The Marchese's Love-Child (16 page)

Polly nodded resginedly. 'Thank you. Darling,' she added as an afterthought, and saw his lips twitch before he turned away, heading for the bathroom.

Rafaella set the tray down on one of the old ornamental tables that flanked the bed, then flew to the dressing room, returning with a dark blue satin robe, which Polly awkwardly exchanged for the towel.

“Parti inglese?" she asked as the girl folded back the coverlet to the foot of the bed, and plumped up the pillows.

Her face lit up. 'Si, vossignoria. I worked for an English family, au pair, for two years. I learn much.'

'Yet you came back to work at the palazzo’

Rafaella nodded vigorously. 'It is an honour for me, and for my grandfather, who asked for this post for me, when his signoria wished to reward him.'

'Reward him?' Polly queried.

'It was my grandfather who found the marchese when his car crashed into the ravine,' Rafaella explained. 'He saw it happen, and ran to help. At first he thought his signoria was dead, because he did not move, and there was so much blood, but then he could feel his pulse and knew that he lived, so my grandfather went to the car to rescue the lady.' She shrugged. 'But it was too late.'

Polly winced. 'It must have been a horrible experience for him.'

'Si, vossignoria. He spoke about it to the inquiry, and also to his signoria when he was in hospital, but never since. There is too much pain in such memories.'

She bent to retrieve the discarded bath sheet, then straightened, beaming. 'So it is good that the marchese is now happy again.'

'Yes.' Polly realised with acute embarrassment that the girl was holding up the black lace nightgown, which must have been entangled in the folds of the towel. 'I—I suppose so.'

She tried to concentrate on her tea, and ignore Rafaella's stifled giggle as she carried the nightdress off to the dressing room.

No doubt the rumour mill at the palazzo would soon be in full swing, she thought, swallowing. But at least it would support the idea that this was a real marriage, which would please Sandro.

She put down her cup and turned on her side, shutting her eyes determinedly, and, presently, she heard Rafaella's quiet departure.

It would be good to relax, she thought, burrowing her cheek into the lavender-scented pillow. To recover from the stress and strain of the past days and weeks, and re-focus on this extraordinary new life, to which, for good or ill, she now belonged.

Thanks to the contessa, it was proving a more difficult start than she'd anticipated, she told herself, sighing.

For one thing, and in spite of the closed bathroom door, she could clearly hear the sound of the shower, reviving all kinds of past associations, and she pressed her hands over her ears, in an attempt to shut them out.

She didn't want to remember those other times when Sandro had been showering, and she'd joined him, their bodies slippery under the torrent of water, her mouth fierce on his skin, his arms strong as he lifted her against him, filling her with the renewed urgency of his desire.

But the memories were too strong, too potent to be dismissed, and for a moment, as her body melted in recollection, she was pierced once more with the temptation to abandon all pride and go to him.

But it would pass, she thought. It had to. Because she would not be drawn again into the web of sensuality where she'd been trapped before. It was just a moment of weakness because she was tired—so very tired...

And gradually, the distant rush of water became a lullaby that, against all odds, soothed her to sleep.

She had never really dressed for dinner before, Polly thought as she sat in front of the mirror, watching Rafaella apply the finishing touches to her hair. The other girl had drawn the shining strands into a loose knot on top of Polly's head, softening the look with a few loose tendrils that were allowed to curl against her face, and the nape of her neck.

Her dress was a sleek column of black silk, long-sleeved, with a neckline that discreetly revealed the first swell of her breasts, and gave her skin the sheen of a pearl.

She'd kept her make-up deliberately muted, faintly emphasising the green of her eyes, and curving her mouth with a soft rose lustre.

Whatever her inward inadequacies, this time she would at least look the part of the Marchesa Valessi, she thought.

She had hoped that Sandra would be beside her again, to guide her through her second entrance, but Rafaella had told her that he had changed for dinner and rejoined his guests while she still slept.

So, she'd have to brave them all alone.

Sighing under her breath, she rose. 'Rafaella, I'd like to say goodnight to my son before dinner. Can you take me to the nursery, per favore’

'Si, vossignoria. Of course.'

