Marco's Convenient Wife. PENNY JORDAN

her, affecting her as headily as too much indulgence in strong wine.

      It was almost too perfect, had been her verdict as they had driven up the Lombardy-pine-guarded private road that led to the palazzo, and then in through the delicate high wrought-iron gates past imposingly formal gardens and finally into an enclosed courtyard at the rear of the palazzo which had immediately seemed to enclose her, shutting her off from the outside world and reality.

      A small, gnarled man of about sixty had hurried out to the car, engaging in a low-voiced conversation with the conte, of which Alice could only hear the sharp, autocratic questions that her new employer was throwing at him.

      ‘Yes, the doctor has been called,’ Alice heard the older man replying in Italian. ‘but there has been an emergency at the hospital and so he has not as yet arrived.’

      ‘You have left the car in Florence?’ Alice heard the older man asking the conte, in an incredulous tone that immediately raised Alice’s hackles.

      How typical of what she already knew of the conte that even his employees should know that he would be more concerned about the future of his car than that of his baby!

      ‘There was an accident,’ she heard him replying grimly, shaking his head immediately as the other man instantly expressed concern for his health.

      ‘No. It is all right, Pietro, I am fine,’ the conte was assuring him.

      Grittily, Alice watched him. At no point during their hair-raising drive to the palazzo had the conte expressed either interest or concern in whether or not she had been hurt in the accident, and she was certainly not going to tell him just how queasy and uncomfortable she had felt during the drive, she decided proudly.

      She still felt rather weak, though, and she was relieved to be ushered into the cool interior of the palazzo, which was, as she had somehow known it would be, decorated in an elegant and very formal style, and furnished with what she suspected were priceless antiques.

      How on earth could a young child ever feel at home in a place like this? she wondered ruefully, as she followed the conte and his housekeeper, Pietro’s wife, Maddalena, who had now joined them, through several reception rooms and into a huge formal entrance hall from which a flight of gleaming marble stairs rose imposingly upward.

      The baby’s suite of rooms—there was in Alice’s opinion no other way to describe the quarters that had been set aside for the little girl; certainly they were far too grand to qualify for the word ‘nursery’ as she understood it—was at one end of a long corridor, and furnished equally imposingly as the salons she had already seen.

      A nervous and very flustered young girl who was quite plainly terrified of the conte appeared from one of the other rooms in response to the conte’s voice. She was inexpertly clutching the baby, who was quite plainly in discomfort and crying.

      Immediately Alice’s training and instincts took over, and without waiting for anyone’s permission she stepped forward and firmly removed the baby from the girl’s anxious grip.

      The baby smelled of vomit and quite plainly needed a nappy change. Her face was red and blotchy from distress and as Alice gently brushed her cool fingers against her skin, whilst reassuringly comforting her, she suspected that she probably had a temperature.

      Out of the corner of her eye she saw the move the conte made towards her as she took control and cradled the baby against her shoulder. Automatically she turned towards him, only just managing to suppress a small smile of grim contempt as she saw him glance from the baby to his own immaculate clothes.

      A truly loving father seeing his motherless child in such distress should have instinctively placed the baby’s need for the security of his arms above those of his immaculate suit, especially when she suspected that the conte was more than wealthy enough to buy a whole wardrobe of designer suits.

      A baby, though, could never be replaced; nor, in Alice’s opinion, could a baby ever be given too much love or security. And she immediately made a silent but vehement vow that, just so long as it was within her power to do so, she would ensure that little Angelina never, ever lacked for love.

      As she and the baby made eye contact Alice felt a soft, small tug of emotion pulling on her heartstrings, her feelings reflecting openly in her eyes and quite plain for the man watching her to see and comprehend.

      He had heard of love at first sight, Marco acknowledged wryly, and now had witnessed it taking place.

      Quickly he veiled his own gaze to prevent Alice from seeing what he was thinking.

      Almost as soon as she held her, little Angelina stopped crying as though she had instinctively recognised the sure, knowing touch of someone who knew what she was doing.

      Alice could hear the conte speaking to the nursemaid in Italian. Alice wondered why a man as wealthy as the conte might choose to employ an untrained nanny to look after his motherless child. The girl looked haggard and white-faced and she had started to wring her hands as she explained how the baby had started to be violently sick, shortly after she had fed her.

      Alice had already made her own professional diagnosis of what she suspected was wrong. Quietly but determinedly she walked towards the communicating door through which the nursemaid had appeared.

      The room beyond it, whilst as elegantly furnished as the one she had been in, was in total chaos, and Alice grimaced as she saw the pile of soiled baby things heaped up on the floor, and the general untidiness of the room. It was plain to her that the girl whom the conte had left in charge of his baby daughter had no professional skills and very probably very little experience with babies.

      Carrying Angelina into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom, she quickly started to prepare a bath for her, all the time holding her securely in one arm, sensing her fear and need to be held.

      It astonished her when the conte suddenly appeared at her side, instructing her, ‘Give her to me.’

      The baby started to cry again, a small, thin, grizzling cry of exhaustion, pain and misery. Dubiously Alice looked at her unwanted employer, but before she could say anything the baby turned her head and looked at the conte and suddenly she stopped crying, her eyes widening in recognition and delight as she held out her arms towards the man watching her.

      To her own furious outrage, Alice actually felt sharp, emotional tears start to prick her eyes at this evidence of the baby’s love for her father. But what really shocked her was the easy way in which the conte had held his small daughter; whilst she prepared a bath for her, cradling her lovingly in his arms, soothing her with soft murmurs of reassurance until Alice was ready to take Angelina off him and gently remove her soiled clothes.

      ‘I think that she may only be suffering from a bad bout of colic,’ she told the conte as she gently lowered the baby into the water, keeping her attention on her all the time to ensure that she was not becoming in any way distressed, ‘but of course I would advise that she is checked over by a doctor.’

      What she did not want to say was that she thought that it could be the inexpert handling of the baby by her nurse that was responsible for her agitated state. How could anyone leave such a young child with someone who was quite plainly not qualified to look after her?

      Surely, having lost his wife, the conte would want to do everything he could to protect and nurture her child? A child who, it was already obvious to Alice, was looking helplessly to her father for love and security.

      The arrival of the doctor interrupted her private thoughts, and whilst he was looking at the baby the conte had dismissed the nursemaid to go downstairs and have her supper, an act of apparent kindness, which for some reason only added to Alice’s resentment of him. He had shown no concern at all for the fact that she had not eaten in hours. Not that she wanted to eat particularly; she still felt slightly nauseous and suspected that she might still be suffering from shock. But just whether that shock had been caused by the accident or by the conte himself, Alice was not prepared to consider.

      The doctor quickly confirmed Alice’s own diagnosis that the baby was suffering from colic and was probably