The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener. Sara Craven

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      And above all Silvia, seated beside her clearly bemused husband, her lips stretched in a smile, but her eyes burning with anger as Prince Damiano made the announcement with grave pleasure, and Angelo took Ellie’s hand, glowing with the blue fire of his sapphire, and raised it formally to his lips.

      The lunch had been sumptuous, but she’d eaten like an automaton, hardly tasting a mouthful. Then there’d been the toasts to be got through, her mouth aching in an effort to smile and acknowledge the good wishes, whatever their level of sincerity.

      Standing rigidly to receive Silvia’s air kiss on both cheeks, then watching her turn to Angelo with the husky murmur, ‘Congratulations, mio caro. How truly clever you are.’

      Being lost for words as Ernesto, after wishing her joy without the slightest conviction in his voice, had said, ‘This is very sudden, Elena. I wasn’t aware you were even acquainted with Count Manzini.’

      And discovering Angelo at her side, smiling as he replied, ‘But I have you to thank, Signor Alberoni. I saw her first at a dinner party at your house. Now—here we are.’

      Later, feeling her face warm in a blush of sheer embarrassment as she again listened to Angelo courteously parrying the jovial demands to know when the happy day would be. Asking herself why she should be surprised, when talking himself out of dodgy situations was probably an everyday occurrence for him?

      Now, at last, finding solitude in her room, with the shutters closed against the profound afternoon heat. And the door locked. An unnecessary but instinctive precaution. Because she was still trembling inside from the unexpected brush of Angelo’s lips on hers as he escorted her to the stairs and his whispered, ‘Soon we will be sharing the siesta, mia carissima.’ And knowing his remark had been pitched at the world at large and that he didn’t mean a word of it hadn’t affected her reaction in the slightest. Which, in retrospect, worried her a little. Or rather more than a little.

      Telling herself not to be stupid, Ellie turned restlessly on to her side and tried to relax. Her rose had been rescued from the lunch table by Giovanni and was now in a slim glass vase beside her bed. Something else she could have done without, she thought, as its evocative perfume reached out to her again, bringing with it unwanted and frankly dangerous memories.

      Warning her that the coming days and weeks—she prayed it would be no longer—might well be some of the most difficult of her life.

      Her most immediate problem, she realised sombrely, was the suggestion, fast turning into a decree, that she take up residence in the Damiano palazzo in Rome in order to prepare for her wedding. And, of course, to avoid any further sexual temptation before the legalised union of the wedding night.

      It was almost funny, but she’d never felt less like laughing.

      She could only hope that the Principessa would come to her rescue and use all her considerable powers of persuasion to convince her husband that such precautions were quite unnecessary, without stating precisely why this was so.

      I just want my own life back, she told herself with a kind of desperation. My apartment, my work, my friends, and, more than anything, Casa Bianca, my house by the sea. If I’d only stuck to my guns and spent the weekend there, I’d have been spared this nightmare.

      But even this won’t last forever, and then I can start to be happy again.

      And tried to ignore the small insistent voice in her head warning her that her life had changed forever, and, however hard she tried, nothing would ever be the same.

      The dress she’d brought to wear for dinner that evening was new, ankle length in a dark blue silky fabric, with cap sleeves and a crossover bodice, the slenderness of her waist accentuated with a narrow band of blue and gold silk flowers. As she put it on, she realised, to her annoyance, that its colour matched the Count’s sapphire almost exactly. As if it had been planned in advance, she thought with an inward groan.

      She wished with all her heart that she could change it for something crimson—or magenta, or even bright orange—but she didn’t possess as much as a scarf in any of those colours. Nor could she bring herself to wear the sunflower skirt two nights running.

      The concealer that Consolata had left for her did its work again, and her freshly washed hair shone as it curved gently round her face, so, in spite of her inner confusion and anxiety, she looked relatively composed when she went down to the salotto.

      Giovanni was waiting in the hallway to open the door for her, and she paused, drawing a deep breath, feeling as if she was about to walk onstage without knowing what play she was in, let alone any of the lines she was supposed to say. But the major domo’s discreet smile and nod of approval helped launch her into the room, even if the sudden hush that met her appearance was disconcerting enough to induce a wave of shyness to sweep over her.

      For a moment, she wondered if she was late, but one swift glance told her that she was not the last arrival. That neither Ernesto nor her cousin were yet present. No doubt Silvia was waiting as usual to make a last minute entrance in something by Versace that would knock everyone sideways.

      I just wish I could do the same to her, she thought grimly.

      ‘My dear.’ Prince Damiano walked towards her. ‘How charming you look.’ He turned to Angelo who had accompanied him. ‘You are a lucky man, Count.’

      ‘I am well aware of exactly how fortunate I am,’ Angelo returned silkily. His lips were smiling, but there was no accompanying warmth in the dark eyes as he took Ellie’s unresisting hand and kissed it lightly. ‘Mia bella, Nonna Cosima is anxious to be better acquainted with her future grand-daughter. May I take you to her?’

      His choice of words made her heart miss a beat. ‘Yes,’ she said huskily, recovering herself. ‘Yes, of course.’

      The Contessa was seated on a sofa, chatting to Signora Ciprianto, who rose to make a tactful retreat at Ellie’s approach.

      ‘I have brought you my treasure, Nonna,’ Angelo said lightly. ‘I am sure you will be as delighted with her as if you had chosen her yourself.’ He paused as the Contessa bit her lip and changed colour slightly, then turned, smiling, to Ellie. ‘May I get you something to drink, mia cara?’

      There was something going on here, Ellie decided. Something she didn’t know about, and probably wouldn’t like.

      Sudden anger shook her, and with it a desire to be perverse. She met Angelo’s gaze limpidly. ‘Oh, just the usual, please.’ And being rewarded with a swift flash of annoyance in his eyes, she added, ‘Darling,’ as he turned to walk away.

      The Contessa leaned forward and took her hand. ‘Elena—I may call you that, I hope, and you must say Nonna Cosima. We have met in difficult circumstances, but we must now put them behind us and look instead to the future, and to happiness. Do you agree?’

      Ellie was taken aback. The Contessa was speaking as if there’d been a slight glitch, now sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction, when she knew—she must know—that the contrary was the case.

      She said quietly, but with emphasis, ‘The whole thing can’t be forgotten too quickly as far as I’m concerned. And please believe that is something I absolutely look forward to.’ She added stiltedly, ‘I hope that’s the reassurance you want.’

      There was a glint in the dark eyes that struck Ellie as far too reminiscent of the lady’s СКАЧАТЬ