His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven

in presenting our marriage as a conventional one.’

      ‘Yes.’ Polly bit her lip. ‘But—I didn’t realise then what could be involved.’

      His smile was thin. ‘Well, do not worry too much, carissima. There are enough willing women in the world. I see no need to force someone so clearly reluctant.’

      He held up the nightgown. ‘Although your prudishness hardly matches your choice of nightwear. Why buy a garment so seductive, if you do not wish to be seduced?’

      ‘I didn’t buy it,’ Polly said stonily. ‘It was a present from Teresa.’

      ‘Indeed,’ he murmured. ‘I never guessed she was such a romantic. Or such an optimist,’ he added, his mouth curving in genuine amusement.

      ‘Don’t tear it,’ he told her mockingly, as Polly made an unavailing attempt to snatch it from him. ‘That is a privilege I might prefer to reserve for myself.’

      She glared at him. ‘Not in this lifetime,’ she said defiantly.

      ‘And certainly not unless I wish to do so,’ he reminded her softly. ‘However, for now, I shall have to console myself with imagining how it might look if you wore it, bella mia.’ He gave it a last, meditative glance. ‘Like a shadow falling across moonlight,’ he said quietly, and tossed it to her. ‘I must write to Teresa and thank her,’ he added with a swift grin, as he straightened the bedclothes.

      ‘And I,’ she said coldly, ‘shall not.’ She swallowed. ‘I would like to get dressed now, please.’

      His brows lifted, as he scanned the slipping towel. ‘You want assistance?’

      ‘No.’ She managed just in time to avoid stamping her bare foot on the tiled floor. ‘Just some privacy.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, can’t you see how impossible this all is?’

      ‘I can only see that I shall have to stop teasing you, cara mia,’ he said with unexpected gentleness. ‘Get dressed if you wish, but there is no need for you to face the inquisition downstairs, unless you want to do so. And it is a long time until dinner, when you will be expected to make an appearance, so why not rest quietly here until then? I promise you will not be disturbed,’ he added levelly. ‘By anyone.’

      As she hesitated there was a knock on the door, and a small, round-faced girl came in carrying a tray with Polly’s tea. She stopped, her mouth forming into an embarrassed ‘o’.

      ‘Mi scusi, excellenza,’ she stammered. ‘I thought the marchesa was alone.’

      Sandro smiled at her. ‘Come here and meet your new mistress, Rafaella.’ He turned to Polly. ‘I have arranged for this child to become your personal maid, cara mia. She is the granddaughter of an old friend, so be kind to her.’

      Polly, about to flatly deny any need of a personal maid, saw the girl’s eager face, and subsided.

      ‘Once you have had your tea,’ Sandro went on, ‘I hope she can persuade you to sleep for a while, even if I cannot,’ he added wryly. ‘And I shall ask her to return at eight to help you to dress for dinner.’

      Polly nodded resginedly. ‘Thank you. Darling,’ she added as an afterthought, and saw his lips twitch before he turned away, heading for the bathroom.

      Rafaella set the tray down on one of the old ornamental tables that flanked the bed, then flew to the dressing room, returning with a dark blue satin robe, which Polly awkwardly exchanged for the towel.

      ‘Parli inglese?’ she asked as the girl folded back the coverlet to the foot of the bed, and plumped up the pillows.

      Her face lit up. ‘Sì, vossignoria. I worked for an English family, au pair, for two years. I learn much.’

      ‘Yet you came back to work at the palazzo?’

      Rafaella nodded vigorously. ‘It is an honour for me, and for my grandfather, who asked for this post for me, when his signoria wished to reward him.’

      ‘Reward him?’ Polly queried.

      ‘It was my grandfather who found the marchese when his car crashed into the ravine,’ Rafaella explained. ‘He saw it happen, and ran to help. At first he thought his signoria was dead, because he did not move, and there was so much blood, but then he could feel his pulse and knew that he lived, so my grandfather went to the car to rescue the lady.’ She shrugged. ‘But it was too late.’

      Polly winced. ‘It must have been a horrible experience for him.’

      ‘Sì, vossignoria. He spoke about it to the inquiry, and also to his signoria when he was in hospital, but never since. There is too much pain in such memories.’

      She bent to retrieve the discarded bath sheet, then straightened, beaming. ‘So it is good that the marchese is now happy again.’

      ‘Yes.’ Polly realised with acute embarrassment that the girl was holding up the black lace nightgown, which must have been entangled in the folds of the towel. ‘I—I suppose so.’

      She tried to concentrate on her tea, and ignore Rafaella’s stifled giggle as she carried the nightdress off to the dressing room.

      No doubt the rumour mill at the palazzo would soon be in full swing, she thought, swallowing. But at least it would support the idea that this was a real marriage, which would please Sandro.

      She put down her cup and turned on her side, shutting her eyes determinedly, and, presently, she heard Rafaella’s quiet departure.

      It would be good to relax, she thought, burrowing her cheek into the lavender-scented pillow. To recover from the stress and strain of the past days and weeks, and re-focus on this extraordinary new life, to which, for good or ill, she now belonged.

      Thanks to the contessa, it was proving a more difficult start than she’d anticipated, she told herself, sighing.

      For one thing, and in spite of the closed bathroom door, she could clearly hear the sound of the shower, reviving all kinds of past associations, and she pressed her hands over her ears, in an attempt to shut them out.

      She didn’t want to remember those other times when Sandro had been showering, and she’d joined him, their bodies slippery under the torrent of water, her mouth fierce on his skin, his arms strong as he lifted her against him, filling her with the renewed urgency of his desire.

      But the memories were too strong, too potent to be dismissed, and for a moment, as her body melted in recollection, she was pierced once more with the temptation to abandon all pride and go to him.

      But it would pass, she thought. It had to. Because she would not be drawn again into the web of sensuality where she’d been trapped before. It was just a moment of weakness because she was tired—so very tired …

      And gradually, the distant rush of water became a lullaby that, against all odds, soothed her to sleep.

      She had never really dressed for dinner before, Polly thought as she sat in front of the mirror, watching Rafaella apply the finishing touches to her hair. The other girl had drawn the shining strands into a loose knot on top of Polly’s head, softening the look with a few loose tendrils that were allowed to curl against her face, and the nape of her neck.

      Her dress was a sleek column of black silk, long-sleeved, with a neckline that discreetly revealed the first swell of her breasts, and gave her skin the sheen of a pearl.

      She’d kept her make-up deliberately muted, faintly emphasising the green of her eyes, and curving her mouth with a soft rose lustre.

      Whatever her inward inadequacies, this time she would at least look the part of the Marchesa Valessi, she thought.

      She had hoped that Sandro would be beside her again, to guide her through her second entrance, but Rafaella had told her that he had changed for dinner and rejoined his guests while she still slept.