The Marchese's Love-Child (13 page)

'Our son,' he said quietly. 'How curious to think we should have made a child between us, when, now, you cannot even bear to stand next to me.' His voice changed suddenly—became low, almost urgent. 'How can this have happened, Paola mia. Why are you so scared to be alone with me? So frightened that I may touch you?'

'I'm not scared,' Polly began, but he cut across her.

'Do not lie to me.' There was a hard intensity in his tone. 'You were a virgin when you came to me, yet, even then, you never held back. From that first moment, you were so warm—so willing in my arms that I thought my heart would burst with the joy of you.'

Oh, God, she thought wildly. Oh, dear God...

She could feel the slow burn of heat rising within her at his words, at the memories they engendered, and had to fight to keep her voice deliberately cool and clear.

'But that,' she said, 'was when I was in love with you. It— makes—quite a difference.'

Her words seemed to drop like stones into the sudden well of silence between them. The air seemed full of a terrible stillness that reached out into a bleak eternity.

Polly felt her body quiver with tension. She had provided the lightning flash, and now she was waiting for the anger of the storm to break.

But when he spoke, his voice was calm. 'Of course,' he said. 'You are right. It—changes everything. I am obliged to you for the reminder. Grazie and goodnight.'

She was aware of him moving, turning away. Then, a moment later, she heard his own door open and close, and knew she was alone. And safe again.

Her held breath escaped her on a long, trembling sigh.

She'd had a lucky escape and she knew it. Now all she had to deal with was the deep ache of traitorous longing that throbbed inside her.

But she could cope, she told herself, shivering. She had things to do. Clothes to buy. Italian lessons to learn. Long days with Charlie to enjoy for the first time since he was a baby.

So much to keep her busy and banish all those long-forbidden thoughts, and desires. And, for her own sake, she should make a start at once. Telephone Teresa in the morning. Make a list of all the books she'd not had time to read. She could even have parcels of them, she thought, sent to her in Italy. She might even book for a theatre matinee, now that she had a nanny. Go to the cinema. Something. Anything.

While, at the same time, she underwent the painful process of turning herself into some stranger—the Marchesa Valessi. The wife that no one wanted—least of all Sandro himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

'So,' Teresa said, 'in two days you will be married. It is exciting, no?'

'Wonderful,' Polly agreed in a hollow voice.

She didn't feel like a bride, she thought, staring at herself in the mirror, although the hugely expensive cream linen dress which Teresa had persuaded her to buy, and which would take her on to the airport and her new life after the ceremony, was beautifully cut and clung to her slenderness as if it adored her, managing to be stunning and practical at the same time. While her high-heeled strappy shoes were to die for.

It wasn't just the usual trappings of tulle and chiffon that were missing, she thought. It was radiance she lacked.

And at any moment, Teresa would be ordering her to relax, because otherwise the tension in her body would spoil the perfect line of her dress. But the other girl would never understand in a million years that this was not merely bridal nerves, but sheer, blind panic.

Since their confrontation on her first night in the hotel Sandro had taken her at her word and left her strictly to her own devices, except when they were with Teresa and Ernesto, when he continued to play the part of the charming, attentive bridegroom.

On the other occasions when they encountered each other, he was polite but aloof. But these were rare. Except for the sacrosanct hours he devoted to Charlie, he spent very little time at the hotel.

Well, she could not fault him for obeying her wishes, she thought. But she alone knew that she was lonely, and that her sense of isolation would only increase once she reached Comadora.

'Now take the dress off and hang it away,' Teresa cautioned. 'Sandro must not see you in it before the wedding.' She paused. 'Is all well with you, Paola? You are quiet today.'

Polly stepped out of the dress, and slipped it onto a padded hanger. 'Well, for one thing, there's Julie.'

'Oh?' Teresa's eyes twinkled. 'Has she fallen in love with Alessandro?'

'No, of course not,' Polly said. 'At least, I don't think so.'

Teresa giggled. 'They all do. I had a nanny from Australia when the twins were born, and each time Alessandro came into the house she would go pink—like a carnation—and refuse to speak for hours.'

Polly's brows lifted. 'And how did he react?'

