The Marchese's Love-Child (20 page)

'It's not a problem.' He pointed to the pair of changing cabins that stood on the opposite side of the pool. 'You will find a selection there. I hope there will be something to your taste.'

'Or yours anyway,' she returned coolly.

He picked up his book. 'Then keep your clothes on,' he said with cool indifference, 'if you do not want to swim. And also if you do not care about the disappointment to Carlino,' he added silkily, offering the killer blow.

Oh, but she did want to swim. The sun seemed to be pouring its full intensity into this secluded marble bowl, and she could feel the sweat trickling down her body. The thought of cool water against her skin was irresistible.

She said, 'I care very much, and you know it. I—I'll go and change.'

Feeling self-conscious, she crossed to the women's cabin, but a swift glance backwards revealed that Sandro was absorbed in his book again.

The swimwear was displayed in a cupboard, a whole row of bikinis on padded hangers. There was one in black, and the rest were in a range of clear, pretty colours. To her surprise, all of them were in her size, and, even more astonishing, none of them were nearly as revealing as they might have been.

The violet bikini she eventually picked had sleek, simple lines, with cups that lifted and enhanced her breasts without undue exposure, and briefs that discreetly skimmed her hip bones. She slipped on the gauzy jacket that matched it, and slid her feet into white canvas mules before venturing outside again.

Sandro watched her walk towards him, his face enigmatic. 'I am glad at least one met with your approval,' he commented.

"They were all—lovely.' She hesitated. 'And not what I'd expected you to choose for your ladies.'

Sandro sighed, and put down his book. 'I chose them for you, Paola, this morning at the marina. You, and no one else,' he told her with a touch of harshness. 'This is my home, and I have never invited my "ladies", as you call them, here for poolside orgies, whatever you may believe.

'Finally, you are my wife,' he added cuttingly. 'And, in theory, I am permitted to see you in private in any state of undress I wish. In public, however, I prefer a certain decorum. Do I make myself clear?'

She bent her head. 'Perfectly. It's all down to appearances again.'

His smile was cynical. 'Of course, cara mia. Because appearances are all we have. So accustom yourself, as I am doing.'

He paused. 'And now try to smile, because here comes our son.'

Against all the odds, thought Polly as she pulled herself out of the water and reached for a towel, the session in the pool had turned out to be one of the happiest times she could remember in her life.

To her surprise, Charlie, his armbands securely in place, had taken to the water as if he belonged in it, and his wide-eyed enjoyment of this new environment had prompted a more relaxed response from herself as well. They played with a ball in the shallow end, and after some rowdy splashing games Polly steered her son carefully round the pool on the back of the duck, as he squealed with delight. Afterwards, she watched and encouraged as Charlie, under Sandro's patient guidance, managed his first uncertain swimming strokes.

It was, however, apparent that Sandro was strictly avoiding any but the most fleeting physical contact with herself, which created a few moments of awkwardness.

The only other drawback was the presence of Dorotea, who sat with her knitting at the poolside, uttering faint cries of alarm at intervals, in the apparent belief that Charlie was about to be allowed to drown by his negligent and uncaring parents.

If she really found it all so nerve-racking, why on earth hadn't she let Julie, who had swimming and life-saving qualifications, bring him down to the pool instead? Polly wondered with faint irritation.

As it was, Dorotea could not wait to get her charge out of the water and towelled down, as she clucked over him.

My mother all over again, Polly thought wryly. And something I shall have to watch.

Charlie was furious to discover that the inflatable duck would not be permitted to accompany him back to the palazzo or sleep with him that night, and threatened a tantrum. But Sandro diverted this by reminding the little boy that he was to have his special fish for supper, and that the duck might steal it from him. Besides, he added, improvising rapidly, the duck would also miss his pool, and keep them all awake during the night with his homesick quacking.

Polly, vigorously rubbing her dripping hair, watched Charlie depart, his hand in Dorotea's.

She glanced across at Sandro, who was also drying himself. She said on impulse, 'He's going to miss you terribly while you're away.'

