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

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      Her throat muscles felt paralysed, but she managed a husky, ‘Thank you.’

      In spite of her tacit resistance, Sandro slid an arm round her waist, holding her against his side, as they went into the brightness of the room and paused to meet the laughter and faint cheers that awaited them.

      Then she felt his lips touch her hot cheek, as he whispered, ‘Go now, bella mia.’

      The door seemed a million miles away, especially when she had to reach it through a sea of broad grins and openly voiced encouragement. She was aware that people were swarming after her into the hall, watching her walk up the stairs.

      She glanced back once, and saw Sandro standing a little apart from them all. He was unsmiling, his eyes bleak, as he looked at her, raising the glass he was holding in a cynical toast. Then he drained the contents in one jerky movement, and went back into the salotto.

      Leaving Polly to go on, feeling more alone than she had ever done in her life before.

CHAPTER NINE

      THE bedroom was empty, but it was prepared and waiting for her. And, she thought, her senses tautening, for him.

      Lamps on tall wrought-iron stands were burning on either side of the bed. The coverlet had been removed and the white lace-edged sheets turned down and scattered with crimson rose petals.

      And, she supposed, inevitably, the black lace nightdress was draped across the bed in readiness too.

      Well, that she could deal with, she thought, folding it with quick, feverish hands into a tiny parcel of fabric. She went into the dressing room, and stowed it away in her wardrobe in the pocket of a linen jacket against the moment when she could dispose of it for good and all. Otherwise it was going to haunt her.

      She also needed an alternative to wear, she thought, rummaging through the exquisitely arranged contents of her lingerie drawer. She decided on a plain ivory satin nightgown, cut on the bias, its neckline square across her breasts, and supported by shoestring straps.

      Discreet enough to be an evening dress, she thought as she slipped it over her head after showering briefly in the bathroom. Especially with the diamonds still glittering round her neck. Where they would have to remain, as the clasp resisted all her efforts to unfasten it.

      Sighing, Polly shook her hair loose, ran a swift brush through it, and went back into the bedroom.

      She was aware the minutes had been ticking past, but she’d still hoped she might be granted a little more leeway than Sandro had suggested. Prayed that it might be possible to be in bed, pretending to be asleep before he came to join her.

      But her hopes were dashed, because Sandro was there already, dinner jacket removed and black tie loosened, walking towards the bed. He turned, surveying her without expression as she hesitated in the doorway.

      He said, ‘Do you not think you are a little overdressed, bella mia?’

      Her heart skipped. ‘What are you talking about?’

      His mouth twisted. ‘I was referring to the diamonds, naturally.’

      She lifted her chin. ‘I couldn’t unfasten them—and Rafaella wasn’t here.’

      ‘She would not risk her life by intruding.’ He beckoned. ‘Come to me.’

      She went slowly towards him, waiting, head bent, while he dealt with the clasp, his touch brisk and impersonal.

      ‘Take it.’ He dropped the necklace into her hand.

      She said, ‘But shouldn’t you have it?’

      ‘It was a gift, Paola,’ he said shortly. ‘Not a loan.’

      ‘I meant—wouldn’t it be better in a safe … somewhere?’

      ‘There is a place in the dressing room for your jewellery. Rafaella will show you in the morning.’ Sandro turned back to the bed, and began brushing away the rose petals. One of them drifted to Polly’s feet, and she bent and retrieved it, stroking the velvety surface with her fingertips.

      She said, ‘Someone has taken a lot of trouble. Perhaps you were right about the goodwill.’

      ‘The wedding night of a marchese and his bride is always a great occasion.’ Sandro dragged out the bolster from under the pillows, and arranged it down the centre of the bed. ‘How fortunate they will never know the truth,’ he added sardonically.

      ‘There,’ he said, when he had finished. ‘Will that make you feel safe?’

      ‘Yes,’ Polly said stiltedly. ‘Yes—thank you.’

      He walked away towards the dressing room, and Polly switched off her lamp and got hastily into bed. She slid her necklace under the pillow, then lay down, her back turned rigidly towards the bolster. The scent of the roses still lingered beguilingly, and she buried her face in the pillow, breathing in the perfume, and relishing the coolness of the linen against the warmth of her skin.

      When at last she heard Sandro returning, she burrowed further down under the sheet, closing her eyes so tightly that coloured lights danced behind her lids.

      She sensed that the other lamp had been extinguished, then heard the rustle of silk as he discarded his robe, and the faint dip of the bed as he took his place on the far side of the bolster.

      There was a silence, then he said, ‘Paola, you are permitted to stop acting when we are alone together. And I know you are not asleep.’

      She turned reluctantly, and looked at him over her shoulder. In the shadows of the room, she could see the outline of him, leaning on the bolster, watching her, but she was unable to read the expression on his face.

      She kept her voice cool. ‘But I’d like to be. This has been one hell of a day.’

      ‘Crowned, I imagine, by your meeting with my cousin Emilio,’ he drawled. ‘Where did you encounter him?’

      Polly, unprepared for the question, hunched a shoulder. ‘He happened to be on the terrace while I was there,’ she said evasively.

      ‘Emilio does not “happen” to be anywhere, cara,’ he said drily. ‘His locations are always intentional.’ He paused. ‘Did you share a pleasant conversation?’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not particularly. I hope he isn’t a frequent visitor.’

      ‘I believe he comes mainly to see Zia Antonia,’ he said. ‘Usually when I am not here. As he is leaving early in the morning, he has asked me to pass on a message to you.’

      Polly shifted uncomfortably. ‘Oh?’

      ‘He sends you his homage,’ Sandro went on silkily. ‘And hopes that tonight will provide you with wonderful memories for the rest of your life.’

      She punched the pillow with unnecessary vigour, and lay down again. ‘Well, neither of us are likely to forget it,’ she said shortly.

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