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

He shook his head. ‘You need not pity her. Because she will be happy—and safe. She needs above all someone who will look after her, and prevent her from doing something reckless and ruinous.’

‘Like marrying the wrong man,’ Clare said bitterly.

He slanted a smile at her. ‘But by the time the wedding takes place, mia bella, she will not think that. I guarantee it.’

A curious emotion stirred inside Clare, compounded of anger and something perilously like envy.

She said, ‘Heaven help her.’

‘Heaven is where the best marriages are made, Chiara.’ The undercurrent of laughter in his voice goaded her. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’

‘I think,’ Clare said coldly, ‘that “they” talk an awful lot of nonsense.’ And relapsed into a fulminating silence.

The Villa Minerva lay at the head of a small valley, a tawny sprawl of a house, crowned in faded terracotta tiles and enclosed protectively by the encircling arms of the craggy dark green slopes which reared behind it.

Like an old, proud lion sleeping in the sun, Clare thought with an involuntary lift of her heart, as she caught her first glimpse of it through the trees that lined its steep, private road.

She’d expected something far more stately and grand, even intimidating. But, apart from its considerable size, the villa looked reassuringly home-like.

She thought, ‘It’s beautiful,’ and only realised she’d spoken aloud when she caught the flicker of her companion’s smile, and a murmured ‘Grazie.’

Minutes later, the car negotiated a gateway guarded by tall stone pillars, and drove into a large paved courtyard fronting the house, where a fountain in the Baroque style sent lazy arcs of water curving into the sparkling air.

Guido had barely stopped the car at the foot of the short flight of steps which led up to a massively timbered front entrance, when Paola came running out to meet them.

‘Clare, you have come.’ Face and voice were stormy. ‘I did not think it would happen—not when Guido has set his other jailer on me,’ she added, giving the Marchese a venomous look as he emerged from the car.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then Tonio is here. Bene.’

‘It is not good—’ Paola began rebelliously, but Clare stepped in.

‘Pardon me,’ she said levelly, ‘But I understood I was coming here as your companion, Paola. As a friend. Not a jailer. But if that’s how you see me, I’ll leave now.’

‘No, I did not mean it.’ Paola put a placatory hand on her sleeve. ‘I spoke hastily. I was just so angry when Tonio arrived.’

‘I cannot think why,’ Guido said coldly. ‘He is here on estate business to consult with me, and it is more convenient for him to stay in this house. His presence should not affect you. You need not even speak to him.’

‘Not speak to him?’ Paola’s voice lifted in outrage. ‘Someone I have known my entire life? Of course I shall talk to him.’ She grabbed Clare’s hand. ‘Now come and see your room.’

‘My luggage,’ Clare began.

‘Matteo will see to that.’ Paola tugged her into the house.

‘Matteo?’

‘Guido’s maggiordomo. And his wife, Benedetta, is the housekeeper.’

Clare found herself in a big, shadowy entrance hall with a flagged floor. At the far end, a wide stone staircase led the way to the upper floor, its harsh lines softened by a central strip of thick crimson carpet.

High, narrow windows admitted slanting pools of sunlight, and as she was whisked towards the stairs Clare noticed a number of double doors spaced at intervals around the hall. But before she could speculate where they might lead, she was halfway to the first floor.

‘Are they the only staff?’ she queried with slight breathlessness.

‘Dio, no.’ Paola gave a little laugh. ‘There is a cook, and two maids, as well as Guido’s driver—and his secretary. Then there is Alberto, the gardener, and the men who work for him. And Franco, who looks after the horses…’

‘A cast of thousands,’ Clare commented drily. ‘I didn’t realise there’d be horses here.’

‘Guido likes them.’ Paola’s tone was offhand. ‘When he was younger, of course, he played polo.’

‘You don’t ride?’

Paola shuddered dramatically. ‘No—nor play tennis, although Guido wishes me to learn.’

Clare smiled. ‘It’s a terrific game. You might enjoy it.’

Paola tossed her head. ‘Oh it is far too hot, and, besides, I do not like to run about. Although sometimes I swim in the pool,’ she added on a note of self-congratulation.

The Marchese might have been right about Paola’s lack of stamina after all, Clare thought wryly, following the younger girl along a broad gallery.

‘Do you play tennis—and ride—and go for long walks?’

‘Why—yes.’

‘And you truly like these things?’ Paola sighed gustily at Clare’s affirmative nod. ‘I shall never understand—never. But it’s good, because you can be a companion for Guido, and I shall have some peace.’

But that’s not the plan at all, Clare thought, appalled, and was about to say so when Paola announced, ‘You are here,’ and threw open a door with a flourish, allowing Clare to walk past her into the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen.

She had always considered that Violetta lived in a fair amount of luxury, but now her eyes widened as she took in the huge bed which dominated the room, its canopy and curtains in ivory silk, and the matching coverlet ornamented with medallions exquisitely embroidered in gold thread.

The rest of the furniture was correspondingly large, and made from some dark, heavily carved wood, and the far wall was occupied by tall shuttered windows giving access on to a wide balcony with a delicate wrought-iron balustrade.

The chill of the marble-tiled floor was relieved by beautiful tapestry rugs in blue, green and gold.

The adjoining bathroom was equally glamorous, tiled in grey and silver, with a sunken bath deep and wide enough for multiple occupation. There were stacks of white linen towels emblazoned with the Bartaldi family crest, and mirrored shelves of toiletries.

‘My room is further down the gallery, and Signora Andreati will be placed next door to you,’ Paola continued, as they returned to the bedroom. ‘Do you think you will be comfortable here?’

Clare drew a deep breath. ‘More than just comfortable,’ she said. ‘It’s all—quite amazing. I can hardly believe it.’

Paola shrugged. ‘It’s old-fashioned. Antiquato,’ she said dismissively. ‘And Guido refuses to change anything.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘You should see my stepmother’s apartment in Rome. Now that is truly elegante—and so modern.’

She sighed, then pointed to a silken rope hanging beside the bed. ‘If you need anything, ring the bell and Filumena, one of the maids, will come. She will also unpack for you if you wish.’

Clare shook her head. ‘I can manage my own unpacking. And I can’t think of a thing that hasn’t been provided already.

‘Well, Guido will wish you to be contented.’ Paola pulled a face. ‘Whatever I may think about him, I cannot deny he is a good host. And I am pleased that he brought you so early—so that we can have breakfast together. Come down when you are ready, and we will eat.’

She walked to the door, then looked back, lowering her voice mysteriously. ‘And later we will talk. Make plans. Ciao.’ And she vanished, leaving Clare feeling winded, and slightly apprehensive.