just pretend to give me lessons.’
I think, Clare mused wearily, as she followed the younger girl into the sunlit grounds, that I already have as much pretence in my life as I can handle.
In spite of her misgivings, Clare found her first day at the Villa Minerva passing more tranquilly than she could have hoped.
She toured the gardens with Paola, turning a partially deaf ear to the torrent of half-formed and generally unworkable plans for her future that the younger girl assailed her with.
The villa’s grounds were extensive and immaculately kept, and Clare, who loved plants, and had always worked alongside her father in their own garden, would have liked to have absorbed it all in peace.
But, as this was clearly impossible, every so often she tried to introduce a note of sceptical and practical reality by asking what Fabio did for a living, where they would live after they were married, and how their bills would be paid. But Paola was inclined to dismiss all that as irrelevant.
‘All that matters,’ she declared passionately, ‘is our love for each other. And, besides, I shall have money when I’m older. I shall just have to make Guido give some of it to me now.’
Clare raised her brows. ‘After you’ve made a fool of him by running off with Fabio?’ She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘Ah,’ Paola said triumphantly. ‘But he will not wish it to be known that I have fooled him. Therefore, for the sake of his pride, he will do what I want, so that people will think he does not care.’
In which there was a certain twisted logic, Clare was forced to admit.
She said, ‘Well, I hope everything works out for the best. Now, can you tell me the names of these flowers in English?’
But this Paola could not do, cheerfully admitting she didn’t know what they were called in Italian either.
‘Instead, we will go down to the pool and swim a little,’ she announced.
‘Paola, I’m here to work, not vacation.’
Paola pouted. ‘But this is only the first day. And Guido will not know. He and Tonio will be shut up in his study all morning, talking about farms and vineyards and the olive crop. All we need to do is avoid Zio Cesare, who is boring.’
‘He’s nothing of the sort,’ Clare said roundly. ‘I was fascinated by what he was telling me about the villa.’
Paola gave her a stare of sheer incredulity. ‘Chiara—you like to hear about Etruscans—and architecture—and the school of Raphael?’ She flung her hands in the air. ‘Then there is no hope for you.’
‘No,’ Clare agreed quietly. ‘I don’t suppose there is.’
In the event, they had the pool entirely to themselves. Clare was about to go back to the house to get her swimsuit, but Paola directed her to the stone-built cabins, on a cypress-sheltered terrace overlooking the water, which served as showers and changing rooms, and told her that there was always a supply of spare swimsuits and towels for guests.
Most of those on offer seemed to be bikinis considerably briefer than her own, so Clare opted for a one-piece in a deep bronze colour.
It wasn’t really suitable either, she thought grimly, being cut far too high in the leg and low in the neck, and fitting her like a second skin to boot.
Paola, she discovered, had simply discarded the cotton shift she’d been wearing to reveal a costume that consisted of a black thong and two minute circles of material that barely covered her nipples.
Really, Clare thought wearily, it hardly seemed worth the effort.
But the pool itself was wonderful, a great oval of gleaming turquoise water surrounded by tiled sunbathing terraces.
She walked to the edge and submerged a foot gingerly. The water felt terrific—cool, but refreshing. She poised herself, then dived in, swiftly and cleanly, completing three lengths without pausing.
‘You are crazy,’ Paola told her severely, as Clare hauled herself out on to the side and wrung the water from her hair. ‘Such exercise cannot be good. You will develop big muscles—like a man.’
Clare grinned. ‘I’ll take that chance.’ She towelled herself down, then stretched out on an adjacent lounger to Paola’s.
The morning was still, and would soon be very hot. After a few desultory remarks about her longing to hear from Fabio again, Paola drifted into silence, and then into a light doze.
But Clare had her thoughts to keep her awake. She was beginning to think she had bitten off more than she could chew where Paola was concerned. Perhaps it would have been wiser simply to tell Guido Bartaldi that, in spite of everything, his future wife was still planning to elope with her fortune-hunter, and let him deal with the situation in his own way.
If he fully appreciated Paola’s determination to be rid of him, he might even abandon the whole idea of marrying her. Or it might make him equally determined to win her over.
He wasn’t a man to easily surrender his own will, and his mind was set on Paola.
She sighed, and sat up restlessly, swinging her legs off the lounger. She was in no mood to lie around brooding.
She said softly, ‘Paola? I’m going up to the house to unpack, and make some notes about the lessons. I’ll see you at lunch.’
The only reply was a sleepy murmur which might have meant anything.
Draping her towel round her shoulders, Clare walked up the stone steps between the banks of shrubs towards the changing cabin.
The air was full of scent, and busy with the hum of insects. She drew a deep breath, and became suddenly aware of another less agreeable aroma.
Somewhere in the vicinity someone was smoking a cigarette.
Frowning, she glanced along the row of cypresses, and saw a young man standing between them, leaning on a hoe, the offending cigarette between faintly smiling lips as he stared down at the pool area. Wearing earth-stained jeans, and bare-chested, he was good-looking in an obvious way, and, if Clare was any judge, perfectly aware of his own attractions.
One of the gardeners, she thought, biting her lip, taking a sly look at Paola sunbathing, and so engrossed he hadn’t heard her approach.
She said in icy Italian, ‘Have you no work to do?’
He started, and turned to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, signorina.’ His tone was polite, even ingratiating, but his eyes were insolent, sliding swiftly and appraisingly over her body, making her regret even more the revealing nature of her swimsuit. ‘I am having my break. I did not realise there was anyone at the pool.’
Clare lifted her chin, giving him a sceptical look. ‘Well, now that you know, go and have your break somewhere else,’ she said crisply.
‘Si, signorina. At once. Naturally. Forgive me. I have not worked here very long, and I did not understand… I—I need this job, signorina. I am Marco’s cousin. He spoke for me to Signor Lerucci.’
Clare didn’t want to hear any more. Pulling the towel more tightly round her shoulders, she started up the steps again. Then paused, as she was struck by the sudden conviction that, despite his grovelling protestations, he was still standing there, laughing at her behind her back. She swung round to challenge him, but apart from the discarded cigarette, burning on the ground, there was no sign of him.
She thought, good riddance, and went on up to the cabin.
At some point, she thought, stepping under the shower, she would have a word with Tonio Lerucci about this Marco’s precious cousin.
She peeled off the borrowed swimsuit, and wrapped