'Ah, him, he did not even notice.' Teresa shrugged. 'It is endearing how little vanity he has in such matters.'

'Well, his arrogance in other ways more than compensates for that,' Polly said crisply, zipping herself into a pretty blue shift dress.

'You would not think so if you had known his father, the Marchese Domenico,' said Teresa. 'Now, there was a supreme autocrat. And of course that old witch he brought to the house after his wife died encouraged him to think he could do no wrong. She and Bianca, her secret weapon.'

Polly put her wedding dress away in the wardrobe. She said, 'What was she like—Bianca? Was she beautiful?'

'An angel.' Teresa waved a languid hand. 'A dove. Submissive and so sweet. I longed to bite her and see if there was honey in her veins instead of blood. And taught by nuns,' she added darkly. 'She wore her purity like a sword—every inch of her being saved for the marriage bed.'

She sighed. 'No wonder Alessandro looked for amusement elsewhere.' She stopped dead, clapping a hand over her mouth, looking at Polly in round-eyed horror. 'Dio, Paola. My mouth will be my death. Forgive me—please.'

Polly sat down at her dressing table, and ran a comb through her hair. She said quietly, "There's nothing to forgive. I'm really under no illusion about Sandro—or myself.'

'Cara,' Teresa shot off the bed where she'd been sprawling, and came to kneel beside Polly. 'Listen to me. Ernesto—myself— every friend Sandro has—we are so happy that you are together. And that you have given him a son that he adores. Let the past rest. It does not matter.'

'Bianca died,' Polly said. "That makes it matter.'

'You think he wished to marry her?' Teresa demanded. 'No, and no. It was the contessa, who saw to it that Bianca had the old marchese twisted round her little finger. With Sandro, he was always harsh, but Bianca was his sweetheart, his darling child. And Bianca wanted Alessandro.'

'Yet you say they weren't lovers.'

Teresa gave her a worldly look. 'But whose choice was that? Ernesto, who has known Alessandro since they were children, told me that she used to watch him constantly—try always to be near him.

He said—forgive me, this is not nice, and Ernesto is never unkind—that she was like a bitch on heat.' She shrugged. 'And for her, he was unattainable.'

"Then why did he agree to marry her?'

'His parents' marriage had been an arranged one,' Teresa said. 'It was made clear to him what was expected of him in turn. And perhaps he felt it was a way to please his father at last. He was only twelve when his mother died, and after that his relationship with the marchese became even more troubled. And Sandro was wild when he was younger,' she added candidly.

She gave Polly a serious look. 'But you can understand, cara, why his relationship with Carlino is so important to him. Why he wishes to make his own son feel loved and secure.'

'Yes,' Polly said quietly. ‘I can—see that.'

Teresa got to her feet, brushing the creases from her skirt. 'But you were telling me of Julie. There is some problem?'

'She's having some time off this afternoon to go for a job interview.' Polly sighed. 'Apparently, she's only on a temporary contract with us, which lasts until we get to Italy and then Sandra's staff take over, and she flies back. I—I'm going to miss her badly, and so will Charlie. And she's someone I can talk to in my own’

"Then ask him if you may keep her on.' Teresa shrugged. 'It is quite simple.' She gave Polly a wicked grin. 'I am sure that you can persuade him, cam. Do as I do. Wait until you are in bed, and you have made him very happy. He will give you anything. And the rest of the servants will be pacified when they have your other bambini to care for.'

Polly's blush deepened painfully, but she made herself speak lightly. 'That's the kind of cunning plan I like.'

The way things were between them, he was more likely to fire Julie instantly, she thought ruefully when Teresa had gone. But she could always ask, although it wouldn't be in the way the other girl had suggested.

Not that she had the opportunity for the rest of the day. In the afternoon, she went to visit her parents in a last-ditch effort to get them to come to the wedding.

But Mrs Fairfax, still in her dressing gown and looking pale and wan, was adamant, insisting she wasn't well enough to go, and needed her husband with her in case of emergency.

And she alarmed Charlie by hugging him too tightly, and weeping.

Polly got back to the hotel feeling as if she'd been run down by a train, her only comfort her father's quiet, 'She'll come round, sweetheart. She just needs time.'

