Legacy Of Shame

She was halfway up the stairs, boxes sliding this way and that as she desperately clutched at them with carrier-laden hands, when she met Mrs Potts coming down. A short, comfortably curved woman, her placid nature allowed her to take any crisis in her stride. She had become Venetia’s father’s housekeeper after her mother’s tragic death, and as soon as Venetia had begun to talk she had named her Potty, and it had stuck.

‘Let me help.’ Potty took the teetering layer of boxes and headed back up the stairs, dumping them on Venetia’s crimson satin-covered bed. ‘Been spending another fortune, by the look of it.’

‘You know I can’t resist.’ Venetia disregarded the token grumble in the older woman’s tone. Like Venetia’s father, Potty was a push-over; she had learned to twist them both around her tiny fingers before she’d begun to toddle. ‘Besides, I found the most fantastic dress.’ She opened one of the larger boxes and fished out a slither of black silk. ‘What do you think? Isn’t it just the sexiest thing you ever saw? And isn’t it fortuitous? Just the thing to knock Carlo’s eyes out!’

‘Looks more like a petticoat, if you ask me,’ the housekeeper disapproved. ‘Scarcely decent. And that cousin of yours is far too old and sensible to take any notice of what you wear. So don’t waste your efforts. Now—’ having said her piece, she turned back to the door ‘—how about a nice cup of tea and a slice or two of my chocolate cake? You can have it in the kitchen and tell me what else you’ve wasted your father’s money on while I do the veggies for dinner.’

Just for a moment, Venetia was sorely tempted. No one made chocolate cake like Potty did, and she’d enjoy a good gloat over her varied purchases, and lunch did seem a long time ago... But, ‘No, thanks, Potty. I’ll just get this lot unpacked and take a bath,’ she resisted firmly.

At the moment, her figure could justifiably be described as luscious, but if she didn’t curb her appetite she could end up as just plain fat! She smiled seraphically into Potty’s astonished face and turned to do her unpacking.

If falling in love could give her the will-power to turn down the offer of great wodges of deliciously wicked chocolate cake then love had to be, as many a ballad-maker had proclaimed, a sweet miracle indeed!

But it had its serious side, too, and could frighten her a little if she let it, she admitted as she luxuriated later in a lavishly scented bath. She knew she’d been pampered and petted all her life, but when her father did put his foot down he really meant it, and no amount of wheedling and coaxing on her part would make him change his mind.

Which was why her dates had been limited, her escorts carefully vetted. And, coupled with her expensive education at a girls’ convent school where the nuns’ zealous strictness had meant that even the most inventive and headstrong of the pupils had not been able to step out of line for one moment, Venetia was woefully inexperienced, her sexuality a complete mystery.

Nothing had prepared her for the way Carlo Rossi made her feel, for the way her heart twisted and leapt inside her when she looked at him, performing acrobatic somersaults even when she only thought of him!

And the sweet-sharp melting sensation which was afflicting her entire body right now as she lay in the warm water picturing their next meeting, when she would appear as a sensual woman and not as a pigtailed, over-large schoolgirl, was totally new to her, ragingly exciting and definitely a little frightening.

Not even Simon Carew, her most regular escort, who made his sexual interest in her plainer than most when they were alone together, had come near to rousing these deliciously wicked sensations within her.

Simon, at twenty-five, was sharp as a needle and undeniably attractive in his blond Anglo-Saxon way. Recently promoted to the position of her father’s personal assistant in the family-owned wine, shipping and retail business, he was her usual escort to those parties and first nights her father had no inclination to attend.

Her father trusted Simon completely. He would have forty fits if he knew how often his blue-eyed boy had tried to seduce his precious daughter.

What he didn’t understand was that she could take care of herself, that she’d had no trouble deflecting Simon’s amorous advances. She just wasn’t interested, not even when he’d mentioned marriage, and had told him so. And she certainly wouldn’t dream of telling her father where Simon’s interests lay, because his duties as escort would have ceased at once, leaving her kicking her heels at home while he vetted and checked out some other young man.

She could handle herself, she thought, a complacent smile curling her mouth as she stepped out of the bath in a shower of watery droplets and reached for one of the thick white towels. But complacency vanished on a shudder of exquisite excitement as she recalled the smouldering depths of Carlo’s magnificent eyes. She wouldn’t even try to take care of herself if those deep, dark eyes warmed to passion! If Carlo Rossi attempted to seduce her she would abandon all those moral principles that had been drummed into her head and whole-heartedly do all she could to encourage him!