'This time it is unavoidable, but it will not be for long,' Sandro said. 'And next time he will not miss me at all, because I shall take him with me.'

Polly folded the towel she'd been using with immense care.

She said, 'I'm sorry. What are you saying? Because I don't think I quite understand.'

'It is perfectly simple, cam,' he drawled. 'My next trip is a much shorter one. and I intend Carlino to accompany me.'

Polly looked at him, stupefied. 'But he's only a baby,' she whispered.

'He will not be asked to make any boardroom decisions.' Sandro tossed his towel aside and sat down on the lounger, raking back the tousled dark hair.

'It's still ludicrous,' she protested. 'You—you can't take him away.'

He smiled faintly. 'And who is going to stop me? You, bella mia’ He shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

She took a deep breath. 'Why are you doing this?'

'Because I love his company,' he said. 'And I wish to strengthen the bond between us, now that it has been established.'

'But I've never been without him for more than a night,' Polly said desperately.

"Then you are fortunate,' he said with sudden harshness. 'I have already missed too much of his life, and I do not mean him to grow up a stranger to me, as I was to my own father for so long.'

She went over and knelt beside him, her hands gripping his arms. 'Sandro.' Her tone was pleading. 'Don't do this to me, please. Or to him. He's too young.'

His face expressionless, he freed himself gently but inexorably from her clasp.

'My mind is made up,' he said. 'He would be travelling with me tomorrow, but my arrangements are already made.'

'Including a trip to Rome, no doubt.' The words were out before she could stop them.

His brows lifted. 'Rome, yes,' he said, with faint mockery. 'That is unmissable, of course. Afterwards—Milan, Florence, Turin and Venice. The next time will involve a simpler route.'

She stayed on her knees, looking up at him. She said huskily, 'Let me go with you.'

For a long moment he was silent, then very slowly and with infinite care his finger traced the curve of her breast above the cling of the soaked bikini cup, then slid under the strap, pulling it down without haste from her shoulder.

He said quietly, the topaz eyes intent and watchful, 'But when do you offer your company, carissimal In a few weeks with Carlino? Or tomorrow—alone—with me? On a honeymoon?'

The vivid sunlight seemed to enclose them both in a golden breathless cloud, where she could hear nothing but the trembling hurry of her own heart. Feel nothing but the burn of his touch on her cool, damp skin. See in his eyes the urgency of another, deeper question that she dared not answer.

She longed to tell him 'Yes', she realised dazedly, and with shame.

Because she knew that tiny tendrils of sensation were uncurling at his touch, arousing potent memories of her nakedness explored and exquisitely enjoyed. Igniting the urgent need to yield herself once more to the pleasure of his hands and mouth. To lose herself, trembling, in the totality of his powerful masculinity. A woman reunited with the only man she had ever known. Ever wanted.

Her nipples ached to be free of their flimsy covering and offered to the balm of his tongue.

She wanted to give up the struggle, and surrender. To forget the unhappiness of the past, and abandon the remnants of her pride to the passionate delight of the moment.

Instead she snatched, drowning, at the last vestige of sanity and self-respect she possessed. Because a moment in time was all he might have to give her. And she could not bear to be taken and then discarded once again on a whim.

Especially when he had just made it more than clear that it was only their child he wanted and valued.

He said softly, 'Paola, I need you to answer me.'

'I'm sure you know already,' she said. 'It has to be—Charlie, and always will be.'

Hand miraculously steady, she hitched her bikini strap back into place, and got to her feet.

'After all, a business trip is scarcely a honeymoon, excellenza,' she went on with forced lightness.

'And, as you say, your arrangements for tomorrow are already made—including some I am sure you would not wish to alter. And for which I would be—surplus to requirements.'

Tell me it's not true, her heart cried out to him silently. Say that you want me, and only me. That you love me. Beg me—just once—please—please...

But: 'How understanding you are, cam,' he drawled. 'The perfect wife for a man who does not wish to be married.'

