At Her Latin Lover's Command: The Italian Count's Command / The French Count's Mistress / At the Spanish Duke's Command. Susan Stephens
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leapt up, her heart in her mouth. Nervously she smoothed her skirt. Walked shakily to the door. And opened it.
Only Dante was in the room, dressed in a casual cream shirt and pale honey jeans, both so beautifully cut that they’d probably been made to measure. Miranda thought he could have just stepped off a designer catwalk.
He took one look at her pale, elated face. His mouth tightened and he turned.
‘Carlo!’ he called. ‘Your surprise has arrived!’
Miranda heard a clatter as if a toothbrush had been dropped in a basin. She held her breath, hardly daring to believe that her son was really here. And then, there he was, tinier than she remembered, his hair longer, whiter, his small and much-adored face a picture of amazement.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ he squealed and, laughing in delight, he ran barefooted to her, his arms outstretched in welcome.
‘My darling!’
Swamped by emotion, she swept him up and hugged him close. Carlo’s warm, plump arms wrapped around her neck and he squeezed so tightly that she almost choked.
‘Oh, sweetheart!’ she whispered, kissing his soft little cheek. ‘Sweetheart!’
‘Finish dressing him. He’ll show you where we have breakfast.’
Her sparkling eyes flicked to Dante. He was walking out of the door and looking grim, his normally fluid body jerky and uncoordinated. Presumably with anger.
But she was too happy to care that he couldn’t deal with Carlo’s love for her. She was back with her son and life was improving by the minute.
‘Why you cryin’, Mummy?’ Carlo demanded.
She beamed at him through a mist of tears.
‘Laughing, not crying,’ she told him softly. ‘Sometimes when you laugh, it makes your eyes water. Shall we get you ready for breakfast? Show me where your things are.’
It was the beginning of a new life, she thought as Carlo slid from her arms and gleefully rushed to find his shoes and socks. She would risk everything to be accepted as Carlo’s mother and Dante’s wife.
She took a deep breath. She wanted their love. And would settle for nothing less.
But how? a little voice queried inside her. And she dismissed it because she could not find the answer.
‘He seems very happy.’
She nodded in acknowledgement of Dante’s comment and watched Carlo excitedly running into the scuola materna. She smiled. It was a lovely name for nursery school.
Carlo turned and waved, his rucksack bouncing on his back. They both waved back at him and grinned at his beam of pure delight before he grabbed a little friend’s hand and ran into the nursery.
At first she’d been upset that Dante had told her Carlo must continue with his routine. She’d wanted to spend the whole day with her son and had fully expected Carlo to refuse when Dante had told him to get his rucksack for nursery.
But a beam had spread across Carlo’s face as if the sun had come out and he’d raced off to collect the bag without a murmur. She’d been torn between disappointment for her own sake and relief that his life was continuing as normal.
‘I thought he might not want to go this morning,’ Dante mused, voicing Miranda’s thoughts as their son disappeared through the double doors of the little school.
‘He seemed a bit anxious the way he clung to me before breakfast,’ she admitted.
‘Yes.’ Dante’s voice grew sombre. ‘I was worried that he might be unsettled for a while.’
‘That’s why I talked about getting my clothes and things sent here from England,’ she explained. ‘Then your suggestion about us all going off to Maggiore for tea and cakes after nursery seemed to set his mind at rest.’
‘Blatant bribery, I’m afraid,’ Dante said with a faint smile.
‘It doesn’t matter. Desperate needs, desperate measures!’ She chuckled. ‘The main thing is that he’s convinced I’m here to stay.’
Dante looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
She met his wary eyes and wondered if he guessed how she felt when she did so. If he knew the bitter-sweet pangs of love that stabbed at her body over and over again.
‘I will never leave,’ she said quietly, not even attempting to conceal her adoration.
He jerked his head away, his expression tense. ‘I wonder what they’re having for lunch,’ he said in an odd, over-bright tone. And he peered at a notice on the gate. ‘Pasta and tomato sauce, boiled beef and green vegetables, fruit. Very good.’
The mood lightened, and Miranda laughed as they began to walk away. ‘Do they provide a menu every day?’ she asked, impressed.
‘Of course. Lunch is an important social occasion. It’s virtually part of the curriculum.’
‘Curriculum?’ she repeated in amusement.
Dante grinned, and for her it was a huge breakthrough in their tricky relationship that he felt he could unbend a little towards her.
‘Daverro! Indeed! Let me see. This term it’s tastes and smells, opposites and colours. Nothing heavy. Just a general awareness of the differences in life. And they’re emphasising friendship this week, too. Carlo is popular, they tell me,’ he said with the touching pride of a doting father, ‘because of his sunny nature. He loves being with other children—that’s why he settled so well.’
‘He’s a very lovable child,’ she said with affection. ‘Open and outgoing.’
‘Unlike you,’ Dante muttered.
She winced. ‘No problem with the language?’ she asked, changing the subject hastily.
‘A friendly smile goes a long way, it seems. And he’s picking up more and more Italian phrases as the days go by.’
A friendly smile. Yes. It broke down barriers. It was something she could put into practice too.
‘Children learn very quickly from their peers,’ she said soberly.
‘And need to be with them,’ he agreed. ‘I had my doubts about putting him in the school when Sonniva suggested it, but she was right. It took his mind off you and he was able to enjoy himself with children of his own age.’
‘I’m glad he’s settled so well,’ she said softly. ‘He’ll have a good life here.’
Her eyes shone. Carlo was happy. She glanced at Dante’s face and saw how strained he looked. The urge to reach out and take his arm, to snuggle into him and cheer him up, was overwhelming. But she didn’t do that kind of thing.
Or hadn’t. Had that been the problem? He’d criticised her for being an ice queen with a harlot’s heart. Told her that he never knew what she was thinking until they were in bed and making love—and even then he’d always wondered if it had been pure bodily gratification on her part.
Her shocked protests had washed over him. He claimed he didn’t know her and, while her reticence had impressed him when she was his secretary, he hadn’t expected it to continue when they were married.
But all her life she’d hidden her feelings—and the cause of them. It had been the only way to survive the hurt when she was eleven and her beloved father had disappeared for ever. And it had stood her in good stead when her mother had screamed at her that it was her fault because having kids meant you couldn’t go out at the drop of a hat with your husband.
Miranda had also hidden the resentment she’d secretly felt within days of her father’s disappearance, when she’d become the prime carer for her little sister so that her mother could have some kind of a life. Miranda