The Marchese's Love-Child (17 page)

Polly knew she should walk away, but against her better instincts, she lingered.

'Why do you say that?'

'Relations between him and his father were always strained.' Emilio drew reflectively on his cigar. 'And became worse once his mother was no longer there to act as mediator. As you know, she died when he was twelve.' He looked at her, brows raised. 'Or did you know?'

'Of course.' Polly lifted her chin.

'I could not be certain,' he said. 'There are so many areas of his life about which he is silent. Although I am sure he has his reasons.'

'Probably because he doesn't want the details splashed all over your magazines,' Polly suggested shortly.

'But he wrongs me, my dear cousin.' Emilio's tone was plaintive. 'I have not made capital out of his forbidden affair with you—or his secret love-child. I am treating it as a romantic story with a happy ending. My family loyalty is real.' He paused. 'I have not even expressed my doubts in public over the mystery of Bianca DiMario's death. Or not yet anyway.'

'Mystery?' Polly repeated. 'What are you talking about? It was a tragic accident.'

"That was the decision of the inquiry, certainly. But I am fascinated by the reticence of the only witness who was called— Giacomo Raboni.' He smiled at her. 'But after all, his family have served the Valessi faithfully for generations. Who knows what someone less partisan might have said?'

Polly stiffened. 'That is—a disgusting implication. There was a burst tyre on the car. These things happen.'

'But the inquiry was held so quickly,' Emilio countered. 'While Alessandro was still seriously ill in hospital, and unable to give evidence. But perhaps they thought he never would,' he added swiftly. 'It was still possible that he would end his days in a wheelchair, and that there might be permanent brain damage.'

He shrugged. 'But in the end he suffered only some temporary amnesia, and he made a full recovery—to everyone's enormous relief,' he added piously.

'Yes,' Polly said stonily. 'I bet you were thrilled to bits.' She was leaning back against the balustrade, shaking like a leaf, her stomach churning, as she thought of Sandro trapped, perhaps, in a helpless body. Unable even to understand, maybe, that he had fathered a child, let alone hold him or love him.

'But even when he was well again, he was never questioned about that afternoon in the mountains,' Emilio said softly. 'The advantage, I suppose, of being the son of a rich and influential man. And there was much sympathy, too, for my uncle Domenico, who had lost a young girl he cherished as a daughter. So, many questions were left unanswered.'

'Such as?' she demanded curtly.

'What did Giacomo Raboni know, but not speak about? I know he was well rewarded at the time by my uncle. And now, I find, his granddaughter has been given a position of prestige as your personal maid.'

She said hoarsely, 'But gratitude is quite natural. Sandro told me that Giacomo had saved his life. That's quite a service.'

He shrugged. 'I think his silence has been a greater one. And they say too that generosity is often prompted by a guilty conscience.' He lowered his voice conspiratorially. 'Have you ever wondered whether the scar on your husband's cheek might be the mark of Cain?'

'I think you've said enough.' Her tone was ice. 'You're supposed to be Sandro's guest. It would be better if you left.'

He tutted reproachfully. 'You are harsh, my dear Paola. And your loyalty to Alessandro is misplaced, believe me. I am simply trying to be your friend, and one day you may need me.'

'I can't imagine that,' she returned curtly.

'But then did you foresee finding yourself Marchesa Valessi, with Alessandro's diamonds on your hand and circling your throat? I note he has not given you the jewels that have been in the Valessi family for centuries, but these trinkets are valuable enough.'

"Thank you,' Polly said grittily. ‘I'll tell him you approve.'

'Oh, no,' he said. 'I do not think you will discuss our conversation with him at all.' He paused. 'So, what will you do when the little Carlo becomes his legal heir, and Alessandro tires of playing husband, and wants you out of his life a second time?'

Shock was like bile in her throat. 'What the hell do you mean?'

He sighed. 'I hoped you would be honest at least. Your days and nights with my cousin are numbered, and you know it. He has never wished to be married. Not to the unfortunate Bianca. Not to you. No one woman will ever fill his need for variety.' His lip curled. 'Do you wish to know the name of his mistress in Rome?'

