The Marchese's Love-Child (15 page)

The little man, hands waving, launched himself into some kind of diatribe, and Polly watched Sandro's expression change from disbelief to a kind of cold fury, and he turned away, lifting clenched fists towards the sky.

When he came back to the car, he was stony-faced as he opened Polly's door.

"The contessa,' he said, 'has decided to surprise us with a welcome party, and has filled the palazzo with members of my family, including my cousin Emilio,' he added with a snap. ‘Tonight, Teodoro tells me, there will be a formal dinner, followed by a reception for some of the local people.'

'Oh, God, no.' Polly looked down in horror at her stained and rumpled dress. 'I can't meet people like this. Is there no other entrance we could use?'

"There are many,' he said. 'But the Marchesa Valessi does not sneak into her house through a back door. Give me Carlino, and we will face them all together.'

Stomach churning, she obeyed, pulling her dress straight and pushing shaking fingers through her

dishevelled hair.

Then Sandro's hand closed round hers, firmly and inflexibly, and she began to walk beside him towards the doorway of the palazzo. As they reached it, she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, and was aware of his swift approving glance.

She was fleetingly aware of a hall hung with tapestries, and a wide stone staircase leading up to a gallery. A clamour of voices abruptly stilled.

People watching her, eyes filled with avid curiosity or open disapproval, a few smiling. And, for a moment, she almost froze.

Then Charlie lifted his head from his father's shoulder, and looked at all the strange faces around him. In a second his expression had changed from bewilderment to alarm, and he uttered a loud howl of distress, and began to sob.

Polly felt the atmosphere in the great hall change instantly. Censure was replaced by sympathy, and the marked silence that had greeted them changed to murmurs of, 'Poor little one, he is tired,' and, 'He is a true Valessi, that one.'

The crowd parted, and a small, plump woman, her hair heavily streaked with grey, came bustling through. Arms outstretched, voice lovingly scolding, she took Charlie from his father's arms and, beckoning imperiously to the wilting Julie to follow, disappeared just as rapidly, the sobbing Charlie held securely against the high bib of her starched apron.

'That was Dorotea,' Sandro said quietly, his taut mouth relaxing into a faint smile. 'Don't worry, Paola, she has a magic touch. Carlino will be bathed, changed, fed and in a good mood before he knows what is happening. And Julie also,' he added drily.

Lucky them, Polly thought, and groaned inwardly as the crowd parted again for the contessa.

'Caw Alessandro.' She embraced him formally. 'Welcome home. As you see, your family could not wait to meet your beautiful wife.'

'I am overwhelmed,' Sandro said politely. 'But I wish you had allowed Teodoro to give me advance warning of your plans.'

She gave a tinkling laugh. 'But then there would have been no surprise.'

'No,' he said. "That is precisely what I mean.'

He looked about him. 'I am delighted to welcome you all,' he began. 'But as you can see we have had a bad journey with a sick child, and my wife is exhausted. She will meet you all when she has rested.'

He turned to Polly. 'Go with Zia Antonia, carissima, and I will join you presently.'

Polly was aware of an absurd impulse to cling to his hand. 'Don't leave me with her,' she wanted to say. Instead she forced a smile and nodded, and followed the contessa's upright figure towards the stairs.

From the gallery, they seemed to traverse a maze of passages until they arrived at last at another pair of double doors, elaborately carved.

The contessa flung them open and motioned Polly to precede her. 'This is where you are to sleep,' she said.

Polly paused, drawing a deep breath. She had never imagined occupying such a room, she thought dazedly. It was vast and very old, its ceiling beamed, and the walls decorated with exquisite frescos.

It was dominated by one enormous canopied bed, with crimson brocade curtains and a magnificent bedspread in the same colour, quilted in gold thread, but little other furniture.

"That door is to the bathroom.' The contessa pointed a manicured hand. 'I think you will find all you need.' And the sooner the better, her tone of voice seemed to indicate. 'The other leads to the dressing room, where your clothes have been unpacked for you.' She paused. 'Would you like some tea to be brought to you?'

'That would be kind.' Polly hesitated. 'If it's not too much trouble—as you have all these other guests, I mean.'

