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

Signor Mazzini bristled, while Pietro felt his jaw drop and had to hastily recover himself.

‘That is a most damaging allegation, signorina,’ the older man said at last, his voice icy. ‘Your husband has dealt with the trust in an exemplary manner, have no doubt of that. You will be a wealthy young woman.’ Much wealthier than you deserve, the note in his voice suggested.

Emily sighed. ‘I wasn’t serious. I’m perfectly aware that Count Di Salis is one of the stars of the world of finance.’ She added stiltedly, ‘And, naturally, I’m grateful for anything he’s been able to do on my behalf.’

The lawyer spread his hands, almost helplessly. ‘Then, if I may be permitted to ask, why not show your gratitude by acceding to the plan for a divorce?’

Emily pushed her chair back and rose. She walked over to the window and stood looking out. Her slender figure was clad in a cream woollen shirt tucked into close-fitting black cord trousers, with a wide leather belt reducing her waist to a handspan. The rich glow of her hair was drawn back to the nape of her neck and fastened with a black ribbon bow.

She said quietly, ‘Because, when I remarry, I wish the ceremony to be held in our parish church, but the vicar is a strong traditionalist and won’t agree if I’m divorced. I also intend to wear white for the occasion so that my bridegroom will know that he isn’t getting damaged goods.’ She paused. ‘Is that plain enough for your client?’

‘But your present marriage is still a fact, Miss Blake.’ Signor Mazzini’s reminder was brusque. ‘Is it not a little soon to be planning another wedding?’

‘There is no marriage,’ Emily said. ‘Just a business deal nearing the end of its shelf life. And I can hardly be bound by that when considering my—future.’

She turned back. ‘Now may I offer you both some tea?’ Her polite smile did not reach her eyes. ‘I’m afraid the coffee in this house would hardly appeal to you.’

Signor Mazzini rose. ‘I thank you, but no. I think we both need a little space—to consider. Perhaps we may have a further discussion tomorrow, signorina, in the hope you may have decided to—think again. Because, I tell you plainly, His Excellency will not agree to an annulment.’

‘But why not?’ The emerald eyes opened wide. ‘He must want to be rid of me, as much as I want my own freedom. And, anyway, I deserve some reward for three years of dutiful boredom,’ she added, shrugging. ‘I’ve acted as his hostess here and in London when required, and turned a blind eye to his notoriously public private life. A steep learning curve if ever there was one.’ Her tone stung. ‘Now he can oblige me for a change.’

‘In your English history, signorina, you have a custom, I think, of throwing down the gauntlet.’ Signor Mazzini’s tone held a touch of grimness. ‘In this case, such a challenge to His Excellency would not be wise.’

Emily’s laugh held a hard note. ‘Oh, dear, have I insulted Count Rafaele’s machismo? Dented his reputation by suggesting that there’s at least one woman in the known world who doesn’t find him irresistible—and that’s his alleged wife?’ She shrugged. ‘Well, any damage to his male pride is—just unfortunate, because I have no intention of changing my mind. Please make that—ultra-clear to your client.’

She moved to the fireplace, where a log fire was smouldering, and rang the bell beside the mantelpiece.

‘Also suggest to him that we begin proceedings to end the marriage without delay,’ she added crisply. ‘After all, my twenty-first birthday’s in three months’ time and I would really like to be single again by then.’

‘I will convey your wishes to His Excellency,’ Signor Mazzini said with a small stiff bow. Or, at least, a carefully edited version of them, he amended silently as the housekeeper arrived to show them out.

When she was alone, Emily dropped limply into the big leather armchair that stood to the left of the wide hearth. She’d presented a bold front to her visitors and only she knew that her stomach had been churning and her legs trembling under her throughout the interview.

But it was done and she’d taken her first shaky steps towards freedom. And now her visitors would be on their way back to Rome or New York—or wherever Raf happened to be at present—with the bad news.

If that was what it was, she thought defensively. Why should he care about one less notch on his bedpost among so many?

She curled up in the big wing-chair that had once belonged to her father and closed her eyes.

Oh, Dad, she whispered forlornly. You did me no favours at all when you pushed me into this farce of a marriage.

I should never—never have agreed to it, but what else could I do when you were so ill and made me promise?

But at least it’s not a life sentence. Raf’s keeping his word about that.

On the other hand, she reminded herself defensively, he’s doing me no favours either. He only agreed to marry me because he was in debt to my father and this was a way of paying it off.

Because I was certainly the last bride he’d ever have considered in ordinary circumstances.

