It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge. Julia James
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a small wintry voice in her head reminded her and she flinched, wondering just how much of him she would be made to endure.
Surely he would become irritated with her stubbornness before long and find himself a more responsive lady.
He wouldn’t have to look far, she thought. His name had most recently been linked with that of Valentina Colona, a twenty-seven-year-old former model who’d retired from the catwalk several years before to marry a wealthy industrialist from Milan, three times her age. He was now in failing health and confined to his villa in Tuscany, but his money had helped her start a chain of boutiques called Valentina X and she’d just launched her own perfume brand with the same name.
And for the last six months she’d been coyly referred to in the gossip columns as Raf Di Salis’s ‘constant companion’.
Emily even knew what she looked like—raven hair, a heart-shaped face almost doll-like in its beauty and a stunning body that managed to be lissom and voluptuous at the same time.
And last night Raf dared call me beautiful, she thought stormily. Compared with her, I’m a stick insect.
But what made his current behaviour truly inexplicable was the widely quoted story that Signora Colona would one day become the next Contessa Di Salis.
As if Emily herself did not exist, her marriage to Raf brushed to the sidelines, she’d told herself when she read the newspaper gossip. But she felt strangely stung just the same. Which was why she’d gambled that Raf would accept the offered annulment as a quick way out of his marital dilemma.
Only Raf, as he’d made only too clear last night, had not seen it that way.
Maybe he doesn’t wish to give his future wife any impression that he is less than the master in his own house, she thought, grimacing.
But if he really loves her and wants to marry her one day, why is he here with me? How can he betray her by having sex with someone else, even if it is only his wife?
That’s what I should have asked him, she told herself. After all, I’d stupidly let slip that I knew all about his extra-marital exploits.
But somehow accepting that Raf was an incorrigible womaniser, involved in a string of casual affaires, was easier than recognising him as a man capable of being deeply in love with just one woman.
Yet, in spite of that, he’d come here looking for revenge because she’d made him look a fool. But surely he could have achieved his aim without hurting the woman he loved?
On the other hand, lovers who were married to other people probably had to allow a certain sexual leeway in their relationships—were forced to be realistic about their partners’ marital obligations.
Maybe Valentina Colona was that kind of realist, although she must surely know that Raf’s marriage had only existed on paper until last night.
But maybe she didn’t care—as long as she won in the end.
Emily suddenly felt intensely dispirited and was conscious of the heated bitterness of tears rising in her throat. But she fought them back fiercely as she lifted herself out of the bath and reached for a towel.
Whatever Raf might have threatened, she told herself strongly, he wouldn’t want their marriage to drag on. It would prove far too costly.
Because he needed to concentrate on making yet more millions. At the same time, he couldn’t afford to neglect his mistress either.
Dried and dressed, she combed her hair severely back from her face and plaited it into a braid, trying to ignore the bruised eyes that stared back at her from the mirror.
She’d brought only a few cosmetics with her, just moisturiser, a lipstick and mascara, when what she really needed was a mask to shelter behind.
Because, sooner or later, Raf would wake up and come downstairs in search of her. And it was going to take every scrap of courage she possessed to face him—to start pretending all over again that she didn’t care what he’d done to her. That, somehow, this small cottage and the intimacy it inevitably imposed didn’t matter either. That she would get through the days and find some way to endure the nights without surrendering her integrity.
But how long could she feasibly remain focused? Last night it had taken every scrap of will-power she possessed to ignore her bewildered, starving senses and continue her inimical stance against him. However hard she tried to distract herself, she’d already realised that it was almost impossible to separate herself completely from what he was doing to her.
Especially when he seemed equally determined to arouse her.
Suddenly she found herself wondering—actually imagining how Raf would make love when he was in love. How tender he would be—whether there would be a difference in his kisses—in the touch of his hands. What he might say to his woman when they finally lay together, all passion spent. Whether he would simply hold her close in adoring silence, his lips against her hair?
And stopped herself right there, her mouth dry. Because there was no point in that kind of speculation. On the contrary, she told herself, it was positively dangerous.
She shivered as she turned away from the mirror and went slowly downstairs to begin the first day of her unwanted marriage.
CHAPTER SIX
DOWNSTAIRS, Emily discovered, there was the unexpected lifeline of housework to rescue her from any further risky introspection.
Cleaning a house had never been her sole responsibility before, she thought ruefully as she cleaned the grate and laid the fire before tidying and dusting the living room. She’d always looked after her own room at school and at the Manor, of course, and pitched in to help elsewhere when necessary, but there’d always been the back-up of efficient staff.
And, even after her marriage to Simon, nothing much would have changed. She’d assumed at first that Simon would want to live in London again and that they’d start out in a small flat like other young couples but, to her surprise, this hadn’t been his idea at all.
‘I like working from home,’ he’d told her. ‘And there’s endless room at the Manor to set up a proper office for me.’ He’d smiled at her. ‘And you’d hate to live anywhere else, darling. Admit it.’
‘But don’t you want us to have a home of our own?’ she’d asked, vaguely troubled.
‘But we have,’ he’d said. ‘And it’s beautiful. Besides, what would you do all day in some grotty flat? You’re hardly one of nature’s housewives.’
No, she thought wincing at the memory. He could have been right about that, although she realised now that his wish to live at the Manor had not been prompted by any consideration for her.
But she’d wanted so badly to believe he was in love with her and that, this time, everything would be wonderful. She’d needed to think it. Had clutched at it desperately, as if it was a life-belt and not a straw.
Had never asked herself seriously whether, as her father’s heiress, it was the lifestyle he wanted more than herself. The big house, with its paid staff to do his bidding.
Perhaps I didn’t dare ask too many questions, she thought. In case I didn’t like the answers.
She shook herself out of her depressing reverie. She had work to do and there was no hired help at Braeside Cottage. It was all down to her here and she was determined that, whatever her private failings as a wife, Raf would have nothing to complain of in her domestic abilities.
She looked at her watch. It was nearly midday already, so she would cook the chicken for supper. But, for now, she would make some coffee, she thought, glancing restively towards the stairs. And maybe some toast. However, if Raf wanted some, he could fetch it. Even if he did consider he was on honeymoon, and the thought made her writhe inwardly, there would be no bedside delivery service.
She filled the kettle and was just getting out the mugs, when there was a loud knock at the