It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge

‘I’m sorry, darling. I can’t seem to think of much beyond getting away from here.’

As they walked to the door, his arm round her shoulders, she said, ‘By the way, what’s happened to the candlesticks?’

‘Candlesticks?’

She pointed at the fireplace. ‘The lovely silver ones that used to stand right there.’

Simon shrugged indifferently. ‘Aunt Celia probably put them away before she left. They’ll turn up.’

She looked sideways at him. ‘You sound miserable again.’

He looked past her. ‘Scotland’s a long way and two weeks can seem like for ever.’

‘They’ll soon pass,’ she said. ‘Then we’ll be together again. And for always this time.’

As her car moved down the drive she turned to wave, but there was no one there and she realised that Simon had gone back in the house, closing the door behind him.

As if, she thought, he could not bear to see her go. Yet, instead of being pleased, she found suddenly that she was shivering. And wondered why.

So far, so good, thought Emily as the express train ate up the miles between London and Glasgow.

Getting away from the Manor had been altogether easier than she’d expected. Penny had swallowed her ludicrous story about meeting Raf in London and beamed at Emily’s blush, even though it was inspired by guilt rather than anticipation of a blissful marital reunion.

And yet the housekeeper knew that Emily and Raf had never so much as shared a room when he stayed at the Manor.

Unless she thinks he pays me secret visits when the lights are out, Emily thought, grimacing inwardly.

In fact, the only time Raf had ever entered her bedroom at all had been on their wedding night. And that for the briefest possible time.

Her father had died, quite peacefully, only a week after she’d become engaged. And the wedding had taken place just over a month later, a quiet register office ceremony with Leonard Henshaw and his wife as the only witnesses.

Afterwards, they had flown to Italy for what was supposed to be their honeymoon.

‘It is the convention,’ Raf said simply when she tried to protest. ‘And anyway, I would like to show you my home.’ He paused. ‘Is that—agreeable to you?’

She swallowed. ‘Won’t it be very hot in Rome at this time of year?’

‘There is a pool,’ he said. ‘Do you like to swim?’

She had a sudden vision of the pool at High Gables and Simon splashing her, laughing in the sunlight.

She turned away. ‘I used to. Not any more.’ And thought she heard him sigh.

But she had to admit that the house just outside Rome was beautiful, if a little gloomy, with its marble floors and old-fashioned furniture. It was older even than the Manor and larger too, with a labyrinth of passages and rooms, many of them with ornamental ceilings and frescoed walls, and most of them in need of attention.

It also required a considerable staff to run it and, to Emily’s embarrassment, they were all lined up waiting to welcome her in high excitement.

If they only knew, she thought bitterly, that their new Contessa is a total fraud.

And a worried fraud at that, for she seemed to have been assigned the most enormous bedroom, with the largest canopied bed she’d ever seen, and the maids who unpacked for her were exchanging conspiratorial smiles as they arranged her prettiest white nightdress across the embroidered coverlet.

Emily felt her throat tighten in fright. In spite of Raf’s assurances, it seemed obvious that the scene was being set for the ritual deflowering of the latest Di Salis bride.

And her nervousness increased when she discovered that, as well as doors to a dressing room and a large bathroom, there was also direct access to an adjoining and equally imposing room, which bore all the signs of male occupation. And realised that, although this door had an ornate lock, there was no key to go with it.

Dinner was served much later than she was accustomed to and, while the food was delicious, she had little appetite for it and none at all for the wine which accompanied it.

She needed, she thought, to stay very, very sober.

And, even if she wasn’t hungry, to make the meal last as long as possible.

‘You look tired,’ Raf commented, as the cheese course was being cleared.

‘A little,’ she returned cautiously. She was actually dead on her feet but she wasn’t going to admit as much.

‘It has been a long day,’ he said, confirming all her worst fears by adding, ‘I suggest you go to bed.’ He paused. ‘Can you find your way back to your room?’

‘Of course,’ she said too quickly, in case he offered to escort her.

‘If you get lost, call out and eager rescuers will immediately appear.’ He smiled at her. ‘You are an object of fascination for the entire household, you understand.’

‘Yes,’ she returned tautly. ‘I—gathered that.’

Raf was leaning back in his chair, his lean fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass.

‘You looked very lovely today, mia cara,’ he said quietly. ‘Your dress was charming.’

‘It—it wasn’t new. I wore it when Daddy took me to Ascot one time.’ She remembered with a pang how joyously she’d chosen the slender cream silk shift just skimming her knees.

She added stiffly, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘If you had worn it a hundred times, you would have looked no less beautiful.’

The conversation was taking altogether too personal a turn, she decided, and pushed back her chair, pretending to yawn.

‘I think maybe you’re right and I should call it a day.’

He rose too. ‘Then I wish you goodnight.’

She murmured something in reply and went, trying not to hurry too obviously. At least he hadn’t attempted to kiss her, she thought, as she went up the wide sweep of staircase. Nor was he following her.

But she breathed more easily when she reached her room and, having stumblingly dismissed the maid who was waiting to assist her, showered and cleaned her teeth in the palatial bathroom, then put on the nightdress that Penny must have substituted for the satin pyjamas she’d intended to bring and climbed up into that monster of a bed.

It was a very comfortable monster, she discovered, and the linen was scented with rose-water. But she couldn’t relax. She kept watching the communicating door, asking herself what she would do if it opened, and dreading the moment when she might be called on to make a decision.

But, just when she’d resolved it was safe enough to put out the lamp and get some sleep, she heard a faint noise and looked up to see Raf standing there in the open doorway. He was barefoot, his jacket and tie discarded and his shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing the strong column of his throat and the dark smooth skin of his chest.

For what seemed an eternity they stared at each other. Emily sat transfixed, her heart thudding erratically, her mouth suddenly dry, aware that one lacy strap had slipped down from her shoulder, but not daring to adjust it. Just waiting for him to say something—do something.