The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener

He watched her as she sat head bent, staring down at the floor. At last, she sighed.

‘Yes, then—if I must. But you have to promise that you’ll keep your word. That you won’t try to—to …’

‘The world is full of willing women, mia cara,’ Angelo drawled, his voice faintly derisive. ‘I have never forced my attentions on a reluctant girl yet. Believe me, you will not be the first.’

He paused. ‘However, once we have drunk from the calice tonight, I shall be expected to kiss you. Perhaps, in return, you could smile at me? Is it agreed?’

As she nodded unwillingly, there was a tap on the door, and he turned. ‘Ah, Donata.’ He spoke pleasantly to the plump dark girl hesitating awkwardly in the doorway. ‘The Contessa has been waiting to meet you, is that not so, carissima?’ He took Ellie’s hand and raised it fleetingly to his lips, adding huskily, ‘Until later then, mi amore. I can hardly wait to be alone with you at last.’

And Ellie watched him go, in the furious knowledge that she was blushing to the roots of her hair.

Her day did not improve as it proceeded into evening.

Donata was polite and efficient, and sighed openly over the handmade silk and lace underwear that she laid out for Ellie to put on after her bath, but at the same time there was just the faintest suggestion in her manner that her new employer probably needed all the help she could get.

Or am I being over-sensitive? Ellie asked herself drily.

Whatever, it made no real difference, she decided, shrugging mentally. She was not, as the maid clearly assumed, dressing to be undressed later by her bridegroom. Merely forcing herself to do what was expected of her.

Just as later in the sala da pranzo, she disguised her total lack of appetite by making herself eat at least some of all the delicious food set in front of her at a candle-lit table, garlanded with pink and white roses, and gleaming with silver and crystal.

And when the calice was ceremoniously borne in—beaten gold, no less, and engraved with the Manzini coat of arms—she rose, laughing, to her feet and stood in the circle of Angelo’s arm as they drank, even managing to endure the firm, warm pressure of his mouth on hers when he bent to claim his kiss.

After which, as he had warned her, she was required to retire demurely to her room, and await her husband’s pleasure.

‘Are there any other embarrassing medieval customs I should know about?’ she’d asked him stonily, aware that her skin was warming again. ‘I hope they won’t want to inspect the sheets to prove that I was a virgin.’

His mouth had hardened. ‘And I hope there may come a time, Elena, when you may appreciate their pleasure in having you as their Contessa and respond more graciously.’

When she got to her room, the officious Donata had already been there to turn down the bed on both sides, and lay across its foot the faintly austere white satin nightgown and the matching robe, tying at the waist with ribbons in which Ellie was supposed to entrance her bridegroom, then, her duty done, had discreetly and thankfully departed.

Ellie hung away the pretty primrose dress she’d worn at dinner, put her discarded underwear in the clothes basket, and slid the slender length of satin over her head. As she turned to reach for the robe, she caught a momentary glimpse of herself in the long wall-mirror and paused, arrested, aware that for the first time that day she actually looked like a bride.

And found herself wondering suddenly what it would have been like if her marriage had been a real one to a man she loved and who loved her in return, so that she’d be waiting here with delight and anticipation for her husband to come to her and take her in his arms.

And was assailed by a wave of such bleak loneliness that she almost cried out in despair.

Biting her lip, she put on the robe, fastened it, then sat down at the dressing table and began to brush her hair with slow rhythmic strokes, in an attempt to restore herself to calm, so that she could meet Angelo’s arrival with the necessary cool and unemotional indifference.

Or at least his eventual arrival, she thought when an hour had passed with no sign of him. She rose from the chaise longue, where she’d been perching nervously, retrieved the book she’d brought with her from the palazzo, a detective story set in Florence, removed her robe and, getting into bed, began to read.

Somewhere in the house, she heard a clock strike yet another hour and she paused, glancing at the door. Perhaps he’d changed his mind, she thought hopefully, having decided that their public performance with the loving cup was quite enough to fulfil the hopes of their well-wishers.

