Sara Craven Tribute Collection

And he took her up the steps and into the house.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_476eeed5-7611-5e85-9da3-f09df00006dc)

ENTERING the house was like walking into a cave. The hallway was vast and lofty, but also very dark. Flora was acutely conscious of Tonio’s hand on her arm, urging her forward. As the elderly maid who had greeted them reached a large pair of double doors and flung them open she shrugged herself free of his grasp with unconcealed contempt, then walked forward, her head held high.

She found herself in a large room, with tall windows on two sides. Although she could at least see where she was going, the heavy drapes and the plethora of fussy furniture made her surroundings seem no less oppressive.

While the atmosphere of hostility, she thought, drawing a swift startled breath, resembled walking into a force field.

And it had to be generated by the two people who were waiting for them.

The Contessa Baressi was a tall woman, with steel-grey hair drawn into an elaborate chignon and the traces of a classic beauty in her thin face. The hands that gripped the arms of her brocaded armchair blazed with rings, and there was a diamond sunburst brooch pinned to the shoulder of her elegant black dress.

The other occupant of the room was standing by one of the windows, staring out. She was much younger—probably in her early twenties, Flora judged. She had a voluptuous figure, set off by her elegant pink linen sun dress, and a mane of black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that would have been pretty in a kittenish way except for its expression of blank misery. Her entire body was rigid, except for her hands, which were tearing monotonously at the chiffon scarf she was holding. She did not turn to look at the new arrivals, nor give any sign that she was aware of their presence.

Intuition told Flora that this must be the Ottavia on whom she’d expended so many anxious moments, and that her unease might well have been justified.

‘Zia Paolina.’ Tonio walked to his aunt and kissed her hand with easy deference. ‘Allow me to present to you Marco’s latest little friend, the Signorina Flora Graham.’

The Contessa’s carefully painted mouth was fixed in a thin smile, but the eyes that looked Flora up and down were lizard-cold.

She said in heavily accented English, ‘I am glad you could accept my invitation, signorina. Grazie.’

‘You speak as if I had a choice,’ Flora returned, meeting the older woman’s gaze defiantly. ‘Perhaps you would explain why you’ve had me brought here like this.’

‘You do not think I wish to be acquainted with my figlioccio’s—companions?’

‘Frankly, no,’ Flora said steadily. ‘I’d have thought myself beneath your notice.’

She heard a sound from the direction of the window like the hissing of a small snake.

The Contessa inclined her head slightly. ‘Under normal circumstances you would be right. But you, signorina, are quite out of the ordinary. And in so many ways. Which made our meeting quite inevitable, believe me.’

‘Then I must be singularly dense,’ Flora said. ‘Because I still can’t imagine what I’m doing here.’

The thin brows rose. ‘Not dense, perhaps, but certainly a little stupid, as a woman in thrall to a man so often is. My godson’s charm has clearly bewitched you—even to the point where you were prepared to break off your engagement and follow him to another country.’ She gave a small metallic laugh. ‘Such devotion, and all of it, alas, wasted.’

Flora’s heart missed a beat. The Contessa, she thought, seemed to know a lot about recent events, even though her view of them was slanted.

She said, ‘I think that’s our business—Marco’s and mine.’

‘Ah, no,’ the older woman said softly. ‘It was never that exclusive, believe me.’ She paused. ‘Did you know that Marco had also been engaged to be married?’

‘Yes.’ It dawned on Flora that she knew where this conversation was leading. ‘But I understood that had been broken off too.’

‘Tragically, yes,’ the Contessa acknowledged. ‘It was a perfect match, planned from the time when they were both children.’

Flora glanced at the still figure by the window, with the busy, destructive hands. She said softly, ‘Only his fidanzata preferred another man.’

The Contessa reared up like a cobra preparing to strike. ‘Like you, poor child, she was seduced—betrayed by passion. And because of this she ruined her life. Threw away her chance of true happiness.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Flora stood her ground. ‘But I don’t see how this concerns me. I’d really like to go home now.’

‘Home?’ The plucked brows rose austerely. ‘Is that how you regard the castello? You are presumptuous, signorina.’

Flora bit her lip. ‘It was just a figure of speech.’

There was a silence, then the Contessa said, ‘Be so good as to tell us how you met my godson.’

‘We happened to have lunch in the same restaurant,’ Flora admitted reluctantly. ‘As I was leaving someone tried to snatch my bag, and Marco—came to my rescue.’

‘Ah,’ said the Contessa. ‘Then that, at least, went as planned.’

Flora stared at her. ‘Planned? What are you talking about?’

‘Yes.’ The Contessa’s voice was meditative. ‘I am afraid you are quite dense. You see, it was not by chance that you encountered Marco that day. He followed you to the restaurant and staged that little comedy afterwards.’ She leaned forward, the cold eyes glinting under their heavy lids. ‘Do you know why?’

Flora found suddenly that she couldn’t speak. There was a tightness in her chest. She was aware of Tonio’s gloating smile. Of the haggard face of the girl by the window, who had turned and was watching her now, the dark eyes burning like live coals.

‘Now, tell me, signorina, what your fidanzato said when he found you with Marco at that hotel? He must have been very angry. Did he try to hit him—make a terrible scene?’

Numbly, Flora shook her head.

‘And did that not seem strange—a man you had promised to marry simply allowing a stranger to steal you from him without protest? A stranger who had offered him such a terrible insult?’

‘I—I expect he had his reasons.’ Flora did not recognise her own voice.

‘Yes—he had reasons.’ The girl by the window spoke for the first time. Moving stiffly, she walked across the room towards Flora, who forced herself to remain where she was when every instinct was screaming at her to run. ‘Shall I tell you what they were?’ she went on. ‘Shall I explain that as soon as he saw Marco—heard his name—he knew exactly who he was, and why he was there. And he turned away in shame.’

She drew a deep shaking breath. ‘Because Cristoforo is a man without truth—without honour.’

Flora had been hanging on to her sangfroid by her fingertips, anyway, but now she felt it crumble away completely.

She was stumbling, suddenly, through some bleak wilderness. Her voice seemed to come from a far distance. ‘You—know Chris?’

The girl threw back her head. ‘He did not tell you about me? I knew he would not—the fool—the coward.’ She spat the words, and in spite of herself Flora recoiled a step. ‘He did not tell you that we met in the Bahamas, on vacation—that from the moment we saw each other nothing and no one else mattered? That we were lovers—and more than lovers. Because I laid my whole life at his feet.’

Her voice shook with frantic emotion. ‘I believed he felt as I did, that we would be together always. He—made me believe that—but he lied. On our last night together—when I offered to return to London with him and confront you with the truth that he no longer cared for you—he pretended surprise. He even laughed. He said that he had no intention of breaking his engagement to you because you suited him, and he did not want a wife who would make too many demands.’

Her shrill laugh was edged with hysteria. ‘He said what we had shared was only a diversion—a little holiday romance—and that he regretted it if I—I, Ottavia Baressi—had taken it too seriously.’

She shook her head. ‘He was so cruel—cruel beyond belief. He said that the best I could do was forget everything that had passed between us and return to my own fidanzato. Get on with my life, as he meant to do—with you.’

She wrapped her arms tightly round her body. ‘And when, later, I tried to telephone him in London—to speak to him—to reason with him—he did not want to talk to me.’

Flora said carefully, ‘But why should you want to do that? When he’d made his position so clear? Why didn’t you put him behind you and try and make your—your engagement work?’

‘Because I found I was expecting his child. I thought if he knew that, then he might change—realise that we belonged together.’