The Impatient Groom. SARA WOOD
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because he loved you and wanted you to be given the chance to—’
The prince made her jump by exclaiming sharply in Italian. As if unable to contain himself, he sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down, his beautifully cut jacket flaring open to reveal a pale gold silk waistcoat hugging his lithe figure.
Totally unnerved by Rozzano’s reaction, Sophia turned back to Frank in desperation.
‘The chance to what?’ she asked plaintively, dismayed at the small, betraying shake in every word.
Rozzano spun around, an undercurrent of excitement spilling into his voice and sparking his dark eyes so that they flashed brilliantly. ‘Can’t you see she’s desperate to know, beneath that very English restraint?’ he said in fast, harsh tones. ‘I know who she is. She’s Violetta’s daughter, isn’t she? Violetta D’Antiga!’
‘Spot on!’ cried Frank, as pleased as punch.
Sophia’s apprehension evaporated in a flash. They were both way off the mark! She relaxed back in her seat in relief.
‘Well! You got my nerves hopping for nothing! Mother’s name was Violet Chaitonl’ She realised that Frank must be so overworked, he was losing his grip! ‘You definitely need a good secretary, Frank, to sort your files,’ she chided. ‘I knew there was a mix-up!’
And then, to her amazement, the prince was kneeling at her feet, his hands taking hers. Their eyes met, hers huge and uncomprehending, his fierce and bright.
She found herself trembling at his nearness. But that wasn’t surprising. He was a dish. An immensely compelling man. Any woman alive would have wilted after glimpsing the raw, driving energy that he kept locked up behind that urbane exterior.
It was scary. And she found it shockingly exciting in a disturbing, sexual way. That, she thought wryly, was the trouble with living a cloistered, sheltered existence. You didn’t often come across men oozing effortless sexual desire in villages boasting one post office and a duck pond.
‘There’s no mistake. We are linked,’ he said simply.
Linked. For a brief moment, Sophia’s breath seemed to have left her body. Electricity seemed to be surging between them as if there was, indeed, a vital connection. And then she grinned shakily because it was so unbelievable—both the connection and the two-way electricity!
What a fool she was! Vicar’s daughter meets Sex On Legs. She was bound to be overwhelmed! She chuckled.
‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘An Italian prince in head-totoe Armani—’
‘Gianfianco Ferre,’ he corrected her in surprise, as if any fool could have identified the style of his elegant suit.
‘OK, Ferre—how am I to know?’ she said mildly. ‘Anyway, you’re telling me that a prince, and an impoverished vicar’s daughter in hand-me-downs are linked?’ she finished in mock astonishment, her eyes alive with inner laughter.
‘A vicar,’ he mused, his black-lashed gaze taking in every feature of her face. ‘That explains a good deal.’
‘Well, explain it to me!’ she suggested, quickly concealing a small tremor of her lower lip.
Her face was tingling where his breath had whispered across it. It felt as if he’d caressed it with his hand...or his mouth. Her eyes became soft and filmy with the lingering sensation.
Again that dazzling, blinding smile. Again the tightness in her chest.
‘Another time,’ he said with great gentleness. ‘Believe me, our lives are connected. That’s why we are both here. Brace yourself for a shock. It is good news—something life-changing.’
CHAPTER TWO
SOPHIA gulped and sat back in her seat, her mind reeling. She didn’t want her life changed. Not drastically, anyway. A job, a man to love and even one child instead of four would do very nicely.
Rozzano’s grasp on her hands reassured her. She could feel his strength pouring into her body. Searching the two men’s faces, she saw compassion and joy in their expressions. It wouldn’t be anything bad, she decided, or they’d be offering her brandy and sympathy and pushing smelling salts under her nose.
‘I’m braced,’ she said with resignation. ‘So tell me.’
The solicitor gestured for Rozzano to continue. The prince studied her with close attention as if he was reading every line of her face. But his expression remained inscrutable. She realised this was a shrewd man, who saw much and revealed little.
‘Your mother died when you were...?’
‘Two.’ Was this relevant? she wondered. But he seemed to be waiting for her to continue, so she decided to humour him. ‘She was walking in the village with me in my buggy when a lorry got out of control and...’
She drew her brows together sharply, the slaty depths of her eyes reflecting her emotions. Her father had been inconsolable. She remembered his endless sobbing which had filled the house for days, the hushed parishioners who’d cared for her and her own confusion when her father kept holding her too tightly, making her cry too.
‘Poor Father,’ she said gently. ‘He loved her so much.’
There was a silence in the room. She was glad that Rozzano didn’t offer any platitudes or sympathy for people he’d never known.
The warmth of his strong hands seemed to increase. Sophia felt her gaze drawn back to his. ‘Tell me about her.’
‘I don’t remember much,’ she confessed. ‘I just have an overall impression of hugs and kisses and laughter... Oh, she always smelt wonderful; she had these fabulous bottles of perfume—’ She stopped to recover her normal speaking voice.
‘Ah. Perfume.’ Rozzano’s brilliant eyes seemed to be having a hypnotic effect on her.
Sophia drew herself upright, banishing the strange feeling that her body ran with a warm and heavy fluid. Ludicrous. There were definitely bones in there somewhere.
‘There are several photos of her in the house of course,’ she finished abruptly.
‘Would you describe her for me?’ the prince asked softly.
She hoped they’d get to the point soon. Her nerves were shredding with every second.
‘Tall, slender, long, silky raven hair, merry eyes. And very, very beautiful in a kind of delicate, ethereal way,’ she replied, her expression growing wistful.
If only she’d known her mother! She’d lain awake for hours some nights, imagining what it must be like to be one of the other girls in the village, borrowing their mother’s make-up, going on shopping trips to town together, coming home from school to the smell of freshly baked cakes...
‘Sophia?’ prompted the prince. ‘Drifting again?’
She nodded and gave him an apologetic look but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘I was indulging in wishful thinking. She sounded adorable. Father talked about her a lot. It seemed,’ she mused, ‘that he felt she’d needed protecting, that she was fragile and vulnerable. Look, I have a picture of her in my bag.’
Rozzano released her hands and she fumbled for the dog-eared and faded snapshot, which had been lovingly examined a thousand times over the years. He took it, nodded and passed it to Frank.
‘Violetta D’Antiga, without any shadow of doubt.’ Rozzano raised an elegant hand to stop the denial on her lips. ’I’ve seen a painting of her, Sophia. There’s no doubt. D‘Antiga was her name before she married.’ He paused. ‘Your mother originally came from Venice.’
Sophia stared wide-eyed with amazement, her heart thumping as she took this in. So this was the mystery! ‘Truly?’ she asked shakily.
‘Truly,’