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

Her headache, perhaps, Clare thought, as she went slowly up the curving marble staircase. But she was totally unsure what to do about the painful feeling of emptiness which had assailed her with incredible and inexplicable suddenness.

Except, she thought wearily, pretend, for all she was worth, that it didn’t exist.

But it was not to be dismissed so easily. It was there, within her, like a great aching void.

And, as she lay on the bed, staring up at the ornately gilded ceiling fan revolving slowly above her, she was also unable to close her mind against the image of Guido Bartaldi’s eyes burning into hers like a dark flame. Or the caress of his voice saying ‘Chiara’.

And that, she thought, was infinitely worse.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_b8234540-f8c8-5cd5-8969-020cb749549b)

THE headache drops which Angelina had duly brought must have done the trick, because Clare found she had been able to sleep a little, and woke feeling calmer and more composed.

A long, scented soak in a warm tub helped restore her equilibrium still further. Afterwards there was the usual array of body lotion, eau de toilette, and scents in the personalised crystal flasks that Violetta favoured.

Clare uncapped the body lotion, sniffing it luxuriously, then smoothing it into her skin with sensuous pleasure, breathing in the aroma that the warmth of her body released.

Usually she chose very light fragrances, but this one was different—almost exotic with its rich, seductive tones of lily and jasmine. But a little sophistication might make her feel better, she thought.

As she dressed, Clare reviewed with satisfaction the hours ahead. Unless guests had been invited, the evenings invariably followed the same pattern.

First, she would join Violetta for an aperitivo on the rose terrace which gave the villa its name. Then they would indulge themselves with one of Angelina’s long, delicious dinners. Afterwards, the lamps would be lit in the salone, and they would listen to music and chat while Violetta stitched her petit point.

She sighed happily, and skimmed through the clothes she’d brought with her. Her godmother enjoyed investing her evenings with certain formality, so she passed over her casual shirts and skirts, opting for one of her newer acquisitions, a simple ankle-length dress, with short sleeves and a vee neckline, in a silky crêpe fabric. Its deep ruby colour emphasised the paleness of her hair, and gave added warmth to the cream of her skin.

One of my better buys, she thought with satisfaction, taking a long and critical look at herself as she turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror.

She darkened her long lashes with mascara, and touched a dark rose colour to her mouth before she went down.

As she walked across the salone to the long glass doors which gave access to the terrace, she heard Violetta’s charming throaty laughter.

Oh, Clare thought, checking slightly, so she has invited guests after all. She didn’t tell me.

She found herself hoping it was the Arnoldinis, because that would mean cards instead of polite conversation after dinner, and she would not be expected to join in.

So I can let them get settled into the game, then plead tiredness and have an early night, she thought.

Smiling, she walked out on to the terrace, words of greeting already forming on her lips.

And checked again, because Violetta’s guest, seated beside her on the cushioned seat in the shade of a big striped umbrella, was Guido Bartaldi.

He saw her at once, and, rising, made her a slight bow, the formality of the gesture slightly belied by the spark of amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he observed her shocked expression.

And what was she supposed to do in return? Clare wondered, rendered momentarily mute with outrage. Curtsy?

At last she found her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, dispensing with any preliminary niceties.

‘Clare, mia cara,’ Violetta intervened with a touch of reproach. ‘The Marchese has called to make sure you completed your journey here in safety. So kind of him,’ she added, bestowing one of her dazzling smiles on their visitor.

She was wearing mist-grey chiffon, with a discreet shimmer of diamonds at her throat and in her ears. And the Marchese seemed to have guessed her views on appropriate dress, because the casual clothes he’d been wearing earlier had been replaced by an elegant charcoal suit, set off by an impeccable white shirt and a silk tie in sombre jewel colours.

Violetta, Clare realised crossly, was looking at him as if she could eat him.

Not that she could wholly be blamed for that, she admitted, her mouth tightening. Earlier that day, even when she’d been scared almost witless, she had been able to recognise that, without even trying, he packed a formidable sexual punch.

And this evening, for whatever reason, he seemed to be trying…

‘I have apologised to Signora Andreati for intruding in this way, but I had to set my mind at rest,’ Guido Bartaldi said smoothly. ‘You seemed—overwrought when we parted today.’

‘Really?’ Clare asked icily. ‘I thought I was perfectly calm.’

‘Yet your godmother has been telling me you retired with a headache. I hope you are fully recovered.’

‘My head is fine,’ she said shortly. The pain now seems to be in my neck.

‘Ring the bell for Angelina, dearest,’ Violetta said hastily. ‘The Marchese and I are enjoying a Campari soda. I know that is your favourite too.’

Clare would have given a great deal to say tartly that she didn’t want a drink, or any dinner, for that matter, and then withdraw in a marked manner. But that would only embarrass Violetta, who was clearly thrilled by her unexpected visitor, and Clare was far too fond of her to risk that.

And at that moment Angelina, all smiles, came bustling out with her Campari, and a plate of tiny crostini which she placed on the wrought-iron table in front of Violetta.

So, Clare would just have to make the best of things. Carefully she chose a chair on the other side of her godmother, deliberately interposing Violetta between herself and Guido Bartaldi, who resumed his own seat with a faint, infuriating smile.

He said, ‘I also wished to assure you that your raincoat will be returned to you as soon as it has been cleaned.’

Clare gulped some Campari. ‘Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing.’ He paused. ‘Paola was sorry not to be able to thank you in person for your care of her.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ Clare hesitated, unwilling to prolong the conversation, but not wanting to earn herself black marks from Violetta for being discourteous. She cleared her throat. ‘How—how is she?’

He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Not happy, but that is natural.’

‘Entirely,’ Clare said with emphasis.

‘But she is young,’ he went on, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘She will get over it. Indeed, I intend to make every effort to see that she does.’

‘Lucky Paola.’ Clare kept her voice expressionless and her eyes on her glass.

‘I doubt she would agree with you,’ he said softly. ‘But I can appreciate that her social contacts locally are limited, especially when I am away on business so much. And, as I was explaining to the Signora, that is another reason for my visit. I hope you will both be our guests at dinner at the Villa Minerva tomorrow evening.’

‘And I have told the Marchese that we would be delighted, mia cara. Is it not so?’

Clare put down her crostini untasted. No, she thought furiously, it was not so, and Guido Bartaldi knew perfectly well that she’d rather be boiled in oil than go to dinner at his rotten house. In fact, there wasn’t enough space on the planet to separate them to her satisfaction.

I feel a subsequent engagement coming on, she thought grimly. Or at least a migraine. If not a brain tumour.

She fought to keep her voice level. ‘Thank you. I—shall look forward to it.’