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

Her mind had been too full, and revolving almost exclusively around one subject—Guido Bartaldi.

It was infuriating to have to acknowledge the hold he’d taken on her imagination. His image seemed locked immutably into her brain, and she resented it.

She couldn’t handle his constant and almost casual reappearance in her life. But she couldn’t speak her mind about them for fear of upsetting Violetta, who was clearly happy to accept the Marchese at his own valuation.

But a man who was planning to marry, even if it was a marriage of convenience, should not be conducting a flirtation with another girl, she argued, biting her lip. It was a despicable thing to do.

After James, she’d made a private vow to avoid any man who wasn’t free to commit himself. And what a lot of them there seemed to be, she thought bitterly.

But with Guido Bartaldi it had already gone beyond simple flirtation—because he had touched—and kissed.

Her whole body shivered at the memory of his mouth on hers.

The worst part of it was her certainty that he knew exactly the effect that his caresses would evoke. It was a delicate, subtle form of torment, devised to punish her. To ensure she didn’t embark on any more grand gestures to annoy him.

It was a stupid thing to do, she acknowledged sombrely. I should have seen that he was way out of my league as an adversary. Far better to have thanked him nicely, then stuffed the money in the poor box at the nearest church. Honour would have been satisfied on my part, and he’d have been none the wiser.

But it’s too late for regrets. All I can do is cut my losses and go.

The shopping trip to Perugia had prevented her phoning the agency as she’d planned, but she’d do it first thing in the morning, she promised herself. And all she had to do then was find herself a flight back to Britain. Any class, any time, any airport, she added, pulling a face.

She felt tense, facing Violetta at the breakfast table the next morning, expecting a blow-by-blow account of everything that had been eaten, said and done at the Villa Minerva, but her godmother, surprisingly, said very little about it, apart from acknowledging that the house was indeed beautiful, the food had been delicious, and that she had enjoyed herself. After which she relapsed into an unusually pensive state.

While, paradoxically, Clare found she was thirsting to know more.

‘What did you think of Paola?’ she asked, in the end.

‘Paola?’ Violetta echoed. ‘Ah, the young girl. She seemed subdued. I think she was disappointed that you were not there,’ she added after a reflective pause. ‘As, indeed, were they all.’

She gave Clare a kind smile. ‘Are you feeling more yourself today, mia cara?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Clare flushed slightly. ‘The medication the doctor gave me seems to have worked miracles.’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘In fact, I’m fighting fit, and I was thinking I really ought to get back to work again.’

‘And I think you should enjoy your rest here with me,’ Violetta said firmly.

‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ Clare said quickly. ‘But I haven’t told the agency about the Dorelli fiasco yet, and the chances are they’ll want to reassign me straight away. And I ought to contact Dad too.’

‘But not for the next two weeks.’ Violetta poured herself some more coffee. ‘He is away, dearest. He has taken her—’ she invested the word with extraordinary venom ‘—on a trip to San Francisco. He told me when I telephoned him last week to ask for your address in Rome, which I had mislaid.’

‘Oh.’ Clare digested this with dismay, then rallied. ‘All the more reason for me to go back, then. I should be there in case of an emergency with the business.’

Violetta shook her head. ‘His assistant—Tricia, is it not?—is doing that. So there is really nothing to take you away,’ she added dulcetly. ‘Everything has worked for the best.’

‘Yes,’ Clare said too brightly, as she damned San Francisco, its bay, its hills, and its blameless citizens under her breath. ‘Yes, of course.’

When breakfast was over, Violetta announced that she was driving into Cenacchio to the hairdresser.

‘Do you wish to come with me, mia cara, or shall I ask Giacomo to place a lounger down by the pool for you?’

‘That would be perfect,’ Clare agreed. If she was forced to be on holiday, she thought, then she would behave like a holidaymaker.