'That,' she said huskily, 'is it. Go, please. Just pack and—get out.'

There was sudden venom in his voice. 'Did you make him sign a pre-nuptial agreement, or will he make you settle for the same paltry sum as last time's parting price before he sends you home? If so, you may be glad to turn to me. I would pay you well for a personal view of your association with him.'

'You,' Polly said, steadying her voice, 'are completely vile.'

'And he, Paola cara, is totally ruthless, as you must know, else why are you here?' He made her a little bow. 'I will leave you to your solitary contemplation. We shall meet again—once you have learned sense.'

He turned and walked along the terrace, disappearing from view into the darkness.

Polly found she was gasping for breath. She stood, a hand pressed to her throat as she fought for self-control.

She could not stay out here on the terrace forever. Soon, now, she would have to go back inside, and she needed at least the appearance of serenity to fool the sharp eyes that would be watching her.

All the vicious things Emilio had said to her were tumbling around in her head. She might tell herself they were ludicrous, vindictive lies of a disappointed man, but in some ways they seemed like the confirmation of all her worst nightmares.

What had really happened the day Sandro's car went into the ravine? Rafaella had told her that her grandfather refused to speak about it. What had he seen—or heard—that prompted him to silence?

Somehow or other, she thought, I'm going to have to ask him— and make him tell me the truth. Because I need to know.

As for Emilio's comments about her marriage... A little shiver ran through her. He was probably right about that. After all, it was only a means to an end, as Sandro had made clear. And once he had Charlie established as his heir, why would he bother to keep her around? Especially when he had other interests?

Do you wish to know the name of his mistress in Rome?

The words ate at her like some corrosive acid.

The fact that there was another woman in his life had not stopped him trying to seduce her back into his bed, she thought, hurt and anger warring inside her. 'A fever in the blood' he'd once called it. And once the fever had been quenched, what then? Had he expected her to be so much in thrall to him that she was compliantly prepared to share him with his Roman beauty?

She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. I can't think about that, she told herself desperately. I dare not go there...

But there was another problem, too, that she had to confront. Was it just Emilio or did other members of the family know that he'd tried to pay her off three years before? If so, that was the ultimate humiliation, and she wanted to run somewhere and hide, away from the smiles and sneers that would accompany such knowledge.

But most of all, she wanted to hide from Sandro. And instead she was obliged to go upstairs, and get into one side of the extravagantly wide bed she had to share with him tonight. And be expected to sleep.

Oh, God, she thought, her fists clenching convulsively. It's all such a charade. Such total hypocrisy.

And if I had any guts, I'd get Charlie, and make a run for it back to England, and see how Sandro deals with a scandal like that.

But, realistically, how far would she get? She was here in this— fortress in a foreign country, where he had power, and she had none. Even the money in the bank account he'd opened for her had been transferred to Italy.

She was helpless—and she was suddenly afraid too.

'So, here you are.' Sandro was walking across the terrace towards her. 'What are you doing out here alone?'

She swallowed slowly and deeply, aware of the frantic thud of her heart at the sight of him.

'I needed some fresh air.' She forced herself to sound light and cool. 'Pretending to be pleasant is hard work, and every actress needs an interval.'

'Is it really so hard to meet such goodwill halfway?' he asked unsmilingly.

'I think it exists for Charlie, not myself,' she returned curtly. 'I'm your wife by accident not design, and they must know that.'

He said drily, 'In the eyes of most of my family, you are not yet my wife at all. I am being given embarrassingly broad hints that I should take you upstairs without further delay and rectify the matter.'

'Oh, God.' Polly pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.

'I am truly sorry, cara mia." His voice was suddenly gentle. 'I never meant you to be subjected to this. We had better face them.'

'Very well.' Ignoring his outstretched hand, she walked stiffly beside him towards the open windows of the salotto.

'I can give you ten minutes' privacy,' he added quietly. 'But no longer, or Zia Vittoria will be demanding to know why I am not with you, doing my duty by the next generation.'

Her throat muscles felt paralysed, but she managed a husky, 'Thank you.'

