At Her Latin Lover's Command: The Italian Count's Command / The French Count's Mistress / At the Spanish Duke's Command. Susan Stephens
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felt that he’d thrust a knife into her heart. Her confession of love, her attempts to penetrate his barrier of hatred and mistrust, had been in vain. He’d made up his mind. They’d be polite strangers for years to come.
She sat silent and stunned and deeply hurt by his intransigence as Dante beckoned for service.
Conscious of the waiter prompting her, she mechanically put in her order, knowing she wouldn’t be able to do more than toy with her food.
Then, averting her head in misery, she pretended to be fascinated by the boats crossing the lake, but all she could see were white blurs in a mist of blue because tears had sprung into her eyes and were clogging up her throat.
It seemed she was no nearer to saving her marriage. Maybe, she thought in a flood of despair, there was no hope, after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE felt battered and bruised. If it hadn’t been for Carlo, she would have gone back to the palazzo and wept in her room till she could weep no more. Then she would have taken the next flight home, to prepare for a lonely and loveless future.
But of course she had to stick this out. And she knew that in two hours they were to collect him for his treat in Maggiore. She had no intention of appearing red-eyed and defeated in front of her son.
Because of that she conquered her urge to sob her heart out and forced herself to reply to Dante’s inconsequential remarks during the meal.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said politely. ‘The strangozzi is excellent.’
Resolutely avoiding his eyes, she jabbed her fork into the noodles and scooped up some of the anchovy and peppers with it.
‘More wine?’ he enquired solicitously. ‘And please smile occasionally.’
Repressing the urge to say ‘what for?’ she managed a strained smile and a nod. As he filled her glass, she muttered,
‘You care very much what people think of us, don’t you?’
He leaned forward as if he were saying something intimate and romantic.
‘You know perfectly well that I don’t want Carlo to become aware that anything’s amiss. And that means other people must be convinced of our unity.’
She heaved a huge sigh. That was all he cared about. Well, she wasn’t going to continue this farce. Dante had to be forced to accept her innocence.
‘I want to talk to you later,’ she muttered. ‘When he’s in bed.’
‘Look at me.’
Her eyes lifted in sullen query. ‘Well? I’m looking.’
‘You can’t sulk. Lovers gaze into one another’s eyes,’ he said huskily.
She winced. ‘We’re married,’ she retorted, trying to hide her anguish.
Dante reached across the table and caught her hand in his. While she rejoiced in the warmth of his grip, she had to steel herself against the urge to leap up and run away from the cruel charade they were playing.
‘It was part of our agreement that you would keep up appearances,’ he reminded her with soft menace. ‘You agreed to this. And confirmed it only moments ago.’ His voice grew husky. ‘You will look at me as if you love me. As if I am the only man in the world for you.’
His fingers began to stroke her palm and she could bear it no longer.
‘Please, Dante! I want to leave!’ she whispered in desperation.
A moment’s pause. Then, ‘Yes. Why not?’
And to her surprise, he flung some notes on the table and drew her to her feet, calling back something to the waiter, who had come running to see what was the matter.
Dante held her hard against him as they walked away. They turned into a narrow side-street and suddenly the noise and bustle became a distant murmur. She was lost in her own misery and had never felt more alone. Pretending they were happily married was harder than she’d ever imagined. And they had months and years of it to come! She ground her teeth.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t refuse my request,’ she muttered tetchily.
Dante’s breath sounded harsh. ‘It wouldn’t surprise anyone to imagine that we’re hurrying off to spend the rest of the day in bed.’
Miranda stiffened and froze. ‘What?’ she choked in horror. ‘You told a waiter—?’
‘No!’ he said impatiently. ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing anything so crass. But he is a man and knows of the whirlwind of passion that can strike at any time and he will put two and two together—’
‘And it matters what a waiter thinks?’ she snapped, stalking on again.
She felt suffocated. Her life wasn’t her own. It was composed of lies and deception.
‘Yes. Because he’ll gossip,’ Dante answered tersely. ‘My arrival in the town has been noted with interest. Yours has been eagerly awaited. Haven’t you noticed everyone staring?’
She was used to that. People always stared when she walked about with Dante—though he’d always asserted they’d been looking at her.
‘I suppose you’re delighted with your morning’s work,’ she grouched, barely able to hold back her temper. ‘The whole of Bellagio will soon know how perfect our marriage is! It’s hateful, having to pretend! I feel I’m deceiving everyone. Your mother, your friends…’
She clenched her teeth to stop a sob from escaping. Oh, Carlo, she thought, if only you knew what I have to do to be with you!
Dante turned her to face him, his eyes glittering with a frightening intensity.
‘What makes you think you have the monopoly on feelings?’ he said tautly. ‘Why do you imagine you’re the only one who is finding this an utter nightmare? That I don’t loathe the deception too? This situation is a million miles from what I really want. But it’s all I’m going to get so I have to put up with it.’
Her mouth clammed shut. His misery affected her strangely. She wanted to make him happy, to see him content. But that would never be, not while they were trapped in this farcical marriage.
‘Oh, hell!’ he groaned. ‘That’s all I need, right at this minute!’
He was glowering darkly at a villa decorated with blue and white streamers and matching rosettes. Bows had been tied in blue and white ribbons on every railing spike of the surrounding fence and banners had been strung across the lane.
She frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘This is where the groom lives,’ he muttered, storming ahead. Only to be confronted with another villa similarly decorated, this time in pink and white. Dante stopped and glared at the offending gaiety. ‘I could do without having weddings thrust down my throat!’ he growled.
In a flash of intuition she jerked out, ‘You wish you had true love, too.’
He winced at the joyful ribbons fluttering in the breeze and looked away.
‘Don’t we all?’
It was her turn to wince. As they walked back to the palazzo in total silence, she felt sadness creep through her, filling every part of her yearning body. He felt trapped. He was young and virile and facing the daunting prospect of marriage to a woman he didn’t love—for the foreseeable future.
She shrank at the thought. Maybe they had both made a mistake in thinking that they must stay together for Carlo’s sake. For Dante, a civilised divorce and shared custody might be a better solution.
Though she would need assurances about her future role if she was ever to agree to such a drastic step. And she didn’t know how she would cope when he remarried—as he surely would.
Miranda