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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the words echoing sadly in her mind. How simple—and how fatal.
To Emilia’s obvious concern, she opted to lunch only on soup and a salad. The working girl’s diet, she reminded herself, her mouth twisting.
Elizabeth Bennett’s clashes with Mr Darcy kept her occupied during the afternoon, but as evening approached Laura began to get restive. The skies were dark now, the menacing clouds like slate, and Emilia came bustling in to light the lamps, and also, she saw, with faint alarm, to bring in some branched candlesticks, which were placed strategically round the room, while Guillermo arrived with a basket of logs and proceeded to kindle a fire in the grate.
Laura was grateful for that, because the temperature had dropped quite significantly, and the crackling flames made the room feel cheerful.
But as time passed her worries deepened. Paolo knew she was relying on him to organise their departure, she thought, so surely he must return soon, especially with the deterioration in the weather.
She could see lightning flashes, and hear thunder rumbling round the hills, coming closer all the time. She remembered nervously that, in spite of her brave words at breakfast, she really didn’t like storms at all. And this one looked as if it was going to be serious stuff.
It was raining heavily by now, the water drumming a ceaseless tattoo on the terrace outside. She dared not think what the road from Besavoro would be like, and her feeling of isolation began to prey on her.
Think about something else, she adjured herself as she went off to change for dinner, even though it seemed as if she’d be eating alone. Don’t contemplate Alessio driving back from Perugia in the Jeep, because he almost certainly won’t be. He has every excuse now, always supposing he needed one, to stay the night there.
She put on the silver dress and stood for a moment, regarding herself with disfavour. Her wardrobe had been woefully inadequate for the purpose from day one, she thought. And it was only thanks to Emilia’s efficient laundry service that she’d managed to survive.
As for this dress—well, she wouldn’t care if she never saw it again.
By the time she got back to the salotto, the storm was even closer, and the lamps, she saw, were flickering ominously with every lightning flash.
And then, above the noise of the storm, she heard the distant sound of a vehicle, and a moment later Guillermo’s voice raised in greeting.
Paolo, she thought with relief. At last. They’d made it.
She was halfway to the doors when they opened and she halted, her heart bumping, a shocked hand going to her throat.
She said hoarsely, ‘I—I thought you were in Perugia.’
‘I was,’ Alessio said. He advanced into the room, rain glistening on his hair, shrugging off the trench coat he was wearing and throwing it carelessly across the back of a chair. ‘But I did not think it was right for you to be alone here in these conditions, so I came back.’ He gave her a mocking smile. ‘You are allowed to be grateful.’
‘I’m used to weather,’ she returned, lifting her chin. ‘In England we have loads of it.’ She hesitated. ‘I thought—I hoped Paolo had come back.’
He said lightly, ‘I fear I have a disappointment for you. The servants took a call from my aunt two hours ago. In view of the weather, they have decided to remain at Trasimeno for the night. Or that is the story. So—you and I are alone, bella mia.’
And as he spoke all the lights went off. Laura cried out, and in a stride Alessio was beside her, taking her hands in his, drawing her towards him.
‘Scared of the dark, carissima?’ he asked softly.
‘Not usually,’ she said shakily. And far more scared of you, signore, she whispered under her breath. ‘It’s just—everything happening at once,’ she added on a little gasp, tinglingly conscious of his proximity.
Don’t let him know that it matters, she ordered herself sternly. For heaven’s sake, act normally. And say something with no personal connotations, if that’s possible.
She cleared her throat. ‘Does the power always go off when there’s a storm?’
‘More often than I could wish. We have a generator for backup at such times, but I prefer to keep it in reserve for real emergencies.’ He paused. ‘But Emilia does not like to cook with electricity, so at least dinner is safe.’
He let her go almost casually, and walked over to the fireplace, leaving Laura to breathe freely again. He took down a taper from the wide stone shelf above the hearth and lit it at the fire.
As he moved round the room each candle burst into light like a delicate golden blossom, and in spite of her misgivings Laura was charmed into an involuntary sigh of delight.
‘You see.’ He tossed the remains of the taper into the wide grate and smiled at her. ‘Firelight and candle glow. Better, I think, than electricity.’
Not, she thought, aware that she was trembling inside, in these particular circumstances.
She steadied her voice. ‘And certainly more in keeping with the age of the villa.’
Alessio inclined his head courteously. ‘As you say.’ He paused. ‘May I get you a drink?’
‘Just some mineral water, please.’ Keep sane—keep sober.
His brows rose slightly, but he said nothing, bringing her exactly what she’d asked for and pouring a whisky for himself.
Laura sat on the edge of the sofa, gripping the crystal tumbler in one hand and nervously rearranging the folds of her skirt with the other.
Alessio added some more wood to the fire and straightened, dusting his hands. He sent her a considering look under his lashes, noting the tension in every line of her, and realising that he needed to ease the situation a little.
He said quietly, ‘Laura, will you make me a promise?’
She looked up, startled, and instantly wary. ‘I don’t know. It—it would depend on what it was.’
‘Nothing too difficult. I wish you to swear that when you are back in London you will go swimming at least once a week. You lack only confidence.’
‘I suppose I could manage that,’ she said slowly. ‘There are some swimming baths quite near where I live.’
‘Then there is no problem.’ He added casually, ‘Get Paolo to go with you.’
‘Maybe,’ she said, her mouth curving in such unexpected mischief that his heart missed a beat. ‘If his health improves.’
He grinned back, shrugging. ‘You can always hope, caris-sima.’
It had worked to some extent, he thought. She was no longer clinging to her glass as if it were a lifeline. But that strange intangible barrier that she’d built between them was still there.
Her reticence frankly bewildered him. He had once been forced to listen to Paolo’s drunken boasting about his London conquests, and restraint had never featured as one of the qualities his cousin most favoured in a woman.
So what was he doing with this girl? His Laura, with her level smoky gaze and proud mouth? On her side, he supposed she might have been beguiled initially by Paolo’s surface charm, but that must have been seriously eroded by the spoilt-child act of the past week.
And there was another factor that had been gnawing at him too. When he’d gone to post her cards that morning in Besavoro, he’d quickly noted down the names and addresses of the recipients, deciding they might prove useful for future reference. So who was the man Carl that she’d written to at Harman Grace, and what was their connection?
Could this whole trip with Paolo be simply a ploy to make her real lover jealous—provoke him into commitment, maybe? Was this what she was hiding behind that veil of cool containment?
No,