In spite of her tacit resistance, Sandro slid an arm round her waist, holding her against his side, as they went into the brightness of the room and paused to meet the laughter and faint cheers that awaited them.

Then she felt his lips touch her hot cheek, as he whispered, 'Go now, bella mia.''

The door seemed a million miles away, especially when she had to reach it through a sea of broad grins and openly voiced encouragement. She was aware that people were swarming after her into the hall, watching her walk up the stairs.

She glanced back once, and saw Sandro standing a little apart from them all. He was unsmiling, his eyes bleak, as he looked at her, raising the glass he was holding in a cynical toast. Then he

drained the contents in one jerky movement, and went back into the salotto.

Leaving Polly to go on, feeling more alone than she had ever done in her life before.

CHAPTER NINE

The bedroom was empty, but it was prepared and waiting for her. And, she thought, her senses tautening, for him.

Lamps on tall wrought-iron stands were burning on either side of the bed. The coverlet had been removed and the white lace-edged sheets turned down and scattered with crimson rose petals.

And, she supposed, inevitably, the black lace nightdress was draped across the bed in readiness too.

Well, that she could deal with, she thought, folding it with quick, feverish hands into a tiny parcel of fabric. She went into the dressing room, and stowed it away in her wardrobe in the pocket of a linen jacket against the moment when she could dispose of it for good and all. Otherwise it was going to haunt her.

She also needed an alternative to wear, she thought, rummaging through the exquisitely arranged contents of her lingerie drawer. She decided on a plain ivory satin nightgown, cut on the bias, its neckline square across her breasts, and supported by shoestring straps.

Discreet enough to be an evening dress, she thought as she slipped it over her head after showering briefly in the bathroom. Especially with the diamonds still glittering round her neck. Where they would have to remain, as the clasp resisted all her efforts to unfasten it.

Sighing. Polly shook her hair loose, ran a swift brush through it, and went back into the bedroom.

She was aware the minutes had been ticking past, but she'd still hoped she might be granted a little more leeway than Sandro had suggested. Prayed that it might be possible to be in bed, pretending to be asleep before he came to join her.

But her hopes were dashed, because Sandro was there already, dinner jacket removed and black tie loosened, walking towards the bed. He turned, surveying her without expression as she hesitated in the doorway.

He said, 'Do you not think you are a little overdressed, bella mia’

Her heart skipped. 'What are you talking about?'

His mouth twisted. 'I was referring to the diamonds, naturally.'

She lifted her chin. 'I couldn't unfasten them—and Rafaella wasn't here.'

'She would not risk her life by intruding.' He beckoned. 'Come to me.'

She went slowly towards him, waiting, head bent, while he dealt with the clasp, his touch brisk and impersonal.

'Take it.' He dropped the necklace into her hand.

She said, 'But shouldn't you have it?'

'It was a gift, Paola,' he said shortly. 'Not a loan.'

'I meant—wouldn't it be better in a safe...somewhere?'

'There is a place in the dressing room for your jewellery. Rafaella will show you in the morning.' Sandro turned back to the bed, and began brushing away the rose petals. One of them drifted to Polly's feet, and she bent and retrieved it, stroking the velvety surface with her fingertips.

She said, 'Someone has taken a lot of trouble. Perhaps you were right about the goodwill.'

'The wedding night of a marchese and his bride is always a great occasion.' Sandro dragged out the bolster from under the pillows, and arranged it down the centre of the bed. 'How fortunate they will never know the truth,' he added sardonically.

'There.' he said, when he had finished. 'Will that make you feel safe?'

'Yes,' Polly said stiltedly. 'Yes—thank you.'

He walked away towards the dressing room, and Polly switched off her lamp and got hastily into bed. She slid her necklace under the pillow, then lay down, her back turned rigidly towards the bolster. The scent of the roses still lingered beguilingly, and she buried her face in the pillow, breathing in the perfume, and relishing the coolness of the linen against the warmth of her skin.

When at last she heard Sandro returning, she burrowed further down under the sheet, closing her eyes so tightly that coloured lights danced behind her lids.