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

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СКАЧАТЬ of a colleague’s illness, she’d just completed the translation of a lengthy scientific handbook, crammed with the kind of technical jargon known only to the initiated.

      The inherent difficulty of the task, too, had demanded total concentration, which meant that she had less time to focus on other, more personal problems. Such as the equally inherent difficulty of presenting a convincing performance to the world in her ongoing role as the young Contessa Manzini, she thought unhappily.

      Something which was preying on her mind more and more as her marriage began to turn from weeks into months, although she was at a loss to know why.

      On the face of it, she had little to complain about. As she’d suspected it had not taken her long to become familiar with the household routine, which ran like clockwork anyway without any real intervention from her.

      And, she had to admit, Angelo had scrupulously kept his word as to how their lives together would be conducted, which was quite simply—apart. That since their wedding night, he had paid precisely three visits to her room, and those only for the sake of appearances, during which they’d slept on strictly opposite sides of that gigantic bed.

      And he had never even attempted to lay a hand on her.

      Not that she wanted him to, of course, she reminded herself swiftly. So, it was a relief to know that he clearly shared—maybe even exceeded—her own reluctance.

      Because there had been no repetition of that burning savagery of a kiss either. His greeting and leave-taking invariably consisted of the merest brush of his lips across her cheek and her fingers, and that only when others were present.

      And if there were moments when she wondered whether the marriage was setting a pattern and that she was destined to spend the rest of her life alone and undesired, she kept such thoughts strictly to herself, pretending that the possibility was not as hurtful as it sometimes felt.

      And that, of course, there would be someone—someday—when this was over and life became real again.

      So there was really nothing for her to be uneasy about. Or not where Angelo was concerned, anyway, she amended swiftly.

      Because she could not deny she was being subjected to pressure of a different nature and from another source entirely. Something she had never expected, and found increasingly difficult to deal with.

      She got up from her seat and walked restlessly over to the window, staring out at the sunlit landscape with eyes that pictured another scene entirely.

      It had begun some six weeks after the wedding. Her godmother had invited her to a lunch party at Largossa—‘A very small affair, mia cara, and all female.’

      She’d been delighted to find Nonna Cosima present, but less pleased to see Signora Luccino, whom she was learning to call Zia Dorotea. For some reason, the older woman had seemed convinced from the start that Ellie’s marriage was entirely her own design, and that she deserved the credit for bringing it about.

      And how wrong was it possible for anyone to be? Ellie thought bitterly. But at least the Signora had brought Tullia with her, which promised some alleviation.

      It was during the aperitivos before lunch that the first blow fell.

      ‘You look well, cara Elena,’ Zia Dorotea pronounced magisterially. ‘Almost blooming, in fact. Is it possible you have good news for us all?’

      Ellie set down her glass of prosecco with immense care, controlling the silent scream building inside her. She was aware of Madrina and Nonna Cosima exchanging glances of faint anguish and Tullia’s open glare at her mother, but it made no difference. The words had been spoken. The question ‘Are you pregnant?’ was out there, and awaiting an answer.

      Only she had none to give.

      She forced a smile. ‘I spent the weekend at Porto Vecchio. If I have colour in my cheeks, it’s probably thanks to the sun and sea breezes.’

      ‘I hope Angelo has also benefited from the break,’ said Signora Luccino. ‘The last time I saw him, I thought he looked a little strained.’

      Ellie bit her lip. ‘He wasn’t able to accompany me. He had—engagements.’ And please don’t ask me where or with whom because I didn’t ask him, and I don’t want to know anyway.

      ‘Besides,’ she added. ‘It wouldn’t be his kind of place. It’s altogether—too basic.’

      ‘You are saying he has never been there?’ The Signora sounded scandalised. ‘That you go alone when you have been married less than two months?’

      ‘Oh, Mamma,’ Tullia intervened impatiently. ‘Husbands and wives do not have to live in each other’s pockets.’

      ‘Then perhaps they should,’ was the austere reply. ‘Particularly when the future of an ancient dynasty is involved. Angelo needs an heir, and perhaps he should be reminded of the fact.’

      Nonna Cosima intervened gently. ‘I think, my dear Dorotea, that we should allow the children to conduct their own lives, and enjoy the freedom of these first months of marriage together. I am sure the nurseries at Vostranto will be occupied soon enough.’

      ‘But hardly when Angelo spends all week in Rome and Elena disappears to the coast without him at weekends,’ the Signora returned implacably. ‘I gave birth to my own son within the first year of my marriage, because I knew what my duty was.’

      Ellie looked down at the gleam of her wedding ring, her face wooden, thankful that no-one in the room knew the entire truth about her relationship with her supposed husband.

      At which point, Giovanni had arrived to announce that the Principessa was served, and Ellie was off the hook.

      But not permanently, of course. Ever since there’d been little hints, little nudges, often growing into far more pointed enquiries about her health each time she encountered the Signora.

      If things had been different with Angelo, she thought, if they’d been something approaching friends instead of strangers whose paths occasionally crossed, then she could have mentioned it to him—perhaps made a joke of it—but asking for it to stop at the same time.

      As it was, she had to endure in a silence that was actually becoming painful in some strange way.

      Now, she found she was watching her reflection in the glass panes, studying without pleasure the set of her mouth and the guarded wary eyes. If she’d ever bloomed, she thought with a sigh, there were few signs of that now.

      She was startled to hear the distant clang of the bell at the front door. Visitors at Vostranto were rare during the week, and did not usually call without an appointment or an invitation. Perhaps the caller had come to the wrong house, she thought.

      Yet a few moments later, there was a tap on the door heralding Giorgio’s arrival.

      ‘The Signora Alberoni has called, madam. I have shown her into the salotto.’

      For a moment she stared at him, initial incomprehension turning into disbelief. Silvia—Silvia here? It wasn’t possible.

      ‘No, I won’t see her. Tell her to go.’

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