Sandro was out, and, although she planned to tackle him about Julie on his return, he was still missing by the time she eventually admitted defeat and went to bed.

He was spending the eve of his wedding with Teresa and Ernesto, who were going to act as their witnesses, so she would just have to catch him first thing in the morning before he left, she told herself.

Charlie had already been collected by Julie, and taken down to the dining room for breakfast, when she woke, so she had the bathroom to herself.

She bathed and put on one of her new dresses—primrose silk with a scooped neck, and slightly flared skirt. Nailing her colours to the mast, she thought with faint defiance as she crossed the drawing room to his door.

'Avanti.' The response to her knock was cool and casual, and Polly, drawing a deep breath, opened the door and went in.

The curtains were drawn back, filling the room with sunlight, and Sandro was in bed, lying back against the piled-up pillows, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee from the breakfast trolley beside him. His skin looked like mahogany against the pristine dazzle of the white bed linen.

He glanced up. his brows snapping together as he saw her.

'Buongiorno,' he murmured after a pause. 'You will forgive me if I do not get up,' he added, indicating the sheet draped over his hips which was quite clearly his only covering. 'Would you like coffee?'

'No, thank you.' Polly shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, praying she would not blush, and wondering if it was possible to look at someone without actually seeing them. And certainly without staring. And particularly without feeling that treacherous excitement slowly uncurling inside her. 'I've had breakfast.'

'How virtuous of you, cam,' he drawled. 'They bring an extra cup each morning, presumably because they hope I will eventually get lucky. I think I shall have to tell them to stop.' He refilled his own cup.

'So—to what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure?'

Polly gritted her teeth. 'I—I've come to ask you a favour.'

His brows rose. 'You fascinate me, bella mia. Especially when you choose my bedroom to make your request.'

'Well, don't read anything into that,' Polly said shortly. 'It's just that I seem to see so little of you these days.'

Sandro moved, stretching slowly and indolently, letting the concealing sheet slip a little. 'You are seeing enough of me this morning, carissima,' he drawled. 'Or do you want more?'

She glared at him. 'No.'

'You disappoint me,' he murmured. 'But if it is not my body, I presume it is money. How much do you want?'

'Money?' Polly repeated in bewilderment. 'Of course it isn't. I haven't spent half the allowance you made me.'

'I would not grudge more.' Folding his arms behind his head, Sandro studied her through half-closed eyes, frankly absorbing the cling of the silk to her body, a faint smile curving his mouth. 'You seem to be spending it wisely.'

She flushed under his scrutiny. 'Thank you—I think.'

'Prego.' He continued to watch her. 'I hope you do not wish me to persuade your mother to attend the wedding. I should hate to disappoint you.'

She bit her lip. 'No. I've accepted that it's a lost cause. Besides, she wouldn't listen to you. You—you seem to make her nervous.'

'Mi displace,' he returned without any real sign of regret. 'I seem to have the same effect on you, cara mia. So—what is it?'

She swallowed. 'I'd like Julie to stay in Italy with us, and go on looking after Charlie—please.'

Sandro moved slightly, adjusting the sheet to a more respectable level. He sent her a meditative look.

He said, 'Paola, I have a houseful of staff who are dancing for joy at the prospect of looking after the future marchese. He will not lack for attention, I promise you.'

'No,' she said. 'But he's used to Julie, and he likes her. Anyway, the others will speak Italian to him, and he might feel lost at first.' She hesitated. 'And I like Julie too, and I can talk to her in English. In spite of Teresa's coaching, I'm going to feel pretty isolated.'

'Dawero?' His tone was sardonic. 'You do not feel that you could talk to me, perhaps?'

That was what Teresa had said, she thought, biting her lip again. She looked at the floor. "That isn't very likely,' she said constrictedly. 'After all, we're not marrying for any kind of companionship, but for Charlie's sake.'

'Does one rule out the other?' He was frowning slightly.

'I think it has to,' Polly countered, with a touch of desperation. 'And after all, you—you won't always be there,' she added, feeling dejectedly that she was losing the argument. 'You have your work—your own life to lead.'

'No,' he said, quietly. 'That is true.' He shrugged a naked shoulder. 'Va bene. If that is what you want, I agree.'