His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