At Her Latin Lover's Command. Susan Stephens

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ hair gave her a touching fragility. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Miranda breathed dreamily.

      ‘Beautiful,’ he agreed, his voice sombre.

      She frowned, puzzled. ‘Where’s everyone else? The bridesmaids, guests… There’s just the couple and a photographer!’

      ‘It’s the custom. They’re being photographed in romantic settings.’

      He sounded choked. Emotion had claimed her too. The bride looked as if she might burst with love. The fresh-faced groom couldn’t take his eyes off his adoring wife.

      That was how it had been for her, Miranda thought, a pain wrenching at her heart. But not for Dante.

      With everyone watching fondly, the couple posed at the foot of the cobbled steps then beneath the arcade. She and Dante looked on, each with their own thoughts, as the photographer persuaded the couple into an artistic pose by a stone balustrade, with the lake and mountains in the background.

      So loving, she thought as they laughed and giggled their way to the gangplank of the passenger ferry for another shot.

      Somehow Dante’s hand had crept into hers. It was poignant, watching the couple. They hadn’t a care in the world. They were starting married life and were confident it would be roses all the way. She felt tears welling up and fought hard to suppress them as she contemplated the ruins of her own marriage.

      ‘Complimenti,’ Dante murmured as the rapturous lovebirds wandered past them on their way to another venue.

      The bride gave him a sweet smile, which became even warmer when she met Miranda’s wistful eyes. Her new husband said something in Italian and Dante’s grip tightened as the couple moved on.

      ‘What did he say?’ she asked, where once she would have kept silent.

      Dante didn’t look at her, but watched the bride and groom running like children to a seat by a large floral display.

      ‘He returned the compliment,’ he said eventually. ‘He said he imagined we were recalling our own wedding.’

      ‘I was,’ she admitted shakily.

      She remembered with a sigh that she had been in a dream the whole day. Dante’s lovemaking that night had been tender and profoundly passionate.

      She also remembered how his face had glowed with an inner radiance. Her heart thudded. Could Guido have been wrong? Had Dante loved her when they got married? She’d truly believed that he did at the time.

      Though, she thought with a shiver, his rapturous expression on their wedding day could have been due to something else: imagining himself stepping into Amadeo’s shoes and inheriting a fortune.

      ‘Lunch,’ he muttered, drawing her to a table overlooking the lake. He seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.

      Daringly she blurted out, ‘I wish it was like it used to be between us.’

      He winced as though he felt the same pain that shafted through her body.

      ‘Those days of innocence are gone,’ he growled.

      And with that harsh put-down, he picked up the menu and annoyingly disappeared behind it.

      But she persevered, risking an outright snub. It was a chance she had to take.

      ‘You can’t deny that it would be wonderful if we could be truly together,’ she ventured. ‘Easier all round. No pretences,’ she added haltingly.

      He lowered the menu sufficiently for her to see his dark, intense eyes.

      ‘Yes,’ he rasped and dashed her hopes by following that with, ‘but we have to accept that it would be impossible under the circumstances.’

      ‘Nothing’s impossible—’ she choked out.

      ‘I think there is something you should understand about Italian men, Miranda,’ he said tightly. ‘Honour is very important to them.’

      His mouth twisted but he kept his head down, his eyes lowered to the damask tablecloth. And in a bleak voice he continued, ‘The worst insult you could imagine would be to call a man cornuto. Do you know what that means?’

      Glumly she shook her head. But she could guess.

      ‘It’s a cuckold,’ he said. ‘A man who’s wife has been unfaithful.’ His eyes lifted to hers—hot, burning, indicating the seething emotions he was repressing. ‘It pains me that anyone could call me a cuckold—and the fact that if they did I would have to stay silent, because it’s true. I try to forget it, to put it aside, but it rips me apart to think of you with other men. When I look at you I think of their hands roaming over your body and I can barely contain my anger and shame!’

      Hot tears threatened and she beat them back furiously.

      ‘I did not betray you,’ she insisted. ‘I have always been faithful.’ Taking a deep breath, she decided to seize the moment and added in a low whisper, ‘I have always loved you.’

      And she waited for his response, her heart in her mouth. Everything depended on this. Her future happiness, Carlo’s. Please make him believe me, she thought, her hands tightening into fists beneath the table.

      ‘A commendable try,’ he drawled, his skin taut with disapproval over the contours of his face as he pretended to scan the menu. ‘But I know the truth. Understand this, Miranda. I can never forgive you.’ His eyes lifted to hers and in them she saw her own bleak misery.

      She felt that he’d thrust a knife into her heart. Her confession of love, her attempts to penetrate his barrier of hatred and mistrust, had been in vain. He’d made up his mind. They’d be polite strangers for years to come.

      She sat silent and stunned and deeply hurt by his intransigence as Dante beckoned for service.

      Conscious of the waiter prompting her, she mechanically put in her order, knowing she wouldn’t be able to do more than toy with her food.

      Then, averting her head in misery, she pretended to be fascinated by the boats crossing the lake, but all she could see were white blurs in a mist of blue because tears had sprung into her eyes and were clogging up her throat.

      It seemed she was no nearer to saving her marriage. Maybe, she thought in a flood of despair, there was no hope, after all.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      SHE felt battered and bruised. If it hadn’t been for Carlo, she would have gone back to the palazzo and wept in her room till she could weep no more. Then she would have taken the next flight home, to prepare for a lonely and loveless future.

      But of course she had to stick this out. And she knew that in two hours they were to collect him for his treat in Maggiore. She had no intention of appearing red-eyed and defeated in front of her son.

      Because of that she conquered her urge to sob her heart out and forced herself to reply to Dante’s inconsequential remarks during the meal.

      ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said politely. ‘The strangozzi is excellent.’

СКАЧАТЬ