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

‘I am permitted to give you a wedding present,’ he told her drily.

‘I—suppose.’ She shook her head. ‘But I feel dreadful because I have nothing for you.’

‘You don’t think so?’

He turned her slowly to face him, then bent towards her, and she felt his lips rest softly, briefly on her forehead. She had not expected that, and his intense gentleness made her tremble.

‘My beloved girl,’ he whispered. ‘You are here with me at last.’

The sudden flash of light from the doorway was a harsh, unbearable intrusion. Stunned and dazzled, Polly pulled free, looking round wildly. ‘What was that?’

‘My cousin Emilio,’ Sandro said with a shrug. ‘Armed with a camera, and searching for some moment of intimacy between us to thrill his readers.’

She stared at him. ‘You knew he was there?’

‘I was aware he had followed me upstairs,’ he said. ‘And guessed his motive. I think we provided what he wanted,’ he added, casually. ‘And you did well, Paola mia. You almost convinced me.’

Hurt slashed at her like a razor. Just for a moment, she’d believed him—believed the tenderness of his kiss.

She said colourlessly, ‘I’m starting to learn—at last.’

She paused, taking a steadying breath. ‘And while I’m on a roll, why don’t you take me downstairs and present me to your family? Because I’m ready.’

‘And no more only children,’ Zia Vittoria boomed authoritatively. ‘In Alessandro’s case, it was understandable. His mother was a delicate creature, and no one expected too much, but you seem to be a healthy young woman, and Alessandro’s first born is a fine child, in spite of his irregular birth. I commend you,’ she added graciously.

Polly, seated at her side, with her smile nailed on, murmured something grateful, and wondered what the penalty might be for strangling a deaf Italian dowager. She was aware of sympathetic smiles around the room, and a swift glance, brimming with unholy mirth, from Sandro.

I should have known it was going too well, she thought grimly.

Dinner in the tapestry-hung banqueting hall had been a splendid occasion. She had sat opposite her husband at the end of a long candlelit table shining with exquisite silver and crystal, and been formally welcomed to the family by Sandro’s ancient great-uncle Filippo. Her health had been drunk with every course served, and her neighbours had vied with each other to talk to her, delighted when she’d attempted to reply in Italian. Only the contessa had stayed aloof from the talk and laughter round the table, sitting like a marble statue, her mouth set in a thin, unamused smile.

At the reception which followed, Polly had been presented to various local dignitaries, and invited to serve on several charity committees. Sandro, standing at her side, his arm lightly encircling her waist, explained with great charm that, with a young child, his wife’s time was limited, but she would consider all proposals in due course.

After which the visitors left expressing their good wishes for the happiness of the marchese and his bride, and Polly had felt able to relax a little. Until, that was, she’d found herself summoned by Zia Vittoria, and subjected to an inquisition on her background, upbringing and education in a voice that was probably audible in the marina, even before she tackled Polly’s suitability to add to the Valessi dynasty.

When the good lady was finally distracted by the offer of more champagne, Polly seized the opportunity to escape. It was a warm night, and the long windows of the salotto had been opened. Polly slipped through the filmy drapes, and out onto the terrace, drawing a shaky breath of relief when she found herself alone.

The air was still, and the sky heavy with stars, just as she remembered. Even before she met Sandro, she had always loved the Italian nights, so relaxed and sensuous.

Polly moved to the edge of the terrace, and leaned on the stone balustrade, inhaling the faint scents that rose from the unseen garden below. Tomorrow, she would explore the palazzo’s grounds with Charlie—find the swimming pool perhaps. Take hold of this new life with both hands, and make it work somehow.

As she stared into the darkness, she suddenly became aware of another scent, more pungent and less romantic than the hidden flowers. The smell of a cigar.

She turned abruptly, and saw a man standing a few yards away from her. He was of medium height, and verging towards the plump. Handsome, too, apart from the small, petulant mouth beneath his thin black moustache. And well-pleased with himself, instinct told her.

She met his bold, appraising stare, her chin lifted haughtily.

‘Forgive this intrusion, marchesa.’ His English was good, if heavily accented. ‘But I could not wait any longer to meet my cousin’s bride. My name is Emilio Corzi.’

