The Duke's Wife. Stephanie Howard

and was gesturing in the direction of a group of chairs and sofas which were arranged round the huge fireplace where a log fire flickered. For it was the middle of February and even here in San Rinaldo, the sun-drenched little dukedom on the edge of the Mediterranean, the late afternoons could be a little chilly. The flicker of the flames brought a warm glow to the room with its imposing oil paintings, fine French furniture and colourful Persian rugs strewn about the floor.

      ‘Let’s make ourselves a little more comfortable,’ he smiled.

      ‘Of course.’

      That smile caused a momentary warm glow to touch Sofia’s heart. There was much harshness in his character—he could be so unforgiving—but that rare smile, which always surprised, had a potent magic. Though Sofia was not taken in, of course. She knew why he had smiled and it was not because he derived any pleasure from her company. He was simply keeping her sweet, anxious to avoid any unpleasantness, for these days their rare encounters teetered on a knife-edge of civility and he was clearly anxious to ensure there was no unpleasantness this afternoon.

      Not that he need worry, Sofia reflected. She had grown to be quite an expert at keeping her emotions under control. Still, as she crossed to one of the blue damask armchairs and sat down, watching him from beneath her lashes as he seated himself in the armchair opposite, she felt another quick dart of apprehension. For what purpose had he summoned her here?

      Her eyes flickered over his dark-eyed face with its wide, sensuous mouth, sculpted jawline and strong curved nose—that unmistakable Montecrespi nose, proud, aristocratic, almost hawk-like, which could be seen in the scores of portraits of his ancestors that hung in their gilt frames from the palace walls. Oh, yes, he was undoubtedly the most glorious-looking man.

      He was tall—even Sofia, who was tall herself, only came up as far as his chin!—with a wonderful, easy, regal bearing. Thirty-seven years old, he looked every inch of what he was: Damiano Raffaele Louis Nicoolo di Montecrespi, twelfth hereditary Duke of San Rinaldo and ruler of one of the richest little states in southern Europe. Though the Duke of San Rinaldo was not what Sofia saw when she looked at him. What she saw was the man she’d wasted most of her life loving, for she’d loved him for the greater part of her twenty-three years. And it had been a waste, for his heart belonged to another woman.

      He was sitting back in his chair, hair black as tar against the blue damask, his tanned, strong-fingered hands laid lightly along the chair arms. And though he was dressed fairly casually, in dark trousers and a navy shirt, Sofia could sense that his mood was far from casual. Quite clearly, he had something important on his mind.

      But he was not divulging what that was yet. He said, referring to Alessandro, ‘He’s a bright child. And walking so well now. I think we’re all going to have our hands full in a couple of months’ time.’

      ‘I reckon we are.’

      He really adored Alessandro. Whenever he spoke of him a light ignited in his eyes and the sometimes harsh lines around his mouth instantly softened. In those moments one caught a glimpse of the passionate human heart that lurked behind the often flinty façade. It was a side of him, Sofia knew, that not everyone was aware of, though she had always been aware of its existence. It was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him. And it pleased her that Alessandro, the precious child they had made together, could ignite that light in his father’s eyes just with the mention of his name.

      She added, knowing he would be interested, for he was interested in everything about Alessandro, ‘Alice tells me that he absolutely refuses to crawl at all these days. He insists on walking, even if he has to use his walker.’

      Damiano smiled a proud smile. ‘There’s going to be no stopping him.’ And again that unmistakable flash of love touched his eyes. Then he sat back in his seat. ‘I’ve asked for some tea to be brought up. I thought you might like some tea and biscuits?’

      Sofia nodded. ‘That would be nice.’ But that knot of anxiety deep inside her tightened. It wasn’t like him to go to all this trouble. Normally, on the rare occasions when he wished to speak to her, he simply called her to his office and said what he had to say. Today he was acting quite out of character, first choosing as their meeting place the informal setting of the Rose Room and now offering her tea and biscuits! What was he about to spring on her? Sofia found herself wondering.

      She watched him closely as he observed, ‘Your secretary tells me you’re planning to attend a private dinner on Thursday evening?’

      It was said casually enough, but Sofia’s practised eyes had instantly spotted the little giveaway signs that told her he was coming to the point of this encounter. The slight tightening around his jawline, the shuttered look in the dark eyes, the unmistakably authoritarian way he was sitting back in his chair. She felt another tightening inside her. So he was about to put an end to the suspense! And she forced herself to sound as casual as he had as she answered.

      ‘That’s right. I’ve been invited to dinner at the Pasquales’.’ Then she added with just a twist of annoyance, ’You could have found out what I was doing by asking me directly, you know. There was really no need to make enquiries through my secretary.’

      For it maddened her the way, when he wanted to check up on her, he would invariably do it through some palace intermediary, as though he didn’t quite trust her to give a reliable account of herself. But then he probably didn’t. He thought she was a silly, feckless child.

      Damiano smiled. He knew what she was thinking. ‘I’ll try to remember that in future,’ he said.

      Of course, he would do no such thing. And this time his smile saddened her. It didn’t matter to Damiano that they were reduced to this—his secretary phoning her secretary to find out what she was doing, for more than likely there had been two intermediaries, not just one. The total miserable failure of their three-year-old marriage was of no consequence whatsoever to Damiano, just as the marriage itself had never meant anything to him. All it was, all it had ever been, was a vehicle for providing him with an heir.

      At that thought, a coldness touched her. Her trouble was that she’d been too efficient. Less than two years after their marriage Alessandro had been born and from that moment Damiano had had no further use for her. She had served her purpose. That was the brutal, cruel truth of it.

      As she pushed that thought away, squashing the hurt that bubbled up, Damiano was saying, ‘I was sorry to hear that. About your dinner engagement with the Pasquales, I mean.’ He paused. ‘You see, I would like you to accompany me to the opera that evening.’

      ‘The opera?’ Sofia blinked at him.

      ‘The first night of the new production. As you know, it’s going to be a very special occasion.’

      Of course Sofia knew. How could she not know? Thursday was to see the reopening of the newly redecorated Royal Theatre, with an all-star production of Madame Butterfly to mark the occasion. But why on earth was he suggesting that she accompany him?

      She said, fixing him with openly perplexed grey-blue eyes, ‘I find this very strange. You always go alone to these things.’

      ‘I have been doing so, yes.’

      ‘I mean that was the arrangement.’

      ‘It was.’ Damiano paused and deliberately held her gaze. ‘But let’s just say I’ve decided to review our arrangement.’

      ‘Review it? Why?’ Sofia felt a jolt of fear. ‘Why would you want to do that? I would say it was working rather well.’

      ‘By keeping us out of each other’s hair, you mean?’ Damiano raised one cynical eyebrow. ‘Yes, on that level I would say it was working well too. But there are other things to be considered now. Which is why I think we must review it.’ He paused, the dark eyes narrowing as he looked at her. ‘Why I’m afraid,’ he amended, ‘I must insist that we do.’

      It was at that moment that there was a discreet tap on the Rose Room door. A moment later the door opened and a maidservant appeared pushing a trolley laden with tea things—a beautiful blue and gold Castello