Hot Nights with...the Italian: The Santangeli Marriage / The Italian’s Ruthless Marriage Command / Veretti's Dark Vengeance. Lucy Gordon
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him with a speculation in her eyes there had been no mistaking. And for that moment his heart had lifted in frank jubilation.
He remembered how he hadn’t been able to wait for their dinner guests to leave in order to seek her out and invite her to go for a stroll with him in the moonlit privacy of the gardens, telling himself that maybe he was being given a belated opportunity for a little delicate wooing of his reluctant bride, and that, if so, he would take full advantage of it.
But once all the goodnights had been said, and he’d gone to find her, she had retreated to the sanctuary of her room and the chance had gone—especially as he’d had to return to Rome early the following morning.
But he hadn’t been able to forget that just for an instant she had lowered her guard. That she had seen him—reacted to him as a man. And that when he’d kissed her hand she’d blushed helplessly.
Which suggested that, if there’d been one chink in her armour, surely he might somehow find another …
So, he was not yet ready to admit defeat, he told himself grimly. He would somehow persuade her to agree to erase the past and accept him as her husband. A resolve that had been hardened by his unwanted interview with his grandmother that very morning.
He had arrived to visit his father at the clinic just as she was leaving, and she had pounced instantly, commanding him to accompany her to an empty waiting room, obliging him, teeth gritted, to obey.
‘Your father tells me you are flying to England today in an attempt to be reconciled with that foolish girl,’ she commented acidly, as soon as the door was closed. ‘A total waste of your time, my dear Lorenzo. I told my daughter a dozen times that her idea of a marriage between such an ill-assorted pair was wrong-headed and could only end in disaster. And so it has proved. The child has shown herself totally unworthy of the Santangeli family.
‘My poor Maria would not pay attention to me, sadly, but you must listen now. Cut your losses and have the marriage dissolved immediately. As I have always suggested, find a good Italian wife who knows what is expected of her and who will devote herself to your comfort and convenience.’
‘And naturally, Nonna Teresa, you have a candidate in mind?’ His smile was deceptively charming. ‘Or even more than one, perhaps? I seem to remember being presented to a positive array of young women whenever I was invited to dine with you.’
‘I have given the matter deep thought,’ his grandmother conceded graciously. ‘And I feel that your eventual choice should be Dorotea Marcona. She is the daughter of an old friend, and a sweet, pious girl who will never give you a moment’s uneasiness.’
‘Dorotea?’ Renzo mused. ‘Is she the one who never stops talking, or the one with the squint?’
‘A slight cast in one eye,’ she reproved. ‘Easily corrected by a simple surgical procedure, I understand.’
‘For which I should no doubt be expected to pay—the Marcona family having no money.’ Renzo shook his head. ‘You are the one wasting your time, Nonna Teresa. Marisa is my wife, and I intend that she will remain so.’
‘Hardly a wife,’ his grandmother said tartly. ‘When she lives on the other side of the continent. Your separation threatens to become a public scandal—especially after her mortifying behaviour at the wedding.’ She drew her lips into a thin line. ‘You cannot have forgotten how she humiliated you?’
‘No,’ Renzo said quietly. ‘I—have not forgotten.’
In fact, thanks to Nonna Teresa, he’d found the memory grating on him all over again—not merely on his way to the airport, but throughout the flight, when it had constantly interfered with his attempts to work. So he’d reached London not in the best of moods, when he should have been conciliatory, only to find his wife missing when he reached the flat.
And when she did return, she was not alone, he thought with cold displeasure. Was with someone other than the Langford man whom he’d come prepared to deal with. Someone, in fact, who should have been history where Marisa was concerned.
And to set the seal on his annoyance, his bride had not been in the least disconcerted, nor shown any sign of guilt over being discovered entertaining a former boyfriend.
But then, attack had always been her favourite form of defence, he recalled grimly, as his mind went back to their wedding day.
He’d always regarded what had happened then as the start of his marital troubles, but now he was not so sure, he thought, twisting round on the sofa to give his unoffending pillow a vicious thump. Hadn’t the problems been there from the very beginning? Even on the day when he’d asked Marisa to marry him, and felt the tension emanating from her like a cold hand on his skin, forcing him to realise for the first time just how much forbearance would be required from him in establishing any kind of physical relationship between them.
Nevertheless, the end of the wedding ceremony itself had certainly been the moment that had sounded the death knell of all his good intentions towards his new bride, he thought, his mouth tightening.
He could remember so vividly how she’d looked as she had joined him at the altar of the ancient parish church in Montecalento, almost ethereal in the exquisite drift of white wild silk that had clothed her, and so devastatingly young and lovely that the muscles in his chest had constricted at the sight of her—until he’d seen her pale, strained face, clearly visible under the filmy tulle of her billowing veil. Then that sudden surge of frankly carnal longing had been replaced by compassion, and a renewed determination that he would be patient, give her all the time she needed to accept her new circumstances.
He remembered too how her hand had trembled in his as he’d slid the plain gold wedding band into place, and how there’d been no answering pressure to the tiny comforting squeeze he’d given her fingers.
And how he’d thought at the time, troubled, that it almost seemed as if she was somewhere else—and a long way distant from him.
He’d heard the Bishop give the final blessing, then turned to her, slowly putting the veil back from her face.
She had been looking down, her long lashes curling on her cheeks, her slender body rigid under the fragile delicacy of her gown.
And he’d bent to kiss her quivering mouth, swiftly and very gently, in no more than a token caress, wanting to reassure her by his tender restraint that he would keep his word, that she would have nothing to fear when they were alone together that night.
But before his lips could touch hers Marisa had suddenly looked up at him, her eyes glittering with scorn, and turned her head away so abruptly that his mouth had skidded along her cheekbone to meet with just a mouthful of tulle and few silken strands of perfumed hair.
There had been an audible gasp from the Bishop, and a stir in the mass of the congregation like a wind blowing across barley, telling Renzo quite unequivocally, as he’d straightened, heated colour storming into his face, that his bride’s very public rejection of his first kiss as her husband had been missed by no one present. And that she’d quite deliberately made him look a fool.
After which, of course, he’d had to walk the length of the long aisle, with Marisa’s hand barely resting on his arm, forcing himself to seem smiling and relaxed, when in fact he had been furiously aware of the shocked and astonished glances being aimed at them from some directions—and the avid enjoyment from others.
Tenderness was a thing of the past, he had vowed angrily. His overriding wish was to be alone somewhere with his bride where he could put her across his knee and administer the spanking of her life.
But instead there had been the ordeal of the wedding breakfast, being held in the warm sunlight of the main square so that the whole town could share in the future Marchese’s happiness with his new wife. Where there would be laughter, toasting, and sugared almonds to be handed out, before he and Marisa would be expected to open the dancing.
What would she do then? he had wondered grimly. Push him away? Stamp on his foot? God alone knew.
However,