‘I think we’ve encountered each other already, signore.’ Polly paused. ‘Earlier this evening—in my son’s nursery.’

He laughed, unabashed. ‘I hope I did not offend, but the moment was irresistible, if surprising. Not unlike yourself, vossignoria,’ he added softly. ‘I have been watching you with interest, and you have much more charm and style than I was led to believe.’

‘Really?’ Polly raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t need to ask who was doing the leading.’

‘You are right, of course.’ Emilio Corzi sighed. ‘Poor Antonia Barsoli. She has never recovered from the death of that unfortunate girl, Bianca. It must be hard for her to see someone set in her place, especially when Alessandro swore after the accident that he would never marry.’ He paused. ‘Although she has less reason to be bitter than I have.’

‘Ah.’ Polly gave him a level look. ‘You mean the loss of your inheritance.’

He sighed elaborately. ‘It is unfortunately true. His late father had two brothers and a sister, my mother, who produced ten children between them, all girls except for myself, and I was the youngest of three. Alessandro, of course, was an only child, and I dare say too much was expected of him, at too early an age.’

Polly knew she should walk away, but against her better instincts, she lingered.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Relations between him and his father were always strained.’ Emilio drew reflectively on his cigar. ‘And became worse once his mother was no longer there to act as mediator. As you know, she died when he was twelve.’ He looked at her, brows raised. ‘Or did you know?’

‘Of course.’ Polly lifted her chin.

‘I could not be certain,’ he said. ‘There are so many areas of his life about which he is silent. Although I am sure he has his reasons.’

‘Probably because he doesn’t want the details splashed all over your magazines,’ Polly suggested shortly.

‘But he wrongs me, my dear cousin.’ Emilio’s tone was plaintive. ‘I have not made capital out of his forbidden affair with you—or his secret love-child. I am treating it as a romantic story with a happy ending. My family loyalty is real.’ He paused. ‘I have not even expressed my doubts in public over the mystery of Bianca DiMario’s death. Or not yet anyway.’

‘Mystery?’ Polly repeated. ‘What are you talking about? It was a tragic accident.’

‘That was the decision of the inquiry, certainly. But I am fascinated by the reticence of the only witness who was called—Giacomo Raboni.’ He smiled at her. ‘But after all, his family have served the Valessi faithfully for generations. Who knows what someone less partisan might have said?’

Polly stiffened. ‘That is—a disgusting implication. There was a burst tyre on the car. These things happen.’

‘But the inquiry was held so quickly,’ Emilio countered. ‘While Alessandro was still seriously ill in hospital, and unable to give evidence. But perhaps they thought he never would,’ he added swiftly. ‘It was still possible that he would end his days in a wheelchair, and that there might be permanent brain damage.’

He shrugged. ‘But in the end he suffered only some temporary amnesia, and he made a full recovery—to everyone’s enormous relief,’ he added piously.

‘Yes,’ Polly said stonily. ‘I bet you were thrilled to bits.’ She was leaning back against the balustrade, shaking like a leaf, her stomach churning, as she thought of Sandro trapped, perhaps, in a helpless body. Unable even to understand, maybe, that he had fathered a child, let alone hold him or love him.

‘But even when he was well again, he was never questioned about that afternoon in the mountains,’ Emilio said softly. ‘The advantage, I suppose, of being the son of a rich and influential man. And there was much sympathy, too, for my uncle Domenico, who had lost a young girl he cherished as a daughter. So, many questions were left unanswered.’

‘Such as?’ she demanded curtly.

‘What did Giacomo Raboni know, but not speak about? I know he was well rewarded at the time by my uncle. And now, I find, his granddaughter has been given a position of prestige as your personal maid.’

She said hoarsely, ‘But gratitude is quite natural. Sandro told me that Giacomo had saved his life. That’s quite a service.’

He shrugged. ‘I think his silence has been a greater one. And they say too that generosity is often prompted by a guilty conscience.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Have you ever wondered whether the scar on your husband’s cheek might be the mark of Cain?’

‘I think you’ve said enough.’ Her tone was ice. ‘You’re supposed to be Sandro’s guest. It would be better if you left.’