Dressing for dinner was almost impossible given the state she was in. Her whole body was trembling with liquid excitement, seeming to have no more substance than an ill-set jelly, her fingers all thumbs and her legs mere columns of cotton wool.

Having mangled two pairs of sheer black silk stockings, Venetia pulled her mind together and, instead of concentrating on the amazing sensations she’d been experiencing since setting eyes on the dark Italian, turned over the facts as she knew them.

During the run-up to Carlo’s visit her father had often spoken of the Italian branch of the family, and Venetia, dutifully, had listened, pretending an interest she certainly hadn’t felt. But now the facts were vitally important; everything pertaining to Carlo was suddenly utterly riveting!

Over a hundred years ago the family wine-exporting business had been split, her great-grandfather coming to England to found the import and retail side. Since then, her branch of the family had been anglicised, and, as the retail outlets had proliferated, so had the wine-shipping side of the business.

But the Italian Rossis had prospered too, maintaining a forty-nine-per-cent interest in the British company while expanding and diversifying themselves, acquiring ever more vineyards, both in Italy and France, vast acres of rich farmland around Valencia and luxury hotels in every major city in the world.

Which would make Carlo infinitely wealthier and far more powerful than her own father, she mused. Particularly since, from what she recalled of her father’s conversations, Carlo’s father was ailing, had been for the past few years, leaving Carlo himself practically, if not nominally, in charge of the vast Rossi empire.

Furthermore, Carlo’s visit was an olive-branch, a means of ending the family feud which had existed since her father had been a boy, hinging on a disputed package of shares in the UK side of the business. It would be really dreamy, she decided with an ecstatic wriggle of inner excitement, if she and Carlo, respectively the last of the two branches of the family, were to marry and so begin the foundation of a once-more united dynasty!

And it wasn’t impossible, was it?

Standing back and viewing her reflection in the full-length mirror, she assured herself that it was completely, utterly, gloriously possible!

For this evening she had chosen to leave her silky straight waist-length hair loose, caught back from the sides of her face with gilded combs, and her heavier than usual use of make-up emphasised the creamy skin that never seemed to tan, the thickness of her sweeping dark lashes and the luscious pout of her full mouth.

And the new, outrageously expensive dress was well worth every penny, she thought, noting how the fine black silk clung so lovingly to every ripe curve, the short length of the skirt revealing the elegance of endless black silk-clad legs, the tiny shoe-string straps and scoopy bodice emphasising the wide milky-white shoulders and generously full breasts of a woman who was in full bloom, totally feminine, and proud of it!

Tonight, Carlo Rossi wouldn’t be seeing her as an overgrown teenager—on that she would stake her life!

The unstoppable self-confidence of one to whom everything in life came easily had her practically floating down the staircase on expensively nonsensical shoes which were a mere cat’s-cradle of gold kid wispy straps and impossibly slender high heels, and the bubbly excitement that made her feel as if she were intoxicated on the finest champagne didn’t subside by the merest notch when she found Potty to be the sole occupant of the elegantly yet comfortably furnished drawing-room.

‘Your father’s in the library with his guest and I shouldn’t think they’ll show their faces until dinner. And don’t you think you should cover up with a cardigan or something?’

‘Cardigan?’ Venetia scoffed affectionately. ‘How old-fashioned can you get?’ The housekeeper had been refilling the heavy Georgian sherry decanter, and Venetia helped herself to a glass. ‘Anyway, it’s a beautiful evening. I’m not in the least bit cold.’

‘I’m not worried about the temperature,’ Potty snorted, eyeing the generous dose of sherry Venetia had given herself with the same disapproval she had given the slinky dress. ‘You’re not decent, that’s the long and short of it. What your poor father will think, not to mention your cousin, I shudder to imagine! That—that thing you’re wearing shows everything you’ve got!’

Which was precisely what it was meant to do, Venetia thought with a wicked smile that made her eyes sparkle like clear, pure rain-water as she ignored Potty’s continued grumbles and took herself and her sherry out through the French windows and on to the paved terrace.

The warm evening air was rich with the scent of roses and touched her skin with the softness of a lover’s caress, making her tremble with the renewed onslaught of emotions that were entirely new to her. And the sight of the open French windows to the library, further along the terrace, was too much for her self-control.