'How can it be a difficulty?' The thin lips wore a vinegary smile. 'After all, cara Paola, you are the mistress of the house now, and your wish is our command.' She indicated a thick golden rope. 'Pull the bell, if you wish for the services of a maid to help you dress. Or perhaps your husband will prefer to assist you himself— as this is your luna di miele.'

‘I can manage,' Polly said quietly, conscious of the faint sneer in the older woman's voice, and the swift pang of alarm that her words engendered. 'But I would like to make sure my son is all right, and I don't know where the nursery is.'

'I will instruct Dorotea to take you to him later.' She looked Polly up and down with faint disdain. 'Now, I recommend that you do as Alessandro suggests, and take some rest. After all, this will be your wedding night, officially at least,' she added, with another silvery laugh, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Left to herself, Polly walked over to the long windows and opened the shutters. She knelt on the embrasure, lifting her face to the heavy golden warmth of the late afternoon.

If the contessa had deliberately plotted to present her at her worst, she could not have done a better job, she thought bitterly. But there was no way the older woman could have known how badly Charlie would react to the long journey from the airport.

I wish I could stay here, she thought, because I think I've already got 'null points' from the jury downstairs.

Instead, she had to put on one of the evening dresses Teresa had made her buy, and play her unwanted role as marchesa with whatever style and grace she could summon. And undo, if possible, that first unfortunate impression.

And talking of Teresa... Polly fetched her shoulder bag, and retrieved the parcel it contained. As she undid the ribbons, the tissue parted to reveal a cascade of the finest black lace.

Polly's eyes widened as she examined it. It was a nightgown, she realised, low-necked, split to the thigh on one side, and almost transparent. Provocation at its most exquisite. An expensive, daring tease.

Any girl who wore it would feel irresistibly sexy. And any man who saw it couldn't fail to be aroused.

It seemed clear that Teresa had sensed the tensions in her relationship with Sandro, and decided the honeymoon could need a kick-start.

As Sandro said, you're shrewd, Polly addressed her friend silently, bundling the delicate fabric back into its wrappings, and wondering where she could hide it. But this time you've misread the situation badly.

She left the package on the bed for the time being, and went to investigate the bathroom. The room itself probably dated from the Renaissance, she thought, but the plumbing was strictly twenty-first century, and luxurious in the extreme.

The walls were tiled in shades of blue, interspersed with mother-of-pearl, which gave the impression that the room was under shimmering water.

There was a deep sunken bath, and a capacious shower cubicle in the shape of a hexagon, with a pretty gilded roof.

Thankfully Polly slipped out of her clothes, and stepped behind its glass panels. There was a corner shelf holding toiletries, and she chose some scented foam, lathering her body sensuously. The jet was powerful, but reviving, and she twisted and turned under it, feeling some of the tensions of the day seeping away.

She dried herself slowly, her body refreshed and glowing, then took another bath sheet from the pile and wound it round herself, sarong-style, securing it just above her breasts.

If only her tea was waiting, she thought, opening the bathroom door, then, however briefly, life might be perfect.

She walked into the bedroom, and stopped dead, lips parted in shock, and her heart beating an alarmed tattoo.

Because Sandro was there, stretched out across the bed, his coat and tie discarded, and his shirt unbuttoned to the waist.

'Ciao, bella,' he said softly, his eyes lingering on her bare shoulders in undisguised appreciation. 'You look wonderful, and smell delicious,' he went on. 'And now there is this.' He held up the black nightgown with a soft whistle. 'Perhaps marriage may have its compensations after all.'

And as she watched, transfixed, he lifted himself lithely off the bed, and began to walk towards her, the black lace draped over his arm.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Polly took a step backwards. She said hoarsely, 'What are you doing here?'

'I want to take a shower,' he said. 'I decided you would probably not wish me to join you, so—I waited.'

She took a breath. 'How—considerate.' Her voice stung. 'Perhaps you'd be even kinder and go to your own room, and use your own shower. I'd like my privacy.'

'So would I, cara, but we are both to be disappointed. Thanks to Zia Antonia, all the rooms in the palazzo are occupied by other people and will remain so for tomorrow—the day after—who knows?'

He paused. 'Also you are under a misapprehension. This is my room—and my shower.'

He paused to allow her to digest that, his mouth twisting in sardonic amusement at her shocked expression.

