Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage

It was time to act, she realised—in more ways than one.

She frowned unhappily. ‘Violetta, I’m not very hungry. Would you mind if we missed lunch and went straight home? I—I’m feeling a little giddy.’

‘Then we will not consider the escalators,’ Violetta said immediately, snapping her fingers for a taxi to take them down the long hill to the car park.

Clare felt like a worm on the drive back to Cenacchio, aware of the anxious glances being directed at her, but that did not stop her from making a strangled request for the car to stop at one point.

And when they arrived back at the Villa Rosa, she whispered a strained apology, and made an immediate beeline for her room.

She undressed, put on a cotton wrap, and lay down on the bed, watching the sunlight play through the shutters.

I’m a wretch, she thought penitently, but it’s in a good cause. Because there’s no way I’m going to the Villa Minerva for dinner tonight.

In the end, she dozed a little, only to be rudely awoken by the unexpected arrival of Violetta’s own doctor from Cenacchio.

Groaning inwardly, Clare submitted to having her pulse taken, her heart sounded, and her blood pressure checked.

‘I think perhaps it’s stress,’ she ventured in response to his questions, and gave a condensed history of the past thirty-six hours. ‘I had nightmares last night, and I can’t stop thinking about those men with guns.’ She shuddered and put her hands over her face.

The doctor made shocked noises, then prescribed rest, quiet, and a mild sedative. All of which Clare agreed to with outward meekness and inward jubilation.

‘Such a terrible pity,’ Violetta said mournfully, after the doctor’s departure. ‘I will phone the Villa Minerva, and tell the Marchese that we are unable to join him for dinner.’

Clare lifted herself on to an elbow. ‘But there’s no need for that,’ she exclaimed. ‘You can go, darling. And I’ll just stay here quietly, as the doctor said.’

‘But I cannot possibly leave you.’ Her godmother was shocked. ‘You are ill. I must take care of you, cara.’

‘By sitting here watching me sleep? Because that’s what I shall do once I’ve taken these tablets.’ Clare shook her head. ‘Violetta, that’s just silly and I won’t allow it.’

Violetta protested, but Clare gently but firmly overruled her.

‘You know you’re dying to see the house,’ she said. ‘And you can tell me all about it afterwards. Besides, you can give the Marchese my sincere regrets,’ she added mendaciously.

‘Well, if you are sure,’ Violetta said reluctantly. ‘And, of course, Angelina will be here to keep an eye on you.’

And watch me stage a lightning recovery as soon as the Marchese’s car has departed, Clare thought with guilty relish.

When her godmother had gone to dress, Clare got off the bed and went and sat by the open window, watching the late-afternoon sunlight dance on the leaves of the flowering vine that grew up the side of her balcony.

She had a good view of the wide gravelled sweep in front of the house, and was able to see when the car from the Villa Minerva arrived, punctual to the minute.

What she did not expect was to see Guido Bartaldi emerge from the driving seat, casting an appraising glance at the façade of the house.

Hell’s bells, Clare groaned to herself, shrinking back behind the shutter. He’s come to fetch us himself. I hope he didn’t see me.

She flew across the room and got into bed, pulling the thin cover up to her chin, as if seeking some kind of sanctuary.

With luck Violetta, looking in to say goodnight, would think she was asleep, and leave her undisturbed.

But Fortune wasn’t disposed to smile on her.

A few minutes later she heard a tap on her door, and Violetta saying softly, ‘You have a visitor, mia cara.’

Clare wanted to shriek, No, but instead she kept her eyes closed, and her breathing soft and regular.

She heard footsteps approaching quietly.

‘Ah,’ Violetta whispered. ‘The sedative the doctor left must have done its work.’

‘So it would seem.’

Perhaps it was Clare’s imagination working overtime, but she could have sworn there was a note of irony—even amusement—in Guido Bartaldi’s deep drawl.

‘Poor little one. She was so distressed to have to excuse herself tonight. She wanted so much to pay this visit.’

‘I must make sure that there are other opportunities,’ the hated voice said softly. ‘You must let me know if she continues to feel ill. I have an interest in a good clinic near Assisi where she could be admitted for observation. As a precautionary measure, you understand. Now perhaps we should go, signora, and leave her in peace.’

Clare heard Violetta murmur her assent, and move away. A strand of hair was tickling her nose, and she wanted to brush it away, but something—some sixth sense—warned her to keep still.

Because Guido Bartaldi was still standing beside the bed, just waiting for her to betray the fact that she wasn’t asleep at all.

She could feel the warmth of him, absorb the fragrance of his cologne. The knowledge of his presence made her skin tingle.

‘A great actress has been lost to the stage, mia bella.’ His low-voiced sardonic comment confirmed her worst suspicions. ‘But I will not torment you any longer. Sleep well—and dream beautifully.’

To her fury, she felt his hand smooth away the annoying wisp of hair. Then his fingers took her chin, turning her head slightly on the pillow. And his mouth, briefly and sensuously, kissed her parted lips.

It took all the self-control she possessed to go on lying there, unmoving and unmoved, when she longed to leap up and slap him hard across that dark, mocking face. To call him all the names she could lay her tongue to.

Instead, eyes tight shut, she heard him walk away, and the bedroom door close behind him. Or had it? Maybe it was another trick.

It wasn’t until she heard the sound of the car moving off down the drive that she dared relax her new rigidity and sit up.

There were tears of anger in her eyes, and she scrubbed fiercely at her mouth with the back of her hand, as a child might do.

‘Tomorrow,’ she vowed aloud, her voice shaking. ‘Tomorrow I’m going home. And I’m making sure that I never—ever—have to set eyes on that bastard again.’

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_25d04310-404d-567b-bb9c-e3f0d493c72a)

VIOLETTA did not return home from the dinner party until well after midnight.

Clare, lying sleepless, saw the headlights of the car sweep across her ceiling and tensed, wondering if the Marchese had acted as chauffeur again, and whether she could expect another visit.

But, to her relief, she was left undisturbed, even by Violetta.

She’d spent a restless evening. In the end, sheer hunger had driven her downstairs, and Angelina, delighted to hear how much better she was feeling, had conjured up a thick bean soup followed by a creamy omelette served with tiny mushrooms and grilled baby tomatoes.

Clare had stretched out on one of the sofas in the salone and put on some music, but even this tried and tested procedure had not persuaded her to relax.