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

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СКАЧАТЬ even that was small comfort as she stood before the ornate gilded altar listening to herself say the words that, in the eyes of the world, gave her to Angelo Manzini.

      Now she could only blush vividly and murmur something incoherent that might have been assent to his question. Her awkwardness, however, did her no disservice either with Signora Luccino or any of the other guests. Indeed, her obvious shyness at the prospect of being alone with her glamorous husband was seen as charming.

      Yet in an odd way Vostranto had become the least of Ellie’s concerns about her unwanted marriage. The first time Angelo had taken her there, she’d sat beside him in the car, staring at the back of the driver’s head, taut and unhappy as if she was on her way to jail.

      The house itself was a surprise, an impressive pile of pale golden stone against the folded greenery of the foothills. It was roofed in green terracotta tiles and two massive wings reached out from the central building like arms outstretched in welcome, enclosing a gravelled courtyard where a fountain played in front of the lavishly carved doors of the main entrance.

      Ellie stepped out of the car, and stood for a moment, relishing the warmth of the sun after the air-conditioning of the limousine, and watching the sparkle of the drops as a marble Neptune, his head thrown back in smiling triumph, endlessly poured water from an urn shaped like a shell.

      To her own astonishment, she found her inner tensions begin to dissipate a little, even if the idea of the house welcoming her was clearly a figment of her imagination, and allowed herself to be escorted inside with more composure than she’d anticipated.

      The entrance hall seemed vast and directly ahead of her a wide staircase made from the same marble as the floor led up to a broad half-landing carpeted in crimson, where it divided with two shorter flights of stairs leading up to twin galleries on either side.

      ‘Your rooms will be in the West Wing,’ Angelo informed her almost casually, nodding in that direction. ‘Mine, in the East.’ His smile was brief and did not convey much amusement. ‘I hope that will provide enough distance between us to put your mind at rest.’

      It occurred to Ellie suddenly—almost bleakly—that even if he’d said he’d be sleeping in the adjoining room to hers, there would still be a space like the Sahara Desert between them.

      And had to catch at herself with faint bewilderment—because that was a good thing. Wasn’t it?

      Aloud, she said woodenly, ‘You are very considerate.’

      ‘I cannot take the credit.’ He shrugged. ‘The arrangement is a tradition.’

      A pretty chilly tradition too, like all that insistence on family honour, Ellie decided silently as she followed him to the salotto. And could surely be dispensed with in this day and age. Although not on her account, naturally, she added hastily.

      But one day, when they were free of each other, he would no doubt marry again, this time to a girl who would persuade him to rethink the sleeping arrangements because she wanted him close to her all night and every night.

      And once more felt something she did not totally understand stir in the pit of her stomach.

      The salotto was long and low-ceilinged, with a fireplace even bigger than the one at Largossa, suggesting how cosy the room could become in the depths of winter. But for now, the French windows at the far end stood temptingly ajar, inviting the occupants to step out on to the sunlit terrace beyond, and drink in the green lawns and flower beds she could only glimpse.

      She’d been told the workmen engaged on the refurbishment had only left the previous day and she was aware of the scent of paint and fresh plaster in the air, and how the walls seemed to glow. She listened in silence to Angelo’s cool and impersonal account of how the wiring had been replaced through the house, and all the plumbing modernised.

      As if, she thought, he was delivering a lecture on the renovation of old houses to a not very interesting audience, instead of describing her future, if temporary, home.

      From the salotto, they went to the dining room, with its superb frescoed ceiling, but by-passed altogether the room he referred to as ‘my study’ on their way to the kitchen quarters.

      Which meant, she thought, that there were no-go areas for her too.

      It was something of a relief to be delivered over to Assunta, his plump and smiling housekeeper, for the remainder of the tour, which, of course, included the rooms intended for her in the West Wing.

      The bed, she supposed, swallowing, was also traditional, a huge canopied expanse of snowy linen, piled high with pillows, and a wonderful crimson coverlet with the Manzini coat of arms embroidered in gold.

      But Ellie was aware of a swift jolt at Assunta’s confidential disclosure that His Excellency had been born in that bed, accompanied by a twinkling glance to remind her where her own duty lay.

      In the adjoining stanza di bagnio, as well as a deep, sunken bath, there was a semi-circular shower cabinet that would easily have accommodated the entire bathroom in her flat on its own.

      And she would never, in a hundred years, have sufficient clothes to fill that panelled dressing room with its wall of wardrobes.

      The entire set-up made her feel overwhelmed and even a little off-balance with the weight of its obvious expectations, especially when she’d realised from the first moment that almost everyone who worked in the house or on the estate was lurking in the vicinity in an attempt to catch a glimpse of her, and that the smiles that greeted her held unalloyed goodwill.

      But then it was a long time, as Assunta had told her, the brown eyes suddenly a little anxious, since Vostranto had a mistress.

      They’re all going to be so disappointed in me, Ellie thought, as she returned downstairs to the unsmiling young man who was about to reluctantly bestow all this grandeur upon her.

      She thought he’d be waiting for her in the salotto, glancing impatiently at his watch, but the room was deserted and she stood for a moment quite alone, relishing the quiet, reminding herself that this was how life was going to be for the foreseeable future, but also that she was used to it—accustomed, most of the time, to her own company both at her apartment and the

      Casa Bianca—so that shouldn’t, wouldn’t be a problem. That really it was what she preferred.

      And even as that thought took shape in her mind, everything seemed to change, as if, for a moment, this room into which she’d walked as a stranger only an hour or two before had become suddenly familiar and somehow—enfolded her.

      So that when Angelo strode in from the terrace a few minutes later, looking preoccupied and asking if she was ready to leave, she agreed quietly and calmly, knowing that, when the time came, she would be even more contented to return. And that at least part of her life as the Contessa Manzini, while far from perfect, would at least be endurable.

      But not all the issues within the marriage were going to be as easy to deal with. There was, for instance, the vexed question of her employment.

      ‘My wife,’ Angelo told her icily when she’d asked how soon after the wedding she could return to Avortino, ‘does not work.’

      Ellie gasped indignantly. ‘But that’s ludicrous,’ she protested. ‘Just what am I supposed to do all day—sit around twiddling my thumbs? Thank you, signore, СКАЧАТЬ