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

Her face lit up. ‘Sì, vossignoria. I worked for an English family, au pair, for two years. I learn much.’

‘Yet you came back to work at the palazzo?’

Rafaella nodded vigorously. ‘It is an honour for me, and for my grandfather, who asked for this post for me, when his signoria wished to reward him.’

‘Reward him?’ Polly queried.

‘It was my grandfather who found the marchese when his car crashed into the ravine,’ Rafaella explained. ‘He saw it happen, and ran to help. At first he thought his signoria was dead, because he did not move, and there was so much blood, but then he could feel his pulse and knew that he lived, so my grandfather went to the car to rescue the lady.’ She shrugged. ‘But it was too late.’

Polly winced. ‘It must have been a horrible experience for him.’

‘Sì, vossignoria. He spoke about it to the inquiry, and also to his signoria when he was in hospital, but never since. There is too much pain in such memories.’

She bent to retrieve the discarded bath sheet, then straightened, beaming. ‘So it is good that the marchese is now happy again.’

‘Yes.’ Polly realised with acute embarrassment that the girl was holding up the black lace nightgown, which must have been entangled in the folds of the towel. ‘I—I suppose so.’

She tried to concentrate on her tea, and ignore Rafaella’s stifled giggle as she carried the nightdress off to the dressing room.

No doubt the rumour mill at the palazzo would soon be in full swing, she thought, swallowing. But at least it would support the idea that this was a real marriage, which would please Sandro.

She put down her cup and turned on her side, shutting her eyes determinedly, and, presently, she heard Rafaella’s quiet departure.

It would be good to relax, she thought, burrowing her cheek into the lavender-scented pillow. To recover from the stress and strain of the past days and weeks, and re-focus on this extraordinary new life, to which, for good or ill, she now belonged.

Thanks to the contessa, it was proving a more difficult start than she’d anticipated, she told herself, sighing.

For one thing, and in spite of the closed bathroom door, she could clearly hear the sound of the shower, reviving all kinds of past associations, and she pressed her hands over her ears, in an attempt to shut them out.

She didn’t want to remember those other times when Sandro had been showering, and she’d joined him, their bodies slippery under the torrent of water, her mouth fierce on his skin, his arms strong as he lifted her against him, filling her with the renewed urgency of his desire.

But the memories were too strong, too potent to be dismissed, and for a moment, as her body melted in recollection, she was pierced once more with the temptation to abandon all pride and go to him.

But it would pass, she thought. It had to. Because she would not be drawn again into the web of sensuality where she’d been trapped before. It was just a moment of weakness because she was tired—so very tired …

And gradually, the distant rush of water became a lullaby that, against all odds, soothed her to sleep.

She had never really dressed for dinner before, Polly thought as she sat in front of the mirror, watching Rafaella apply the finishing touches to her hair. The other girl had drawn the shining strands into a loose knot on top of Polly’s head, softening the look with a few loose tendrils that were allowed to curl against her face, and the nape of her neck.

Her dress was a sleek column of black silk, long-sleeved, with a neckline that discreetly revealed the first swell of her breasts, and gave her skin the sheen of a pearl.

She’d kept her make-up deliberately muted, faintly emphasising the green of her eyes, and curving her mouth with a soft rose lustre.

Whatever her inward inadequacies, this time she would at least look the part of the Marchesa Valessi, she thought.

She had hoped that Sandro would be beside her again, to guide her through her second entrance, but Rafaella had told her that he had changed for dinner and rejoined his guests while she still slept.

So, she’d have to brave them all alone.

Sighing under her breath, she rose. ‘Rafaella, I’d like to say goodnight to my son before dinner. Can you take me to the nursery, per favore?’

‘Sì, vossignoria. Of course.’

‘And that “vossignoria” is a terrible mouthful,’ Polly went on. ‘Maybe we could change it. What did you call your last boss?’

Rafaella looked a little startled. ‘Signora, sometimes, but usually madame.’

Polly smiled at her. ‘Then that will be fine with me, too.’

‘But I was instructed, vossignoria, by the contessa.’

‘And now you’re getting further instructions from me,’ Polly advised her crisply. ‘From now on it’s madame, and that’s final.’

‘As you say, madame.’ Rafaella’s agreement was subdued.

Polly was expecting another maze of passages, but the nursery turned out to be only round a corner, and up a flight of stairs.

It wouldn’t have been far for Dorotea to come, she thought as she opened the door and walked in.

She found herself in a spacious room lined with cupboards. There was a table in the middle, and a young girl was tidying up, placing toys in a large wicker basket.

Her jaw dropped as Polly entered in a rustle of silk, and she hurried over to a half-open door on the other side of the room, and said something in a low voice. A moment later, Dorotea joined them. She inclined her head stiffly to Polly, then turned to Rafaella and launched herself into a flood of half-whispered Italian, complete with gestures.

Rafaella looked at Polly with an awkward shrug. ‘She regrets, madame, but your son is asleep. She was not expecting a visit from you. She understood that your duties to your guests came first.’

‘Nothing comes before my little boy,’ Polly said quietly. ‘And I thought it was arranged that she would come and fetch me once he was settled. I have been waiting.’

She paused. ‘Clearly, there has been some misunderstanding tonight, but explain to her, please, that we will speak in the morning about Carlino’s future routine. And now I would like to kiss my son goodnight.’

Dorotea listened to Rafaella’s translation, but it brought no lightening of her expression. And she stood unwillingly aside to give Polly access to the night nursery.

A nightlight in a holder shaped like a shell was burning near his cot, and Charlie was lying on his back, his arms flung wide, his breathing soft and regular.

Polly stood looking down at him, then bent and brushed a strand of hair back from his face with gentle fingers. At the same time she became aware that Dorotea, who’d been watching from the doorway, arms folded across her bosom, was bobbing a kind of curtsy and muttering a deferential ‘Excellenza’ as she backed out of the room. And she realised that Sandro had come to join her.

She had never seen him in dinner jacket and black tie before, and the breath caught in her throat, because this new formality conferred its own kind of magnificence. It also set him at a distance, which was all to the good, she told herself.

She summoned a smile. ‘Buonasera. I came to say goodnight. Maybe even goodbye, just in case they tear me to pieces downstairs.’

‘They will not do that. They are all eager to meet you.’

She looked back at the cot. ‘How—how beautiful,’ she said, softly. ‘Don’t you think so?’

‘Sì,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Beautiful indeed.’ And she realised that he was looking at her, and turned away as she felt her body quiver in instinctive response, walking past him into the now-deserted day nursery.

He followed. ‘But I did not come simply to see Carlino,’ he went on. ‘I have something for you, cara mia.’ His hands touched her shoulders, halting her, and Polly felt the slide of something metallic against her throat, and glanced down.

The necklace was nearly an inch wide, a flat, delicate network of gold, studded with the blue-white fire of diamonds. She touched it with a wondering hand. ‘Sandro—it’s lovely. But there’s no need for this.’