'The accommodation intended for you is currently taken by my aunt Vittoria, a pious widow with a hearing problem,' he went on. 'She does not like to share either. Also, she snores, which, as you know, I do not.'

He smiled at her. 'But she is certainly leaving tomorrow, so you will only have one night to endure in my company,' he added lightly.

She stared at him, her hands nervously adjusting the towel. 'You really imagine I'm actually going to sleep here—with you?' Her voice rose stormily. 'You must be mad. I can't—I won't...'

'You will certainly spend the night with me,' he interrupted, a harsh note in his voice. 'I cannot predict whether or not you will sleep. That is not my concern.'

'Then what does concern you?' She glared at him. 'Certainly not keeping your word.'

He flung exasperated hands at the ceiling. 'Dio—you think I planned this? That I have deliberately filled my house with a pack of gossiping relatives, including my cousin Emilio, may he rot in hell,' he added with real bite, 'just so that I can trick you into bed with me?'

He gave her a scornful look. 'You overestimate your charms, bella mia. You will stay here tonight, without fuss or further argument, for the sake of appearances, because it is our wedding night, and because we have no choice in the matter.

'But let me attempt to allay your obvious fears,' he went on cuttingly. Clasping her wrist, he strode back to the bed, with Polly stumbling after him, tripping on the edge of her towel. He dragged back the satin coverlet, dislodging the huge lace-trimmed pillows to reveal a substantial bolster. 'That,' he said, pointing contemptuously, 'placed down the middle of the bed, should deter my frenzy of desire for you. I hope you are reassured.'

He paused. 'May I remind you, Paola, you agreed to co-operate in presenting our marriage as a conventional one.'

'Yes.' Polly bit her lip. 'But—I didn't realise then what could be involved.'

His smile was thin. 'Well, do not worry too much, carissima. There are enough willing women in the world. I see no need to force someone so clearly reluctant.'

He held up the nightgown. 'Although your prudishness hardly matches your choice of nightwear. Why buy a garment so seductive, if you do not wish to be seduced?'

'I didn't buy it,' Polly said stonily. 'It was a present from Teresa.'

'Indeed,' he murmured. T never guessed she was such a romantic. Or such an optimist,' he added, his mouth curving in genuine amusement.

'Don't tear it,' he told her mockingly, as Polly made an unavailing attempt to snatch it from him. "That is a privilege I might prefer to reserve for myself.'

She glared at him. 'Not in this lifetime,' she said defiantly.

'And certainly not unless I wish to do so,' he reminded her softly. 'However, for now, I shall have to console myself with imagining how it might look if you wore it, bella mia.'' He gave it a last, meditative glance. 'Like a shadow falling across moonlight,' he said quietly, and tossed it to her. 'I must write to Teresa and thank her,' he added with a swift grin, as he straightened the bedclothes.

'And I,' she said coldly, 'shall not.' She swallowed. 'I would like to get dressed now, please.'

His brows lifted, as he scanned the slipping towel. 'You want assistance?'

'No.' She managed just in time to avoid stamping her bare foot on the tiled floor. 'Just some privacy.' She shook her head. 'Oh, can't you see how impossible this all is?'

'I can only see that I shall have to stop teasing you, cam mia,' he said with unexpected gentleness. 'Get dressed if you wish, but there is no need for you to face the inquisition downstairs, unless you want to do so. And it is a long time until dinner, when you will be expected to make an appearance, so why not rest quietly here until then? I promise you will not be disturbed,' he added levelly. 'By anyone.'

As she hesitated there was a knock on the door, and a small, round-faced girl came in carrying a tray with Polly's tea. She stopped, her mouth forming into an embarrassed 'o'.

'Mi scusi, excellenza,' she stammered. 'I thought the marchesa was alone.'

Sandro smiled at her. 'Come here and meet your new mistress, Rafaella.' He turned to Polly. 'I have arranged for this child to become your personal maid, cam mia. She is the granddaughter of an old friend, so be kind to her.'

Polly, about to flatly deny any need of a personal maid, saw the girl's eager face, and subsided.

'Once you have had your tea,' Sandro went on. 'I hope she can persuade you to sleep for a while, even if I cannot,' he added wryly. 'And I shall ask her to return at eight to help you to dress for dinner.'