She closed her book and turned to switch off the lamp on her night table only to realise that her bedroom door was opening once again to admit Angelo. He came in quietly, and halted, looking at her across the room, brows raised quizzically.

He said, ‘I thought by now you would indeed be asleep.’

He was wearing, she saw with a sudden thud of the heart, a black silk knee-length robe and apparently nothing else. And for a devastating moment, found herself remembering the night in the tower room and the touch of his bare skin against hers.

‘I—I was reading,’ she returned, her mouth suddenly dry.

‘It must be a fascinating book to keep you awake until this hour.’ He began to walk slowly towards the bed. ‘Perhaps you should lend it to me to provide me with a suitable diversion for the next week or so. Just as a precaution, you understand.’

He reached the other side of the bed and began to untie the sash that fastened his robe at the waist.

Ellie said hoarsely, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting ready to sleep, naturalmente. Or is that perhaps a trabocchetto—a trick question?’

‘But you can’t,’ she protested. ‘At least—not here.’

‘If you imagine, mia sposa, that I intend to spend the night on that penance of a couch, then you are quite mistaken.’

‘But it’s perfectly comfortable.’

Angelo shrugged gracefully. ‘For you, perhaps, for an hour during the siesta. Not for a man of my height at any time.’

‘Then I’ll sleep there myself,’ she flared, pushing away the covers and swinging her legs out of the bed.

‘And I prefer that you remain where you are.’ He spoke quietly but there was a note of steel in his voice. ‘I advise you to accede to my wishes in this, Elena. Do so, and we shall both pass a peaceful night. But to defy me and force me to bring you back to this bed might have consequences you would not care for.’

He paused. ‘Now I suggest you turn your back, switch off the light and relax. You will soon forget that I am here.’

For a rigid, disquieting moment, she remained where she was, mentally weighing the possible repercussions of disobedience and realising reluctantly that she could not afford to take the risk.

Slowly she slid back under the covers and reached again for the lamp switch, plunging the room into darkness. As she did so, she felt the faint dip in the mattress signalling that he was now lying beside her, even if it was at a safe distance.

But there is no real safety, she thought, resting her hot cheek against the cool of the pillow. I’m in uncharted territory here, and I’m scared. As for forgetting that he’s here—how impossible is that?

By contrast, however, Angelo seemed to have little difficulty in ignoring her presence. In a matter of minutes, or so it seemed to Ellie, his quiet even breathing revealed that he had fallen asleep, leaving her to lie awake and restive, but unable to show it, her only alternative to gaze unseeingly into the shadows, counting the long minutes as they turned slowly into hours and thinking of all the other nights ahead of her when she would have to do the same, until the time when this strange—even incredible—non-marriage finally came to its end.

And hoping, with something approaching desperation, that it might be soon.

Three months later

Ellie closed her laptop, and stretched gently, easing her back. At the same time, she allowed herself a faint smile of satisfaction. Because of a colleague’s illness, she’d just completed the translation of a lengthy scientific handbook, crammed with the kind of technical jargon known only to the initiated.

The inherent difficulty of the task, too, had demanded total concentration, which meant that she had less time to focus on other, more personal problems. Such as the equally inherent difficulty of presenting a convincing performance to the world in her ongoing role as the young Contessa Manzini, she thought unhappily.

Something which was preying on her mind more and more as her marriage began to turn from weeks into months, although she was at a loss to know why.

On the face of it, she had little to complain about. As she’d suspected it had not taken her long to become familiar with the household routine, which ran like clockwork anyway without any real intervention from her.

And, she had to admit, Angelo had scrupulously kept his word as to how their lives together would be conducted, which was quite simply—apart. That since their wedding night, he had paid precisely three visits to her room, and those only for the sake of appearances, during which they’d slept on strictly opposite sides of that gigantic bed.

And he had never even attempted to lay a hand on her.

Not that she wanted him to, of course, she reminded herself swiftly. So, it was a relief to know that he clearly shared—maybe even exceeded—her own reluctance.