His Reluctant Bride: The Marchese's Love-Child / The Count's Blackmail Bargain / In the Millionaire's Possession

‘You have a better version?’

‘No,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘But no one’s ever going to believe that we’re—blissfully happy.’

‘Then pretend, cara mia.’ There was a sudden hard note in his voice. ‘Pretend like you did three summers ago, when you let me believe you found pleasure in bed with me.’

‘Sandro—please …’ She felt her face warm, and turned away hurriedly, her body clenching in swift, intimate yearning.

That jibe of hers, uttered purely in self-defence that first night at the flat, seemed to have hit a nerve, she thought unhappily. But it didn’t mean anything. After all, no man liked to have his expertise as a lover challenged.

‘Do I embarrass you?’ he asked coldly. ‘My regrets.’

There was a silence, then he said, ‘Will you tell me something, Paola? When you went back to England, did you already know that you were carrying my child?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Ah,’ Sandro said quietly.

The car turned in between tall wrought-iron gates, and negotiated the long winding drive which ended in a paved courtyard before the main entrance to the palazzo.

It was bright with flowers in long stone troughs, and in the middle was a fountain sending a slender, glittering spire of water into the air.

Thank God, Polly thought as the car drew up. Peace at last. She stretched, moving her aching shoulders, longing for a bath and a change of clothing, hopefully with a cold drink included somewhere too.

The car bringing their luggage would have arrived ages ago, she thought.

It seemed that if she was going to be unhappy, at least it would be in comfort. But for now, that thought brought no solace at all.

The massive arched double doors opened, and a man, short and balding, dressed in an immaculate grey linen jacket came hurrying across the courtyard to meet them, looking anxious.

He looks like the bearer of bad news, thought Polly. Perhaps there’s been another accident and our luggage is all at the bottom of the Mediterranean.

Clearly Sandro was concerned, because he deposited Charlie on her lap and got out.

The little man, hands waving, launched himself into some kind of diatribe, and Polly watched Sandro’s expression change from disbelief to a kind of cold fury, and he turned away, lifting clenched fists towards the sky.

When he came back to the car, he was stony-faced as he opened Polly’s door.

‘The contessa,’ he said, ‘has decided to surprise us with a welcome party, and has filled the palazzo with members of my family, including my cousin Emilio,’ he added with a snap. ‘Tonight, Teodoro tells me, there will be a formal dinner, followed by a reception for some of the local people.’

‘Oh, God, no.’ Polly looked down in horror at her stained and rumpled dress. ‘I can’t meet people like this. Is there no other entrance we could use?’

‘There are many,’ he said. ‘But the Marchesa Valessi does not sneak into her house through a back door. Give me Carlino, and we will face them all together.’

Stomach churning, she obeyed, pulling her dress straight and pushing shaking fingers through her dishevelled hair.

Then Sandro’s hand closed round hers, firmly and inflexibly, and she began to walk beside him towards the doorway of the palazzo. As they reached it, she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, and was aware of his swift approving glance.

She was fleetingly aware of a hall hung with tapestries, and a wide stone staircase leading up to a gallery. A clamour of voices abruptly stilled.

People watching her, eyes filled with avid curiosity or open disapproval, a few smiling. And, for a moment, she almost froze.

Then Charlie lifted his head from his father’s shoulder, and looked at all the strange faces around him. In a second his expression had changed from bewilderment to alarm, and he uttered a loud howl of distress, and began to sob.

Polly felt the atmosphere in the great hall change instantly. Censure was replaced by sympathy, and the marked silence that had greeted them changed to murmurs of, ‘Poor little one, he is tired,’ and, ‘He is a true Valessi, that one.’

The crowd parted, and a small, plump woman, her hair heavily streaked with grey, came bustling through. Arms outstretched, voice lovingly scolding, she took Charlie from his father’s arms and, beckoning imperiously to the wilting Julie to follow, disappeared just as rapidly, the sobbing Charlie held securely against the high bib of her starched apron.

‘That was Dorotea,’ Sandro said quietly, his taut mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘Don’t worry, Paola, she has a magic touch. Carlino will be bathed, changed, fed and in a good mood before he knows what is happening. And Julie also,’ he added drily.

Lucky them, Polly thought, and groaned inwardly as the crowd parted again for the contessa.

‘Caro Alessandro.’ She embraced him formally. ‘Welcome home. As you see, your family could not wait to meet your beautiful wife.’

‘I am overwhelmed,’ Sandro said politely. ‘But I wish you had allowed Teodoro to give me advance warning of your plans.’

She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘But then there would have been no surprise.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That is precisely what I mean.’

He looked about him. ‘I am delighted to welcome you all,’ he began. ‘But as you can see we have had a bad journey with a sick child, and my wife is exhausted. She will meet you all when she has rested.’ He turned to Polly. ‘Go with Zia Antonia, carissima, and I will join you presently.’

Polly was aware of an absurd impulse to cling to his hand. ‘Don’t leave me with her,’ she wanted to say. Instead she forced a smile and nodded, and followed the contessa’s upright figure towards the stairs.

From the gallery, they seemed to traverse a maze of passages until they arrived at last at another pair of double doors, elaborately carved.

The contessa flung them open and motioned Polly to precede her. ‘This is where you are to sleep,’ she said.

Polly paused, drawing a deep breath. She had never imagined occupying such a room, she thought dazedly. It was vast and very old, its ceiling beamed, and the walls decorated with exquisite frescos.

It was dominated by one enormous canopied bed, with crimson brocade curtains and a magnificent bedspread in the same colour, quilted in gold thread, but little other furniture.

‘That door is to the bathroom.’ The contessa pointed a manicured hand. ‘I think you will find all you need.’ And the sooner the better, her tone of voice seemed to indicate. ‘The other leads to the dressing room, where your clothes have been unpacked for you.’ She paused. ‘Would you like some tea to be brought to you?’

‘That would be kind.’ Polly hesitated. ‘If it’s not too much trouble—as you have all these other guests, I mean.’

‘How can it be a difficulty?’ The thin lips wore a vinegary smile. ‘After all, cara Paola, you are the mistress of the house now, and your wish is our command.’ She indicated a thick golden rope. ‘Pull the bell, if you wish for the services of a maid to help you dress. Or perhaps your husband will prefer to assist you himself—as this is your luna di miele.’

‘I can manage,’ Polly said quietly, conscious of the faint sneer in the older woman’s voice, and the swift pang of alarm that her words engendered. ‘But I would like to make sure my son is all right, and I don’t know where the nursery is.’

‘I will instruct Dorotea to take you to him later.’ She looked Polly up and down with faint disdain. ‘Now, I recommend that you do as Alessandro suggests, and take some rest. After all, this will be your wedding night, officially at least,’ she added, with another silvery laugh, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Left to herself, Polly walked over to the long windows and opened the shutters. She knelt on the embrasure, lifting her face to the heavy golden warmth of the late afternoon.

If the contessa had deliberately plotted to present her at her worst, she could not have done a better job, she thought bitterly. But there was no way the older woman could have known how badly Charlie would react to the long journey from the airport.

I wish I could stay here, she thought, because I think I’ve already got ‘null points’ from the jury downstairs.

Instead, she had to put on one of the evening dresses Teresa had made her buy, and play her unwanted role as marchesa with whatever style and grace she could summon. And undo, if possible, that first unfortunate impression.