In The Count's Bed: The Count's Blackmail Bargain / The French Count's Pregnant Bride / The Italian Count's Baby. Catherine Spencer
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in the sky, and shadows were beginning to creep across the courtyard outside.
She donned a lacy bra and briefs, then sat down to make up her face with rather more care than usual, before giving her glossy fall of russet hair a vigorous brushing and fastening silver hoops in her ears. Finally, she sprayed her skin with the fresh, light scent she used, then slipped into the chosen dress, winding its sash round her slender waist and fastening it in a bow.
She’d brought one pair of flattish evening sandals in a neutral pewter shade—light years away from the glamorous shoes with their dizzyingly high heels that Italy was famous for. But even if she’d possessed such a pair, she wouldn’t have been able to wear them, she conceded regretfully, because that would have made her slightly taller than Paolo, who was sensitive about his height.
Count Ramontella, of course, had no such concerns, she thought. The highest heels in the world would only have raised her to a level with his chin. And God only knew why such a thing had even occurred to her.
It was time she concentrated on Paolo, and the task she’d agreed to perform.
She let herself out of her bedroom, and started down the passage, trying to retrace her earlier steps. She had more time to observe her surroundings now, and she realised that the whole place was a series of courtyards, some completely enclosed, each of them marked by its own fountain, or piece of statuary.
And a good job too, because it’s like a labyrinth, she thought, hesitating, totally at a loss, as the passage she was negotiating crossed another. To her relief, the white-coated manservant who had been at the entrance when they’d arrived appeared from nowhere, and indicated politely that she should follow him.
The room she was shown to was enormous, its focal point a huge stone fireplace surmounted by a coat of arms. It was also empty, and Laura hesitated in the doorway, feeling dwarfed by her surroundings, and a little isolated too.
Obviously, she had left her room much too early. The Italians, she recalled, were apt to dine later than people did in England, but she decided to stay where she was rather than attempt that maze of passages again.
She saw with interest that, in here, some restoration work had been done to the frescoed walls, and wandered round, taking a closer, fascinated look and speculating on their age. There were various hunting scenes, and, more peacefully, an outdoor feast with music and dancing, and the style of dress suggested the sixteenth century.
At the far end of the room, large floor-length windows stood open, leading out to a terrace from which a flight of steps descended, leading down to further gardens below.
Once again, furniture in the salotto had been kept to a mini-mum—a few massive sofas, their dimensions reduced by the proportions of the room, and a long, heavily carved sideboard were the main features. Also, more unusually, a grand piano.
It was open and, intrigued, Laura crossed to it and sat down on the stool, running her fingers gently over the keys, listening to its lovely, mellow sound.
She gave a small sigh. So many sad things had followed her father’s death, and the loss of her own much-loved piano was only one of them.
She tried a quiet chord or two, then, emboldened by the fact that she was still alone, launched herself into a modern lullaby that she had once studied as an exam piece.
Perhaps because it had always been a favourite of hers, she got through it without too much faltering, and sighed again as she played the final plangent notes, lost in her own nostalgic world.
She started violently as the music died to be replaced with the sound of someone clapping. She turned swiftly and apprehensively towards the doorway.
‘Bravo,’ said the Count Ramontella, and walked slowly across the room towards her.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘OH CHRISTMAS,’ Laura muttered under her breath, aware that she was blushing. ‘I’m so sorry, signore. I didn’t realise…’ She swallowed. ‘I had no right—no right at all…’
‘Nonsenso. That was charming.’ He came to lean against the corner of the piano, the dark eyes watching her coolly. He was totally transformed, she thought, having shaved, and combed his hair neatly back from his face. And he was wearing slim-fitting black trousers, which emphasised his long legs, offset by a snowy shirt, open at the throat, and topped by a crimson brocaded waistcoat, which he had chosen to leave unbuttoned.
He looked, Laura thought, swallowing again, casually magnificent.
‘At last my decision to keep it in tune is justified,’ he went on. ‘It has not been played, I believe, since my mother died.’
‘Oh, God, that makes everything worse.’ She shook her head wretchedly. ‘I must apologise again. This was—is—such an unforgivable intrusion.’
‘But I do not agree,’ he said. ‘I think it delightful. Won’t you play something else?’
‘Oh, no.’ She got up hastily, her embarrassment increasing, and was halted, the hem of her dress snagged on the protruding corner of the piano stool. ‘Damn,’ she added, jerking at the fabric, trying to release herself.
‘Sta’ quieto,’ the Count commanded. ‘Keep still, or you will tear it.’ He dropped gracefully to one knee beside her, and deftly set her free.
She looked down at the floor. ‘Thank you.’
‘It is nothing.’ He rose to his feet, glancing around him. ‘What have you done with Paolo?’
‘I—I haven’t seen him since we arrived.’
‘Davvero?’ His brows lifted. ‘I hope he is not neglecting you.’ He sent her a faint smile. ‘If so, you may be glad of the piano to provide you with entertainment.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said quickly. ‘He isn’t neglectful. Not at all.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps his mother wanted to talk to him.’
‘If so, I think her revolting little dog would have told us all.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Tell me, did you enjoy your afternoon tea?’
Her eyes flew to his dark face. ‘You—really arranged that? That was very kind.’
He shrugged. ‘We tend to have the evening meal later than you are used to in England. I did not wish you to faint with hunger.’ He smiled at her pleasantly. ‘You will soon become accustomed to Italian time.’
‘I’ll certainly try,’ she said. ‘But you can’t make many adjustments in two weeks.’
His smile widened slightly. ‘On the contrary, I think a great deal can change very quickly.’ He walked over to the sideboard. ‘May I get you a drink? I intend to have a whisky.’
‘I’m fine—really.’ She wasn’t. Her throat felt as dry as a bone, and had done ever since she’d seen him standing there.
‘There is orange juice,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Have you tried it with campari?’
‘Well—no.’
‘Then do so now.’ He mixed the drink, and brought it to her. Touched his glass to hers. ‘Salute.’
‘Grazie,’ Laura said rather stiffly.
‘Prego.’ This time his smile was a grin. ‘Tell me, signorina, are you always this tense?’
She sipped her drink, liking the way the sweetness of the juice blended with the bitterness of the campari. She said, haltingly, ‘Not always, but this is a difficult situation for me.’ She took a breath. ‘You must be wondering, signore, what I’m doing here.’
‘You came with my cousin,’ he said. ‘It is no secret.’
She took a deep breath. ‘So, you must also know that his mother is not pleased about my presence.’
He