At Her Latin Lover's Command: The Italian Count's Command / The French Count's Mistress / At the Spanish Duke's Command. Susan Stephens

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СКАЧАТЬ Suddenly she felt out of her depth. Dante had the whip hand.

      ‘And if he grows up here, he will learn naturally how to deal with people. He will learn that power brings responsibility and carries with it a sense of duty,’ Dante snapped. ‘One day he will be Il Conte Severini. He must not shame the name and blunder about helplessly because he doesn’t know how to behave. Or do you want your son to be disinherited and for my brother, Guido, to take his place?’

      She shuddered at the mention of Guido’s name but didn’t know why. There was a foul taste in her mouth suddenly. All her instincts were railing against Guido inheriting Carlo’s birthright.

      ‘You’re asking a lot of me. Let me think,’ she said weakly. ‘Please! It’s such an important step. We’d be committed to living a lie for the rest of our lives!’

      It seemed a prison sentence. But she knew in her heart of hearts that she would do anything for her child…even this, if she could come up with no other solution.

      Her head ached. Frowning, she rubbed at her temple, knowing she needed privacy to work things out. To come to terms with her frightening future.

      Slowly she lifted her head and gazed at Dante with huge, tear-washed eyes, her mouth trembling with misery and fatigue.

      He seemed remote, the honeyed skin taut over his cheekbones, his lips no longer curved in a sensual arch but pressed into a hard, grim line. He would never relent, she thought in desperation, and felt like weeping at her defeat.

      ‘Please, Dante! Give me time!’ she whispered again.

      There was no indication in his face that he recognised this, not even when two huge, crystal teardrops squeezed from each corner of her eyes. As she saw his stony expression, the granite of his jaw, her whole body drooped. She was hanging on by a thread and he didn’t give a damn.

      ‘As you wish,’ he said in an uncharacteristic rasp. Perhaps he was angry that she hadn’t agreed immediately, and was trying to conceal his rage, she thought dully. ‘Perhaps some fresh air will help. I will show you the way to the garden, where you can consider my offer. You’ve got an hour. No longer.’

      Again that jerky walk. A shaking hand on the doorknob that betrayed his tension. Puzzled, she wondered just how badly Dante wanted to ‘keep up appearances’. Presumably it had been pointed out to him that it was not proper for him to be married and to live apart from his wife. Maybe the Italian aristocracy would frown on divorce.

      If so, she thought tiredly, following him down the stairs, she had a small advantage. Perhaps she could push through some alterations to his ruthless plan…

      ‘Darling!’

      Already heading for the back of the hall, they both whirled at the trilling cry. Miranda saw that the tall, elegant figure of Dante’s mother stood in the open doorway, framed against the sunlight, her arms held out in a typically generous welcome.

      ‘Sonniva!’ Miranda said in surprise. And to her horror, she gave a little choking cry.

      ‘My dear! Oh, you poor darling!’ crooned Sonniva, clacking rapidly across the chequered marble.

      And then Miranda was enveloped in silken arms, the bird-like body grasping her with surprising energy, two gentle hands stroking and soothing her as if she were a child.

      ‘O, povera piccolina! You poor little one! How glad I am to see you,’ Dante’s mother murmured, great wafts of Paradiso perfume drifting enticingly into Miranda’s senses. ‘It must have been so hard, being in an isolation hospital and not allowed to see your own husband and child! I’m thrilled you’re better now. But you look so thin!’ she chided, taking Miranda’s startled face between her palms. ‘And pale! Dante! She is still not well. We must look after you. Red wine and chocolates, yes?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘The fever. All is well now? The hospital has let you go and you are here to stay?’

      She took a deep breath, feeling wrecked. Her eyes slipped to Dante. She was shocked to see how alarmed he looked. So that was the story—that she’d been in hospital with a dangerously contagious illness. What a liar he was!

      ‘Miranda, darling!’ crooned Sonniva in concern. ‘You look…how do I say it?….dazed. Dante, she is staying, isn’t she? Oh, he’s been such a bear without you! And I couldn’t bear little Carlo to cry so pitifully for his mama again!’

      ‘You’re exaggerating, Mama—’ Dante began.

      But the damage was done. ‘Oh, dear heaven!’ Miranda whispered, utterly broken by Sonniva’s final sentence. She drew in a shuddering breath. ‘Yes. Yes. I’m staying.’

      Dante’s relief was palpable. She was aware of the relaxing of his muscles, one by one, and knew that she must do everything in her power to prove to him that she had been wrongfully accused. Or her life would be an utter hell.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      ‘I WILL collect Carlo for you,’ Sonniva said decisively. ‘Dante has done his best to be a mother and father while you’ve been in hospital, you can be sure, Miranda. He has been so attentive, so loving to our little darling. To cheer him up today, Dante arranged a little entertainment after nursery—a trip on the train, a fun party with some friends and a garden full of…come si dice?’ she asked, turning to the impassive Dante.

      ‘Bouncy castles and play equipment,’ he provided. ‘Thank you, Mama. I’d be glad if you will collect him from his friends in Cadenabbia. Miranda will have a chance to rest before Carlo returns.’

      ‘And you two can be together. What a thrill for you! Allora. You can “rest” with her, Dante, yes? But don’t exhaust her. See you in a while, darlings.’

      With her eyes twinkling mischievously, Sonniva blew kisses and breezed out.

      ‘Thank you,’ Dante said hoarsely.

      ‘For what? Helping you to lie to your own mother? How low will you stoop, Dante?’ she asked with contempt.

      ‘For my son, I will do anything,’ he muttered.

      Yes. She had the impression he would. She leaned tiredly against a marble pillar, her head feeling as if it might burst.

      ‘So I have discovered. How long before Carlo is here?’

      ‘My mother will drive to the car ferry to cross the lake, then it’s a short drive to my friend’s house. By the time she’s eased Carlo from the party and made the return trip…say an hour or a little longer.’

      She nodded. ‘I do need a few moments to myself. I’d like to lie down. Where can I crash out?’

      ‘Your bedroom—’

      ‘No,’ she said decisively. ‘I’d never wake up. Somewhere comfortable where I can curl up in an armchair.’

      ‘The library, then,’ he said at once. ‘No one will disturb you there and you can use the sofa. Shall I—?’

      ‘No!’ He had extended an arm, as if to support her. She shrank from his touch and said stiffly, ‘Point me in the right direction.’

      ‘Of course.’

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