'And that "vossignoria" is a terrible mouthful,' Polly went on. 'Maybe we could change it. What did you call your last boss?'

Rafaella looked a little startled. 'Signora, sometimes, but usually madame.'1

Polly smiled at her. 'Then that will be fine with me, too.'

'But I was instructed, vossignoria, by the contessa.'

'And now you're getting further instructions from me,' Polly advised her crisply. 'From now on it's madame, and that's final.'

'As you say, madame.' Rafaella's agreement was subdued.

Polly was expecting another maze of passages, but the nursery turned out to be only round a corner, and up a flight of stairs.

It wouldn't have been far for Dorotea to come, she thought as she opened the door and walked in.

She found herself in a spacious room lined with cupboards. There was a table in the middle, and a young girl was tidying up, placing toys in a large wicker basket.

Her jaw dropped as Polly entered in a rustle of silk, and she hurried over to a half-open door on the other side of the room, and said something in a low voice. A moment later, Dorotea joined them. She inclined her head stiffly to Polly, then turned to Rafaella and launched herself into a flood of half-whispered Italian, complete with gestures.

Rafaella looked at Polly with an awkward shrug. 'She regrets, madame, but your son is asleep. She was not expecting a visit from you. She understood that your duties to your guests came first.'

'Nothing comes before my little boy,' Polly said quietly. 'And I thought it was arranged that she would come and fetch me once he was settled. I have been waiting.'

She paused. 'Clearly, there has been some misunderstanding tonight, but explain to her, please, that we will speak in the morning about Carlino's future routine. And now I would like to kiss my son goodnight.'

Dorotea listened to Rafaella's translation, but it brought no lightening of her expression. And she stood unwillingly aside to give Polly access to the night nursery.

A nightlight in a holder shaped like a shell was burning near his cot, and Charlie was lying on his back, his arms flung wide, his breathing soft and regular.

Polly stood looking down at him, then bent and brushed a strand of hair back from his face with gentle fingers. At the same time she became aware that Dorotea, who'd been watching from the doorway, arms folded across her bosom, was bobbing a kind of curtsy and muttering a deferential

'Excellenza' as she backed out of the room. And she realised that Sandro had come to join her.

She had never seen him in dinner jacket and black tie before, and the breath caught in her throat, because this new formality conferred its own kind of magnificence. It also set him at a distance, which was all to the good, she told herself.

She summoned a smile. 'Buonasera. I came to say goodnight. Maybe even goodbye, just in case they tear me to pieces downstairs.'

"They will not do that. They are all eager to meet you.'

She looked back at the cot. 'How—how beautiful,' she said, softly. 'Don't you think so?'

'Si,' he agreed quietly. 'Beautiful indeed.' And she realised that he was looking at her, and turned away as she felt her body quiver in instinctive response, walking past him into the now-deserted day nursery.

He followed. 'But I did not come simply to see Carlino,' he went on. 'I have something for you, cara mia.' His hands touched her shoulders, halting her, and Polly felt the slide of something metallic against her throat, and glanced down.

The necklace was nearly an inch wide, a flat, delicate network of gold, studded with the blue-white fire of diamonds. She touched it with a wondering hand. 'Sandro—it's lovely. But there's no need for this.'

'I am permitted to give you a wedding present,' he told her drily.

'I—suppose.' She shook her head. 'But I feel dreadful because I have nothing for you.'

'You don't think so?'

He turned her slowly to face him, then bent towards her, and she felt his lips rest softly, briefly on her forehead. She had not expected that, and his intense gentleness made her tremble.

'My beloved girl,' he whispered. 'You are here with me at last.'

The sudden flash of light from the doorway was a harsh, unbearable intrusion. Stunned and dazzled, Polly pulled free, looking round wildly. 'What was that?'

'My cousin Emilio,' Sandro said with a shrug. 'Armed with a camera, and searching for some moment of intimacy between us to thrill his readers.'

She stared at him. 'You knew he was there?'

'I was aware he had followed me upstairs,' he said. 'And guessed his motive. I think we provided what he wanted,' he added, casually. 'And you did well, Paola mia. You almost convinced me.'

Hurt slashed at her like a razor. Just for a moment, she'd believed him—believed the tenderness of his kiss.

