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

‘I am sorry you don’t like it,’ he said, after a pause. ‘But we can always find something else. Is it the colour which offends you, or the fabric?’

‘Neither.’ Clare bit down hard on her lip. ‘It’s—the concept that you should buy me clothes.’

He looked surprised. ‘I supply uniforms for all the staff in this house. None of them complain.’

She gasped. ‘You call—this a uniform? You must be joking.’

‘Well, let us compromise and call it work clothing,’ he said smoothly.

Clare drew a deep breath. ‘Let us do nothing of the kind,’ she said stonily. ‘In my previous employment I’ve always worn my own clothes.’

‘And did they all resemble the garment you wore to breakfast—or was that a special choice?’

The note of amusement in his voice did nothing to improve Clare’s temper. Nor the fact that he’d seen so effortlessly through her little ploy.

She said tautly, ‘I’m sorry, naturally, if my fashion sense doesn’t meet your exacting standards, but I still prefer to wear my own things. And I’d like my navy dress back, please.’

‘Ah,’ he said, after a pause. ‘That could be a problem.’

‘I fail to see why.’

‘There are several reasons,’ Guido said calmly. ‘Firstly my uncle, who is, you understand, an art historian, and whose sense of the aesthetic was crucified this morning by your decision to shroud yourself in an ill-fitting sack. He’s no longer so young, and I must consider his feelings. You see how it is?’

‘No,’ Clare said roundly. ‘I don’t.’

‘Then there is the actual fate of the dress itself,’ he went on musingly. ‘I told Filumena, who made the substitution, to burn it. I am sure she has obeyed me by now.’

Clare stared at him. ‘You—burned my dress?’ she asked with ominous calm.

‘It seemed the easiest solution.’ He nodded. ‘Otherwise I could foresee it would continue to haunt us all during your time here.’

‘But this is an outrage.’ Her voice shook. ‘You can’t do this.’

‘Unfortunately, it is already done.’ He paused. ‘Although I cannot pretend my regrets are sincere. Not when you are standing here in front of me, wearing the replacement.’

He swung himself down from the desk. ‘Dio, Chiara.’ There was a sudden fierce, uneven note in his voice. ‘Don’t you know how beautiful you are?’

Clare looked down at the floor, detaching herself from the dark gaze consuming her, feeling her throat close.

‘You have no right to speak to me like that,’ she said quietly. ‘No right to say those things to any woman except Paola.’

‘There is no need to say it to Paola,’ he retorted harshly. ‘She is already secure in the power of her own attraction. But you, mia bella, are a different matter. And I am not blind.’

‘You promised you wouldn’t talk like this,’ she said shakily. ‘You said if I came here, I’d be safe.’

‘And so you are, Chiara.’ His voice was husky—strained. ‘Safer than you will ever know. But I never pretended it would be easy. Or that I would not be tempted.’

‘I’d better go.’ She still did not dare to look at him. ‘If I must keep this dress, signore, then I insist that you deduct its cost from my salary. No one pays for my clothes except myself.’

‘As you wish.’ The words were clipped.

‘As for Paola,’ she continued, with a kind of desperation to have the last word, and leave the confrontation on a winning note, ‘she may not be as secure as you think. You see—she knows about your lady in Siena.’

As she turned to the door, she was aware of movement behind her, then her arm was grasped and she was whirled round to face him.

‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded harshly. ‘What has she told you?’

‘Not the details.’ Clare tried unsuccessfully to free herself. ‘Just that you had another interest.’

‘And you believed her?’

‘Why not?’ she countered recklessly. ‘After all, Marchese, there hasn’t been much in your conduct so far to convince me that fidelity would ever be high on your list of priorities.’

The moment she’d said it, she was sorry. But it was too late. She saw his face darkening, the skin tautening over the elegant bone structure. Saw the cold, angry glitter in his eyes.

There was ice in his voice. ‘If that is what you think, Chiara, then why should I hesitate any longer?’

With one swift, compelling gesture, he pulled Clare into his arms, grinding her body against his. Forcing her into sudden awareness that he was not merely angry, but strongly aroused too. The stinging heat of his need penetrated the thin layers of clothing that separated them as if they no longer existed, and Clare’s breath caught in her throat as the roughness of his chest hair grazed her breasts.

For a long moment he stared down at her, scanning her dilated eyes and vulnerable mouth, the anger and coldness fading from his face to be replaced by a gentler, almost diffident expression, while his hand slowly lifted to tangle in her still-damp blonde hair, forbidding movement, holding her captive for his kiss.

She knew that she should make some protest—some attempt, at least, to push him away—but she couldn’t do it. She was too excited by his nearness, every nerve-ending in her skin tingling in anticipation of the touch of his hands, uncovering her. Discovering her.

The whimper slowly uncoiling in her throat was one of longing, not outrage.

He bent his head, and his mouth began to touch hers, lightly, almost feverishly, his tongue flickering like flame between her parted lips.

For a brief moment Clare was passive in his arms, letting the first sharp stirrings of pleasure begin to build deep within her being.

Then, as his kiss deepened, she responded, her mouth moving on his with shy ardour, and heard him murmur quietly in satisfaction.

His fingertips were stroking the nape of her neck, under the fall of her hair, then sliding down to caress the line of her throat, the curve of her shoulder.

Her nipples ached as they pressed against the confines of her dress. Her legs felt too weak to support her, and she was trembling, melting inside, her body electric with the shock of desire.

Her hands slid inside the open edges of his shirt to find his shoulders, and cling to them as if she was drowning.

Guido tipped her back over his arm, laying a trail of kisses down her throat, then slowly brushing his lips across the first soft swell of her breasts, and a tiny sob of need rose in her throat. The beating of her heart sounded like distant thunder.

Only it had been joined, with brutal suddenness, by a very different pounding.

The sound, Clare realised, of someone knocking at the study door. As Guido straightened, frowning, she freed herself from his slackened grasp and stepped backwards, pressing the palms of her hands to her burning face, and trying to control her flurried breathing.

Guido called, ‘Who is there?’

‘Matteo, signore, to tell you that Signora Andreati has arrived. Her car is outside at this moment.’

‘Grazie, Matteo. I will be with you immediately. And inform my uncle, please.’