'I wish,' she said, 'that I could pay you the same compliment. Say that you're the ideal husband for a reluctant wife.' She paused. 'And now perhaps you will excuse me?'

She turned away, walking to the changing pavilion, but before she had gone three yards Sandro was beside her, swinging her round to face him.

'Tell me one thing.' His voice was soft and savage. 'Who will you reach for in the nights ahead, when the bad dreams come?'

She tore herself free. 'No one,' she answered hoarsely. 'A lesson I should have learned three years ago, because all my bad dreams are about you, signore.' She paused. 'Now let me go.'

His mouth curled. 'With pleasure, my sweet wife. Enjoy your freedom, because it is all you will have from me.'

He went back to his lounger, and lay there face downwards, and motionless, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

Suddenly, getting back to the palazzo seemed a safer option than retrieving her clothes, and Polly found herself going up the stone steps two at a time, as a voice in her head whispered breathlessly, It's over—finished—done with.

And wishing with all her heart that she could feel relief, instead of the desolation that stalked her like a shadow through the late-afternoon sun.

The palazzo without its master was a different proposition altogether, and Polly became aware of that within forty-eight hours of Sandro's departure.

Following the afternoon at the pool, he had not joined her for dinner, informing her through a bewildered Teodoro that he had an engagement in town. And the next morning he was gone almost before the sun was up, so there was no opportunity to say goodbye.

Polly gathered from Rafaella that a courteous reluctance to disturb her through his early departure had been used to explain his move to another bedroom. She also realised, almost at once, that the excuse had fooled nobody, and that being regarded as the marchese's unwanted bride was not an enviable situation to be in.

How else to explain the none-too-subtle shift in attitude by the rest of the household almost as soon as Sandro had gone? The thinly veiled hostility she'd encountered in the nursery seemed to have spread through the palazzo like a miasma.

The food she was served was often cold, her attempts to speak Italian were ignored, her bell left unanswered, and once, in a mirror, she'd caught a glimpse of one of the maids making the sign to ward off the evil eye behind her back.

It was no comfort to realise that Julie was faring even worse. She saw hardly anything of Charlie, being designated instead to hand-wash and iron all his clothes, and even his bedding, in between scouring the nursery itself.

And when Polly told Dorotea firmly that this had to stop, and Charlie's things must be sent to the laundry, so that Julie could bring the little boy down to the pool each afternoon, she was met with shrugs and looks of incomprehension.

And each time Polly herself entered the nursery, she could feel the resentment in the air.

Even Rafaella seemed oddly subdued, and it was hard to get a smile out of her.

Perhaps she resents working for someone who's a marchesa only in name, and a second-class citizen in reality, Polly thought wryly.

But it wasn't just the attitude of the staff that she found difficult to take. It was missing Sandro.

She thought of him all the time, found herself listening for his step, and the sound of his voice. She had no idea when he was to return, and there was no one she could ask.

Least of all himself, she acknowledged, even though he telephoned the palazzo each day to speak to Charlie. On the occasions when he asked to speak to her too, their exchanges were cool and stilted.

Strangers, she thought achingly. With nothing to say to each other.

But even living a separate existence under his roof was preferable to his continuing absence, she thought. And her imagination worked overtime in picturing where he was, and what he might be doing. And with whom...

The nights were the worst. In spite of the summer heat, the vast bed she occupied seemed as wide and chilly as a winter ocean, and sleep was a deep pit of loneliness which swallowed her up, then released her, restless and unrefreshed when morning came. And often, when she woke, her face was wet with tears.

She wished with all her heart that she'd been the one to move out. Everything that belonged to him had been scrupulously removed, but it had made little difference. His presence still seemed to linger, invisible but potent.

He had been gone nearly a fortnight when Polly received a pleasant surprise—a flying visit from Teresa, Ernesto and the twins, who had come to visit his parents in Naples.

They were clearly stunned to discover Sandro's absence, but quickly concealed their shock under a flood of chatter and laughter.

Polly knew that Teresa would have picked up immediately on her wan face and shadowed eyes, but that good manners would keep her from asking awkward questions.