She said colourlessly, 'I'm starting to learn—at last.'

She paused, taking a steadying breath. 'And while I'm on a roll, why don't you take me downstairs and present me to your family? Because I'm ready.'

'And no more only children,' Zia Vittoria boomed authoritatively. 'In Alessandro's case, it was understandable. His mother was a delicate creature, and no one expected too much, but you seem to be a healthy young woman, and Alessandro's first born is a fine child, in spite of his irregular birth. I commend you,' she added graciously.

Polly, seated at her side, with her smile nailed on, murmured something grateful, and wondered what the penalty might be for strangling a deaf Italian dowager. She was aware of sympathetic smiles around the room, and a swift glance, brimming with unholy mirth, from Sandro.

I should have known it was going too well, she thought grimly.

Dinner in the tapestry-hung banqueting hall had been a splendid occasion. She had sat opposite her husband at the end of a long candlelit table shining with exquisite silver and crystal, and been formally welcomed to the family by Sandro's ancient great-uncle Filippo. Her health had been drunk with every course served, and her neighbours had vied with each other to talk to her, delighted when she'd attempted to reply in Italian. Only the contessa had stayed aloof from the talk and laughter round the table, sitting like a marble statue, her mouth set in a thin, unamused smile.

At the reception which followed, Polly had been presented to various local dignitaries, and invited to serve on several charity committees. Sandro, standing at her side, his arm lightly encircling her waist, explained with great charm that, with a young child, his wife's time was limited, but she would consider all proposals in due course.

After which the visitors left expressing their good wishes for the happiness of the marchese and his bride, and Polly had felt able to relax a little. Until, that was, she'd found herself summoned by Zia Vittoria, and subjected to an inquisition on her background, upbringing and education in a voice that was probably audible in the marina, even before she tackled Polly's suitability to add to the Valessi dynasty.

When the good lady was finally distracted by the offer of more champagne, Polly seized the opportunity to escape. It was a warm night, and the long windows of the salotto had been opened. Polly slipped through the filmy drapes, and out onto the terrace, drawing a shaky breath of relief when she found herself alone.

The air was still, and the sky heavy with stars, just as she remembered. Even before she met Sandro, she had always loved the Italian nights, so relaxed and sensuous.

Polly moved to the edge of the terrace, and leaned on the stone balustrade, inhaling the faint scents that rose from the unseen garden below. Tomorrow, she would explore the palazzo's grounds with Charlie—find the swimming pool perhaps. Take hold of this new life with both hands, and make it work somehow.

As she stared into the darkness, she suddenly became aware of another scent, more pungent and less romantic than the hidden flowers. The smell of a cigar.

She turned abruptly, and saw a man standing a few yards away from her. He was of medium height, and verging towards the plump. Handsome, too, apart from the small, petulant mouth beneath his thin black moustache. And well-pleased with himself, instinct told her.

She met his bold, appraising stare, her chin lifted haughtily.

'Forgive this intrusion, marchesa." His English was good, if heavily accented. 'But I could not wait any longer to meet my cousin's bride. My name is Emilio Corzi.'

'I think we've encountered each other already, signore.' Polly paused. 'Earlier this evening—in my son's nursery.'

He laughed, unabashed. 'I hope I did not offend, but the moment was irresistible, if surprising. Not unlike yourself. vossignoria,' he added softly. 'I have been watching you with interest, and you have much more charm and style than I was led to believe.'

'Really?' Polly raised her eyebrows. 'I don't need to ask who was doing the leading.'

'You are right, of course.' Emilio Corzi sighed. 'Poor Antonia Barsoli. She has never recovered from the death of that unfortunate girl, Bianca. It must be hard for her to see someone set in her place, especially when Alessandro swore after the accident that he would never marry.' He paused. 'Although she has less reason to be bitter than I have.'

'Ah.' Polly gave him a level look. 'You mean the loss of your inheritance.'

He sighed elaborately. 'It is unfortunately true. His late father had two brothers and a sister, my mother, who produced ten children between them, all girls except for myself, and I was the youngest of three. Alessandro, of course, was an only child, and I dare say too much was expected of him, at too early an age.'