Never before would she have dreamed of interrupting her father when he was in a business or private discussion; she had far too much respect for him. But her need to feast her eyes on the superlative masculinity that was Carlo Rossi, to allow him to see her as a mature and desirable woman, was too strong to resist right now.

The height of her heels and the tightness of her skirt made her curvaceous hips sway with unself-conscious sexual provocation as she walked through from the terrace into the book-lined room, a slow smile tilting her lush mouth, her eyes half veiled by thick black lashes as she chided huskily, ‘The evening’s too beautiful to waste indoors. Won’t you let me show you the gardens, Carlo?’

Her eyes met his with taunting challenge, her heart skipping several beats as he rose from the shabby leather chesterfield. He, too, had dressed for dinner, and he looked sensational, the formal black jacket and crisp white linen shirt suiting his dark, predatory looks to perfection. And for one long moment those magnificent black eyes searched hers, alert with tacit questions, then glittered darkly as his hard mouth softened to something that was almost a smile, an answer to her own unspoken challenge.

On the periphery of her vision she saw her father rise from the chair behind his huge leather-topped desk, sensed his disapproval at her unprecedented interruption, perhaps—who knew?—guessing at her reason for it, and dismissed him from her mind, hearing only the silence, sensing only the guarded drift of Carlo’s eyes as they appraised the voluptuous curves beneath the thin black satin.

‘Why not?’ He dipped his sleek dark head, not quickly enough to hide the dent of amusement at the side of his mouth, before turning to her father. ‘Perhaps you will join us, sir? It is, as Venetia says, a beautiful evening.’

Don’t! Venetia pleaded fiercely inside her head. Having her father tag along wasn’t part of her plans!

Then she exhaled the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding as the older man said slowly, ‘No, you two go ahead.’ And then, more briskly, ‘Be sure to show Carlo the water garden, Venny. And don’t forget the time. Potty will be serving dinner in under an hour.’

‘I won’t,’ Venetia assured, the radiance of her smile undimmed by her parent’s faint, puzzled frown as she stepped to Carlo’s side and tucked her hand beneath his arm and led him out on to the terrace.

After the cool, almost cloistered atmopshere of the library, the early evening sun on her naked arms and shoulders brought a sybaritic smile to her glossy lips and her eyes drifted shut for an instant of sensual pleasure, the deep tones of his voice sending a frisson of delight right through her, even though his words were vaguely patronising in content.

‘Wouldn’t you prefer to leave your glass behind? You can drink your sherry later; no one’s going to steal it from you.’

As if she were a child who couldn’t be persuaded to part with a sticky lollipop! But Venetia refused to be put down. Pausing at the top of the steps that led down from the terrace, she gave him her most dazzling smile and told him huskily, ‘You can steal anything of mine, any time you please.’ She placed the rim of the glass to her pouting lips, her pale, translucent eyes smouldering between thickly fringing lashes as she touched the tip of her tongue to the cool crystal. ‘But why don’t we share?’ She took a long swallow of the pale, aromatic liquid then slowly lifted the glass to his strangely unsmiling mouth. And he drained it as if he had no option, as if it were an inescapable ritual, his eyes never leaving the pure, almost imperiously beautiful lines of her face as she watched the controlled ripple of his throat as he drank, her fingertips aching to follow the track of her fascinated gaze.

‘The water garden, then.’ The incisive cut of his voice broke the spell of that strangely ritualistic bonding, as if he were making some violent repudiation. And she shrugged slightly, hating this new sensation of uncertainty, watching from clouded eyes as he set the glass carefully on top of the stone balustrading and descended the steps.

Venetia jerked herself together and followed. But too quickly, one of her ridiculous heels twisting beneath her in her haste.

But what she lost in dignity she gained in the exquisite sanctuary of his arms as he caught and steadied her, holding her warm, soft body against the steel-hard litheness of his, and for a timeless moment she knew what heaven on earth must feel like. She was melting into him, completing him, just as he was making her truly whole. He was her other half, her alter ego, and the recognition made her giddy.

‘You’re hardly dressed for out of doors, I think.’

The steel in his voice was only just covered in silk and he was putting her aside, his hands firm; she recovered her equilibrium enough to tell him lightly, ‘Nonsense. It’s just a stroll. I caught my heel in a crack between the stones. Too silly!’ And she grabbed his arm with a firmness that almost matched his own and set out along the gravelled walkway.