His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven

should make a start at once. Telephone Teresa in the morning. Make a list of all the books she’d not had time to read. She could even have parcels of them, she thought, sent to her in Italy. She might even book for a theatre matinée, now that she had a nanny. Go to the cinema. Something. Anything.

      While, at the same time, she underwent the painful process of turning herself into some stranger—the Marchesa Valessi. The wife that no one wanted—least of all Sandro himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

      ‘SO,’ TERESA said, ‘in two days you will be married. It is exciting, no?’

      ‘Wonderful,’ Polly agreed in a hollow voice.

      She didn’t feel like a bride, she thought, staring at herself in the mirror, although the hugely expensive cream linen dress which Teresa had persuaded her to buy, and which would take her on to the airport and her new life after the ceremony, was beautifully cut and clung to her slenderness as if it adored her, managing to be stunning and practical at the same time. While her high-heeled strappy shoes were to die for.

      It wasn’t just the usual trappings of tulle and chiffon that were missing, she thought. It was radiance she lacked.

      And at any moment, Teresa would be ordering her to relax, because otherwise the tension in her body would spoil the perfect line of her dress. But the other girl would never understand in a million years that this was not merely bridal nerves, but sheer, blind panic.

      Since their confrontation on her first night in the hotel Sandro had taken her at her word and left her strictly to her own devices, except when they were with Teresa and Ernesto, when he continued to play the part of the charming, attentive bridegroom.

      On the other occasions when they encountered each other, he was polite but aloof. But these were rare. Except for the sacrosanct hours he devoted to Charlie, he spent very little time at the hotel.

      Well, she could not fault him for obeying her wishes, she thought. But she alone knew that she was lonely, and that her sense of isolation would only increase once she reached Comadora.

      ‘Now take the dress off and hang it away,’ Teresa cautioned. ‘Sandro must not see you in it before the wedding.’ She paused. ‘Is all well with you, Paola? You are quiet today.’

      Polly stepped out of the dress, and slipped it onto a padded hanger. ‘Well, for one thing, there’s Julie.’

      ‘Oh?’ Teresa’s eyes twinkled. ‘Has she fallen in love with Alessandro?’

      ‘No, of course not,’ Polly said. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’

      Teresa giggled. ‘They all do. I had a nanny from Australia when the twins were born, and each time Alessandro came into the house she would go pink—like a carnation—and refuse to speak for hours.’

      Polly’s brows lifted. ‘And how did he react?’

      ‘Ahime, he did not even notice.’ Teresa shrugged. ‘It is endearing how little vanity he has in such matters.’

      ‘Well, his arrogance in other ways more than compensates for that,’ Polly said crisply, zipping herself into a pretty blue shift dress.

      ‘You would not think so if you had known his father, the Marchese Domenico,’ said Teresa. ‘Now, there was a supreme autocrat. And of course that old witch he brought to the house after his wife died encouraged him to think he could do no wrong. She and Bianca, her secret weapon.’

      Polly put her wedding dress away in the wardrobe. She said, ‘What was she like—Bianca? Was she beautiful?’

      ‘An angel.’ Teresa waved a languid hand. ‘A dove. Submissive and so sweet. I longed to bite her and see if there was honey in her veins instead of blood. And taught by nuns,’ she added darkly. ‘She wore her purity like a sword—every inch of her being saved for the marriage bed.’

      She sighed. ‘No wonder Alessandro looked for amusement elsewhere.’ She stopped dead, clapping a hand over her mouth, looking at Polly in round-eyed horror. ‘Dio, Paola. My mouth will be my death. Forgive me—please.’

      Polly sat down at her dressing table, and ran a comb through her hair. She said quietly, ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I’m really under no illusion about Sandro—or myself.’

      ‘Cara,’ Teresa shot off the bed where she’d been sprawling, and came to kneel beside Polly. ‘Listen to me. Ernesto—myself—every friend Sandro has—we are so happy that you are together. And that you have given him a son that he adores. Let the past rest. It does not matter.’

      ‘Bianca died,’ Polly said. ‘That makes it matter.’

      ‘You think he wished to marry her?’ Teresa demanded. ‘No, and no. It was the contessa, who saw to it that Bianca had the old marchese twisted round her little finger. With Sandro, he was always harsh, but Bianca was his sweetheart, his darling child. And Bianca wanted Alessandro.’

      ‘Yet you say they weren’t lovers.’

      Teresa gave her a worldly look. ‘But whose choice was that? Ernesto, who has known Alessandro since they were children, told me that she used to watch him constantly—try always to be near him. He said—forgive me, this is not nice, and Ernesto is never unkind—that she was like a bitch on heat.’ She shrugged. ‘And for her, he was unattainable.’

      ‘Then why did he agree to marry her?’

      ‘His parents’ marriage had been an arranged one,’ Teresa said. ‘It was made clear to him what was expected of him in turn. And perhaps he felt it was a way to please his father at last. He was only twelve when his mother died, and after that his relationship with the marchese became even more troubled. And Sandro was wild when he was younger,’ she added candidly.

      She gave Polly a serious look. ‘But you can understand, cara, why his relationship with Carlino is so important to him. Why he wishes to make his own son feel loved and secure.’

      ‘Yes,’ Polly said quietly. ‘I can—see that.’

      Teresa got to her feet, brushing the creases from her skirt. ‘But you were telling me of Julie. There is some problem?’

      ‘She’s having some time off this afternoon to go for a job interview.’ Polly sighed. ‘Apparently, she’s only on a temporary contract with us, which lasts until we get to Italy and then Sandro’s staff take over, and she flies back. I—I’m going to miss her badly, and so will Charlie. And she’s someone I can talk to in my own language.’

      ‘Then ask him if you may keep her on.’ Teresa shrugged. ‘It is quite simple.’ She gave Polly a wicked grin. ‘I am sure that you can persuade him, cara. Do as I do. Wait until you are in bed, and you have made him very happy. He will give you anything. And the rest of the servants will be pacified when they have your other bambini to care for.’

      Polly’s blush deepened painfully, but she made herself speak lightly. ‘That’s the kind of cunning plan I like.’

      The way things were between them, he was more likely to fire Julie instantly, she thought ruefully when Teresa had gone. But she could always ask, although it wouldn’t be in the way the other girl had suggested.

      Not that she had the opportunity for the rest of the day. In the afternoon, she went to visit her parents in a last-ditch effort to get them to come to the wedding.

      But Mrs Fairfax, still in her dressing gown and looking pale and wan, was adamant, insisting she wasn’t well enough to go, and needed her husband with her in case of emergency.

      And she alarmed Charlie by hugging him too tightly, and weeping.

      Polly got back to the hotel feeling as if she’d been run down by a train, her only comfort her father’s quiet, ‘She’ll come round, sweetheart. She