When she went down to the pool below the rose terrace about an hour later, she found the lounger already in position, and Giacomo, Angelina’s husband, who looked after the gardens at the villa, fussing with a sun umbrella. He was a small, wrinkled man with grey hair and black twinkling eyes, and he greeted Clare with his usual gap-toothed smile.

‘Ah, signorina, each time you come here you are more like your dear mother, God give her rest.’ He looked at her hands, clearly searching for rings, and tutted. ‘But where is your husband? Where are the bambini?’

Clare laughed. ‘I’m sorry to be such a disappointment, Giacomo, but we can’t all be as lucky as Angelina.’

Giacomo shook his head reproachfully. ‘Such a waste,’ he told the sky, and went off, muttering to himself.

It was already bakingly hot, the sun dazzling on the water. It wasn’t a very large pool, just big enough for Violetta to manage a few unhurried, decorous lengths as her token exercise for the day.

Clare found it cramped, but it looked inviting just the same, she thought as she discarded her towelling wrap and stretched out on the lounger in her simple black bikini.

Now, she thought, shall I swim and then sunbathe, or work on my tan for an hour, then cool off in the water? Decisions, decisions.

And if that was all she had to trouble her, how happy she would be. Only, it wasn’t.

Because, try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself that she’d seen the last of the Marchese Bartaldi.

He was there, all the time, at the back of her mind, like a shadow in the sun.

And, more worryingly, he was physically present too, at the Villa Minerva, within driving distance.

She picked up the bottle of high-factor sun lotion and began to apply it to her arms and shoulders. Her skin accepted the sun easily, turning a deep, smooth honey colour without soreness, but she still treated the heat with respect.

And she must do the same with Guido Bartaldi, she thought, grimacing. Find some way to protect herself against him. Or she could end up getting more badly burned than she’d ever been in her life.

Dark glasses perched on her nose, she flicked through some of Violetta’s glossy magazines. It was like peeping through a window into a different world, she thought, smiling. A world where money was no object and your life was designed for you, from the clothes you wore to the glass you drank from. The kind of world where a man like Guido Bartaldi reigned supreme.

For a minute, she let her mind dwell on that shop window of jewellery, back in Perugia. There’d been one gorgeous topaz pendant, glowing like a banked-down fire in its heavy gold setting. She tried to imagine herself walking into the shop, and pointing to it. Saying, I’ll have that, without stopping to ask the price. Feeling the cool weight of the stone slipping down between her breasts…

Some chance, she thought, her mouth twisting with derision. She was one of the world’s workers, and, though she earned a reasonable living, she’d always have to count the cost of anything she bought. And she wouldn’t have it any other way, she added with a touch of defiance.

She felt restless again, the glamour and luxury depicted on the pages in front of her suddenly beginning to pall. Or was it that she was starting to feel a little bit envious?

Shaking her head in self-derision, she let the magazine drop to the ground and swung herself off the lounger. It was time for a swim, she decided, discarding her watch. Some hard physical exercise. Far healthier than crying for a moon she didn’t even want.

The water felt wonderful, and she covered length after length with her strong, easy crawl. She was breathless when she pulled herself out on to the tiled edge, wringing the excess moisture out of her hair.

She towelled herself off, then adjusted the umbrella so that the lounger was completely shaded before she lay down again, turning on to her front and unfastening the clip of her bikini top.

Her bad night was catching up with her, she thought drowsily, pillowing her head on her folded arms and letting her body sink down into the soft cushions. The air felt very still, almost watchful, and the scent of the roses on the terrace above her was heavy—almost overpowering.

Almost as heavy as her own eyelids, Clare thought, and slept.

Something woke her eventually. She lay still for a moment, listening to the silence, wondering idly what had disturbed her. She turned her head slightly, and saw that a small wrought-iron table had been placed beside her, and on it a pitcher of iced fruit juice—peach, judging by its colour—and a glass.

Ah, she thought gratefully. Angelina. What a perfect way to be woken.