His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven

vicious things Emilio had said to her were tumbling around in her head. She might tell herself they were ludicrous, vindictive lies of a disappointed man, but in some ways they seemed like the confirmation of all her worst nightmares.

      What had really happened the day Sandro’s car went into the ravine? Rafaella had told her that her grandfather refused to speak about it. What had he seen—or heard—that prompted him to silence?

      Somehow or other, she thought, I’m going to have to ask him—and make him tell me the truth. Because I need to know.

      As for Emilio’s comments about her marriage … A little shiver ran through her. He was probably right about that. After all, it was only a means to an end, as Sandro had made clear. And once he had Charlie established as his heir, why would he bother to keep her around? Especially when he had other interests?

       Do you wish to know the name of his mistress in Rome?

      The words ate at her like some corrosive acid.

      The fact that there was another woman in his life had not stopped him trying to seduce her back into his bed, she thought, hurt and anger warring inside her. ‘A fever in the blood’ he’d once called it. And once the fever had been quenched, what then? Had he expected her to be so much in thrall to him that she was compliantly prepared to share him with his Roman beauty?

      She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. I can’t think about that, she told herself desperately. I dare not go there …

      But there was another problem, too, that she had to confront. Was it just Emilio or did other members of the family know that he’d tried to pay her off three years before? If so, that was the ultimate humiliation, and she wanted to run somewhere and hide, away from the smiles and sneers that would accompany such knowledge.

      But most of all, she wanted to hide from Sandro. And instead she was obliged to go upstairs, and get into one side of the extravagantly wide bed she had to share with him tonight. And be expected to sleep.

      Oh, God, she thought, her fists clenching convulsively. It’s all such a charade. Such total hypocrisy.

      And if I had any guts, I’d get Charlie, and make a run for it back to England, and see how Sandro deals with a scandal like that.

      But, realistically, how far would she get? She was here in this—fortress in a foreign country, where he had power, and she had none. Even the money in the bank account he’d opened for her had been transferred to Italy.

      She was helpless—and she was suddenly afraid too.

      ‘So, here you are.’ Sandro was walking across the terrace towards her. ‘What are you doing out here alone?’

      She swallowed slowly and deeply, aware of the frantic thud of her heart at the sight of him.

      ‘I needed some fresh air.’ She forced herself to sound light and cool. ‘Pretending to be pleasant is hard work, and every actress needs an interval.’

      ‘Is it really so hard to meet such goodwill halfway?’ he asked unsmilingly.

      ‘I think it exists for Charlie, not myself,’ she returned curtly. ‘I’m your wife by accident not design, and they must know that.’

      He said drily, ‘In the eyes of most of my family, you are not yet my wife at all. I am being given embarrassingly broad hints that I should take you upstairs without further delay and rectify the matter.’

      ‘Oh, God.’ Polly pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.

      ‘I am truly sorry, cara mia.’ His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘I never meant you to be subjected to this. We had better face them.’

      ‘Very well.’ Ignoring his outstretched hand, she walked stiffly beside him towards the open windows of the salotto.

      ‘I can give you ten minutes’ privacy,’ he added quietly. ‘But no longer, or Zia Vittoria will be demanding to know why I am not with you, doing my duty by the next generation.’

      Her throat muscles felt paralysed, but she managed a husky, ‘Thank you.’

      In spite of her tacit resistance, Sandro slid an arm round her waist, holding her against his side, as they went into the brightness of the room and paused to meet the laughter and faint cheers that awaited them.

      Then she felt his lips touch her hot cheek, as he whispered, ‘Go now, bella mia.’

      The door seemed a million miles away, especially when she had to reach it through a sea of broad grins and openly voiced encouragement. She was aware that people were swarming after her into the hall, watching her walk up the stairs.

      She glanced back once, and saw Sandro standing a little apart from them all. He was unsmiling, his eyes bleak, as he looked at her, raising the glass he was holding in a cynical toast. Then he drained the contents in one jerky movement, and went back into the salotto.

      Leaving Polly to go on, feeling more alone than she had ever done in her life before.