Not that I cared at the time what he thought or what he wanted. Not when I was so miserable about Simon. When I really thought he’d gone for good.

At the time I felt so lonely and humiliated that if Count Dracula had proposed I’d probably have accepted him.

Not, she told herself, lips tightening, that Raf had any vampire qualities. He was more on the lines of a black panther, roaming the financial jungles to seek his prey. And how he’d ever become involved with her father was one of life’s great mysteries.

Emily had first become aware of him when she was seventeen and had just arrived home from school for the Christmas holidays.

She’d come flying into the house as usual, leaving the chauffeur to follow with her luggage, and gone straight to her father’s study, flinging the door wide with an exuberant, ‘Pops, darling, I’m home,’ only to find herself confronted by a tall young man, someone she’d never seen before, rising politely from his chair at her entrance.

She halted instantly, lips parting in surprise and embarrassment, her astonished gaze registering a confused but vivid impression of black, curling hair, tawny skin and lambent hazel eyes flecked with green and gold that, she realised, were studying her closely in return. And, at the same moment, she saw the firm mouth quirk as if some sudden thought had amused him.

She felt herself bristle instinctively and said quickly, stammering a little, ‘Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were engaged with anyone.’

‘It’s fine, my dear. I’m sure Count di Salis will forgive your unceremonious arrival.’ Her father was smiling as he came round the desk to take her hands and kiss her, but his greeting seemed faintly muted and he didn’t sweep her up into the accustomed bear hug. ‘Isn’t that so, Rafaele?’

‘It was a charming interruption.’ The newcomer’s voice was low and resonant, his English flawless. He stepped forward, taking the hand she had awkwardly proffered. ‘So this is your Emilia, signore.’

His touch was light, but she felt a sudden jolt of awareness, as unexpected as it was unfamiliar. It was like receiving a minor electric shock, she thought, unnerved, and wanted to snatch her fingers from his clasp, at the same time telling him her name was plain ‘Emily’ and not some Italianised version of it which somehow made it personal to him. A notion she found oddly disturbing.

And in the same instant found her hand released, as if the Count had sensed her inner withdrawal and reacted to it instantly.

He said with perfect courtesy, ‘It is my pleasure to meet you, signorina,’ then looked across at Sir Travers Blake. ‘You are a fortunate man, my friend.’

‘I think so too.’ Her father’s hand rested momentarily on her shoulder. ‘Now, run along and get your unpacking sorted, my pet,’ he added quietly. ‘And we’ll join you for tea later.’

Normally, Emily thought, as she looked back, if Dad had been busy when I arrived home, I’d have kicked off my shoes and curled up in this very chair waiting for him to finish. Yet somehow I knew, even then, that I wasn’t going to be allowed to say a proper ‘hello’ and that everything was in the process of changing.

What I didn’t bargain for was the extent of that change.

When she’d reluctantly emerged into the hall again, she’d found Mrs Penistone, the housekeeper, hovering and looking anxious.

‘Oh, Miss Emily, I was supposed to tell you that your father couldn’t be disturbed,’ she said apologetically. ‘I hope he isn’t cross.’

‘He didn’t seem to be.’ Emily swooped on her last remaining bag and started up the stairs. ‘Don’t worry about it, Penny dear. We’re all having tea together later, so I guess I’m forgiven for blundering in. And I’ll apologise again when his visitor has gone.’

‘Oh, but he’s not going,’ Mrs Penistone informed her. ‘He’s staying for Christmas. Your father told me yesterday to prepare the Gold Room for him.’

‘He did?’ The news stopped Emily in her tracks. ‘But he never has guests to stay at Christmas. He’s always said peace on earth should start right here at home. He only gives the Boxing Day party on sufferance to the selected few.’

‘Well, not this year, Miss Emily.’ The older woman pursed her lips. ‘He’s invited everyone in the neighbourhood.’

‘Even the Aubreys from High Gables?’ Emily tried to sound casual. ‘Goodness, he is pushing the boat out.’

He must really want to impress Count Whatsit, she thought as she went into her room. But if that meant Simon Aubrey was coming to their party, then she could almost be grateful to this unexpected intruder.

My gorgeous, wonderful Simon, she whispered silently, and smiled as she began to conjure up his image in her mind. But the picture that presented itself was a very different one. Not Simon’s boyish good looks at all, but an older, darker face that watched her with a faint smile. A face that, while intrinsically and powerfully masculine with its taut lines, high cheekbones and aquiline nose, managed at the same time to be—somehow—beautiful.

And she found herself suddenly remembering her art teacher describing the subject of some Renaissance painting as looking like ‘one of the fallen angels’.