Hot Nights with...the Italian: The Santangeli Marriage / The Italian’s Ruthless Marriage Command / Veretti's Dark Vengeance. Lucy Gordon
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like someone who needed a quiet place to think in the sunshine.’ As she moved away Mrs Morton glanced back over her shoulder. ‘But that, my dear, is entirely your own business.’
And co-exist, we did, Marisa thought, looking back with a pang of gratitude.
It had been late afternoon when she’d finally returned to Villa Santa Caterina, and she had fully expected to be cross-examined about her absence—by Evangelina if no one else, particularly as she’d failed to return to the villa for lunch. But not a word was said.
And no questions had been asked when she’d announced the following day that she was going for another walk, or any of the days that followed, when she’d climbed the hill to the house, passing her hours quietly on Adriana’s bench. She read, and sketched, and tried to make sense of what had happened to her and where it might lead.
Keeping, she realised now, a vigil of her own.
She’d invariably been aware of Mrs Morton’s relaxed presence elsewhere in the garden, and sometimes they had chatted, when the older woman took a break from her endeavours, having kindly but firmly refused Marisa’s diffident offer of help.
Conversation between them had been restricted to general topics, although Marisa had been aware that sometimes her companion watched her in a faintly puzzled way, as if wondering why she should choose to spend so much time alone.
Once, indeed, she’d asked, ‘Do your friends not mind seeing so little of you, my dear?’
‘No, not at all.’ Marisa looked down at her bare hand. ‘We’re not—close.’
And then, in the final week of the honeymoon, all her silent questioning was ended when she woke with stomach cramps and realised there would be no baby.
Realised, too, that she would somehow have to go to Renzo and tell him. And then, on some future occasion, steel herself to have sex with him again.
Both of those being prospects that filled her with dread.
She took some painkillers and spent most of the morning in bed, informing Evangelina that she had a headache, probably through too much sun.
‘Perhaps you would tell the signore,’ she added, hoping that Renzo would read between the lines of the message and guess the truth. That as a result she might be spared the embarrassment of a personal interview with him. But Evangelina looked surprised.
‘He is not here, signora. He has business in Naples and will not return before dinner. Did he not say?’
‘I expect so.’ Marisa kept her tone light. Let’s keep up the pretence, she thought, that this is a normal marriage, where people talk to each other. After all, in a few more days we’ll be leaving. ‘I—probably forgot.’
In a way she was relieved at his absence, but knew that her reprieve was only temporary, and that eventually she would have to confront him with the unwelcome truth.
By which time, she told herself unhappily, she might have thought of something to say.
The business in Naples must have taken longer than Renzo had bargained for, because for the first time Marisa was down to dinner ahead of him. And when he did join her he was clearly preoccupied.
She sat quietly, forcing herself to eat and making no attempt to break the silence between them.
But when the coffee arrived and he rose, quietly excusing himself on the grounds that he had phone calls to make, she knew she couldn’t delay any longer.
She said, ‘Can they wait for a few moments, please? I—I’d like to talk to you.’
‘An unexpected honour.’ His voice was cool, but he stood, waiting.
She flushed. ‘Not really. I—I’m afraid I have—bad news for you. I found out this morning that I’m—not pregnant after all.’ She added stiltedly, ‘I’m—sorry.’
‘Are you?’ His tone was expressionless. ‘Well, that is understandable.’
She wanted to tell him that wasn’t what she meant. That, however it had been conceived, during the weeks of waiting to her own astonishment the baby had somehow become very real to her—and in some strange way precious.
And that this had come home to her most forcefully today, when she’d had to face the fact that his child had never actually existed, and had found herself in the extremity of a different kind of pain.
She said with difficulty, ‘You must be very disappointed.’
His faint smile was as bleak as winter. ‘I think I am beyond disappointment, Marisa. Perhaps we should discuss this—and other matters—in the morning. Now, you must excuse me.’
When he had gone, Marisa sat staring at the candle-flame, sipping her coffee and feeling it turn to bitterness in her throat. Then she pushed the cup away from her, so violently that some of its contents spilled across the white cloth, and went to her bedroom.
She undressed, cleaned her teeth, and put on her nightgown, moving like an automaton. She got into bed and drew the covers around her as if the night was cold. The cramps had subsided long ago, and in their place was a great hollowness.
It’s gone, she thought. My little boy. My little girl. Someone to love, who’d have loved me in return. Who’d have belonged to me.
Except it was only a figment of my imagination. And I’m left with nothing. No one.
Until the next time, if he can ever bring himself to touch me again.
Suddenly all the pent-up hurt and loneliness of her situation overwhelmed her, and she began to cry, softly at first, and then in hard, choking sobs that threatened to tear her apart.
Leaving her, at last, drained and shivering in the total isolation of that enormous bed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AND the following morning she had found that her honeymoon had come to an abrupt end.
Her confrontation with Renzo had taken place, to her discomfort, in the salotto—a room she’d tried to avoid ever since … since that day, and where she’d managed never to be alone with him again.
She had sat. He had stood, his face bleak, almost haggard. The golden eyes sombre.
He’d spoken quietly, but with finality, while she had stared down at her hands, gripped together in her lap.
As they were now, she noticed, while her memory was recreating once again everything he’d said to her.
He had wasted no time getting to the point. ‘I feel strongly, Marisa, that we need to reconsider the whole question of our marriage. I therefore suggest that we leave Villa Santa Caterina either later today or tomorrow, as no useful purpose can be served by our remaining here. Do you agree?’
She hadn’t wholly trusted her voice, so it had seemed safer just to nod.
When he had resumed, his voice had been harder. ‘I also propose that we spend some time apart from each other, in order to examine our future as husband and wife. Clearly things cannot continue as they are. Decisions will need to be made, and some consensus reached.’
He’d paused. ‘You may, of course, take as much time as you need. You need not fear that I shall pressure you in any way. Therefore I am quite willing to stay at my apartment in Rome, and make our home in Tuscany available to you for your sole occupation.’
‘No!’ She had seen his head go back, and realised how vehement her negation had been. ‘I mean—thank you. But under the circumstances that’s impossible. Your father will expect to see us together.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, I would very much prefer to go back to London. If that can be arranged.’
‘London?’ he’d repeated. He had looked at her, his eyes narrowing in faint disbelief. ‘You mean you wish to rejoin your cousin?’