Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage

She could not afford any more such moments of weakness.

‘Come, Paola.’ Guido Bartaldi extended his hand. ‘We should return home and prepare to receive our guests.’

The other girl pouted, but she rose readily enough and went to his side, sliding her arm through his with a casual familiarity that seemed to belie her earlier protests about their relationship.

Perhaps I won’t have to do a thing, after all, Clare thought with an odd pang. Maybe all he needs is to court her properly—gently and romantically—and she’ll forget all that other nonsense and fall into his hand like a piece of ripe fruit.

And that would solve a whole lot of problems, she thought, stifling a little sigh, as polite goodbyes were said and the Marchese and his future bride moved away across the square.

So why did she feel no happier at the prospect?

‘You will need clothes,’ Violetta planned, over more cappuccinos.

‘I think we’ve been here before.’ Clare gave her a despairing look. ‘I have a perfectly adequate wardrobe already.’

‘Not for the Villa Minerva,’ Violetta said firmly.

‘For my position there,’ Clare said steadily. ‘You may be a guest, but I’m simply the hired help.’

‘Why do you speak of yourself in such a way? You are going to be the little Paola’s companion. You will be expected to join in her social life, so—you must dress appropriately.’

‘I don’t go around in rags now,’ Clare said with spirit. ‘And you’ve already paid for an evening dress for me. I don’t need anything else.’

Violetta expelled a sigh of pure exasperation. ‘Dio, how can you be so stubborn—and so blind?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you see what an opportunity this is for you?’

‘It’s just another job, with, hopefully, a decent reference at the end of it,’ Clare said calmly.

‘But in the course of this job you will get to meet many people.’ Violetta made a dramatic gesture that nearly sent her cappuccino flying. ‘It could change your life.’

Clare gave her a level look. ‘The people in question being men?’ she suggested.

‘Well?’ Violetta said defensively. ‘Is it so impossible? You are a beautiful girl. You do not seem to appreciate that.’

‘Perhaps because I know how little it means.’ Clare tried to speak lightly. ‘James used to tell me I was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. But I couldn’t compete with Ginny Parrish trailing her father’s millions past him.’ Her smile was crooked. ‘I suddenly found I was being lovely all by myself.’

‘So that is what happened.’ There was compassion in Violetta’s bright eyes. ‘You never spoke about it before.’

‘I don’t know why I’m talking about it now,’ Clare said a touch wearily. ‘Unless it’s because I’m watching another merger masquerading as marriage, and it tends to revive unhappy memories.’

‘Cara, not all men are like this—James. One day you will meet someone who will value you for yourself. Who will not care how much money you have.’

‘I hope so.’ Clare sighed. ‘But I guarantee I won’t be meeting him at the Villa Minerva. Because that isn’t how it works.’ She paused. ‘Maybe we should be getting back. I need to pack my rags,’ she added, deadpan.

‘Oh, you are an impossible girl,’ Violetta told her crossly.

‘You’re quite tricky yourself,’ Clare countered. ‘What on earth made you accept Guido Bartaldi’s invitation? You never go anywhere in the summer.’

Violetta shrugged. ‘He is not an easy man to refuse—as you have discovered, carissima,’ she said airily. ‘And it means we shall not be separated—which is kind of him.’

‘Oh, he’s a regular Good Samaritan,’ Clare agreed with irony. ‘And, of course, you’ll be meeting—people too.’ She gave a swift gurgle of laughter. ‘Who knows? Maybe your life will be the one to change.’

‘Now you are being ridiculous,’ Violetta said with unwonted coolness. ‘You know quite well that I shall never consider another relationship.’

‘So you’ve always said.’ Clare was taken aback. ‘But surely you can’t rule out the possibility.’

‘I can and I will.’ Violetta was looking positively ruffled. ‘And I find I do not care for this foolish conversation.’ She picked up her bag. ‘If you are ready, let us go. And do not forget,’ she threw over her shoulder, ‘you were the first to change her mind.’

Clare followed her meekly to the car, bewildered by this sudden display of asperity.

It must be the Villa Minerva, she thought. The place has some kind of disruptive, discordant influence on everyone. And tomorrow I’ll be there. So what effect will it have on me?

And she found a sudden warning shiver tingling down her spine.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_469ec06c-61dc-57ff-afd4-b5c60493b80d)

CLARE woke with a sudden start, and lay for a moment, staring towards the shuttered window, wondering what had disturbed her.

On the last occasion that she’d been startled out of sleep it had, of course, been the doing of Guido Bartaldi.

She was almost afraid to turn her head and look round the room, in case she saw the shadow of his tall figure standing in some corner watching her.

Now you’re just being paranoid, she told herself derisively.

Because there was no sound in the room other than birdsong, and nothing to see either, except the slatted pattern of sunlight falling across the floor.

Clare sighed, then took her watch from the night-table and studied it. It was still very early. No one in the house would be stirring yet, and there was no good reason for her to do so either. Except this vague feeling of disquiet assailing her.

And it was also too late for further sleep, she decided, drawing up her knees and resting her chin on them. Although she was still tired after another restless, dream-ridden night.

What is the matter with me? She asked herself angrily. I’ve always been the soundest of sleepers. And, if I had dreams, I didn’t remember them particularly. And I certainly didn’t carry them, like lumber, into the next day.

But here they were, buzzing around her head still, refusing to be dismissed or forgotten.

To her irritation, James had been there, of course, his smile charming her, his voice soft and cajoling as he tried to persuade her that the mere fact of his marriage to someone else did not have to interfere with their own relationship.

And she’d sat, watching him in disbelief as he sketched out the half-life he had planned for her future. Watching him retreating backwards down some long tunnel of her imagination, getting smaller with every step until he’d finally vanished.

The memory of it still had the power to make her shiver.

In reality, of course, they’d had a furious row, and he’d stormed out telling her brutally that she was middle class and small-minded, and that he’d come back when she was prepared to be an adult.

‘Don’t you mean an adulterer?’ she’d yelled after him, anger keeping the tears of hurt and shock at bay.

But in the dream she’d been unable to speak or move. Only feel the pain of betrayal twisting in her like a knife. The horror of knowing that James, whom she loved—whom she’d believed had loved her—was perfectly ready to sacrifice her and everything they’d had together. To relegate her to some corner of his existence while Ginny’s money bought her the status of wife.

‘Of course, I don’t love her like I love you,’ he’d told her over and over again. ‘You know that, darling. But it’s always been understood we’d marry each other. Fixed up by the families years ago. Her father and mine do a lot of business together, you see. I—I can’t afford to pull out. But it needn’t make any difference—to us.’

And she’d replied, as she always had, ‘It makes all the difference in the world, James. Because I can’t afford to stay.’