Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven

it is such a waste of time,’ she hissed as she departed. ‘When we both know these lessons will not be needed.’

      Clare sighed, and turned back to find her godmother and offer to stroll round the gardens with her, only to see her walking off with the Count down one of the paths.

      ‘They make a handsome couple, don’t you think?’ Tonio came to stand beside her.

      She stared at him. ‘You’re not serious?’

      ‘Why not?’ He spread his hands. ‘The Conte is an attractive, vigorous man—and a widower. The Signora is a beautiful, cultivated woman—and a widow.’

      ‘Yes,’ Clare said. ‘And she values her independence—as I do.’

      He laughed. ‘Then you have come to the wrong place, Clare. For hundreds of years men and women have courted each other here at the Villa Minerva. It is a place for love—for happiness. For coming together. And there is soon to be a wedding here,’ he added, smiling. ‘Such an occasion puts ideas into other people’s heads. Reminds them that it is not good to be alone.’

      ‘I don’t agree. Sometimes in your own company is the only safe place to be.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Clare saw a tall figure approaching. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she added hastily. ‘I have to go and make some notes about Paola’s English lesson.’

      ‘You really intend to teach her?’ He sounded astonished.

      ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘There’s no other reason for me to be here.’

      She turned away, intending to make for the house, only to be halted by Guido’s, ‘One moment Chiara. I wish to speak to you.’

      Reluctantly, she turned and came back, noting that Tonio had already made a discreet exit.

      ‘Is this strictly necessary?’ She lifted her chin. ‘I have—things to do.’

      ‘Then they must wait.’ His voice held a touch of grimness. ‘We need to talk about this morning.’

      ‘I’d rather not.’ She stared down at the ancient flagstones.

      ‘There are still things that need to be said.’ He paused. ‘You must understand that I did not intend—that to happen.’ His mouth tightened. ‘I am not accustomed to having the conduct of my personal life challenged in that way. I—lost my temper.’

      ‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely audible.

      ‘It was—an error of judgement on my part—which I deeply regret,’ Guido went on, his voice low and intense. ‘When you came here, I offered you certain safeguards. I have failed to keep my part of the bargain, and for that I ask your pardon.’

      ‘You don’t have to apologise.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘You already made your position—perfectly clear. And I was also to blame. I lost my temper too.’ She even forced a small, bleak smile. ‘As you said, it was a mistake. But not a fatal one. We can put it behind us. Pretend it never happened.’

      He said quietly, ‘Can you do that, Chiara? Can you deceive yourself—like that? Because I do not think it is possible. I do not believe my memory will allow itself to be cheated in that way.’

      Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. ‘Please, signore, don’t take this so seriously. It’s really not important. Men make advances to women who work for them every day.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s an occupational hazard.’

      ‘Not,’ he said thinly, ‘in my organisation.’

      She swallowed. ‘Then let’s agree that we both got angry, and behaved out of character, and resolve to operate on a more businesslike footing in future.’ She hesitated. ‘Unless you’d prefer me to leave?’

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not now. Not yet. Although I see it may become necessary sooner than I thought,’ he added quietly.

      He held out his hand. ‘So—a new beginning, Chiara?’

      After a momentary pause, she put her hand into his, and felt the swift, warm pressure of his fingers.

      The kind of brief, impersonal contact which was all she could expect from now on, she acknowledged forlornly as he released her.

      She said with forced brightness, ‘If you’ll excuse me now, Marchese.’

      ‘Go in peace, signorina.’ She could hear the undercurrent of amusement as he imitated her own formality.

      As she turned away, his voice reached her softly, almost tauntingly. ‘But I do not apologise for the dress, Chiara. How could I, when you look so beautiful? A dream of desire for any man’s eyes.’

      His words shivered through her being, tapping the turbulent well of emotion he had already created. Clare saw the sunlit day splinter into sparkling fragments as she fought back her tears. Battled with the yearning to go back to him, whatever the cost.

      ‘You don’t play fair, signore,’ she threw back huskily, keeping her back resolutely turned to him. ‘Has no one ever told you that?’

      ‘Many people, mia cara.’ There was a quietly implacable note now. ‘And they will also tell you I always play to win.’

      She said coolly and clearly, ‘Then it’s fortunate that your prize is Paola, and not myself, signore, or you’d lose. Good afternoon.’

      And, forcing her shaking legs to obey her, she walked into the house, and up to the fragile security of her room.

      She tried to rest, to sink down into the softness of the big bed and close out the world for a while, but she couldn’t relax. Her mind and body were too much on edge. And even when she closed her eyes, Guido’s image seemed to be stamped inside her eyelids, offering her no escape.

      But this was the wrong room in which to evade thoughts of passion, she realised unhappily, recalling what he’d said about his own parents, and their long-ago clandestine lovemaking.

      She’d hung the blue dress in a corner of the wardrobe. She wouldn’t wear it again, but she couldn’t bear to throw it away either. At least not yet. One day there would be a time when she would look back on this Umbrian summer with nothing more than a rueful smile, and then she could get rid of it as just another unwanted souvenir. At least, she prayed it would be so.

      In the meantime, she had to deal with the sultry heat of the afternoon, the heavy quiet which had descended on the entire household, admixed with the scent of the flowers from the garden below and the drowsy hum of insects.

      It was not, she thought grimly, the kind of atmosphere for solitude. It was all too evocative of whispered words, stifled laughter, and the slow, languorous movement of bodies reaching a familiar and precious attunement. A time when love was reaffirmed, and babies were made…