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

Slowly, her bottom lip caught in her teeth, she began to detach herself from him, little by little, before edging stealthily backwards, every nerve-ending attuned to the possibility that he might wake up, and then…

But she wouldn’t consider that. She’d just concentrate on freeing herself. All the same, it seemed an eternity before she could slide out from under the covers altogether and she stifled a gasp as her warm skin encountered the icy air in the room.

Tiptoeing about, trying to avoid any sound, she found her nightdress and pulled it on. It might not be picturesque, and it certainly wasn’t sexy, but it provided a much-needed layer of insulation, she thought, topping it with a quilted gilet for good measure.

Noiselessly, she drew back the curtains and looked out. It had snowed again in the night, she saw without pleasure, and there were still a few flakes whirling past the window from the slate-grey sky.

And small wonder that it was freezing, she thought, testing the radiator with a cautious finger. The heating wasn’t on, which meant there was probably something wrong with the boiler.

She groaned silently. This was all she needed.

She went softly out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Coffee was the priority, she told herself as she filled the kettle and set it to boil. Strong and very hot.

She wandered into the living room, opening the curtains, shaking up the sofa cushions and collecting the glasses from the previous evening.

The kettle should have been boiling by the time she returned to the kitchen, but there was no cheerful sound of seething water or any trace of steam from the spout and it was stone-cold to her cautious touch.

She suddenly remembered Angus’s casual warning about power failures and the way the lights had flickered the night before and said aloud, ‘Oh, no…’

She tried the light switch by the door, again with no result, then returned to the sink and turned on the hot tap, willing there to be at least some hot water left in the tank, but it was like putting her hand into the ice of a mountain stream and she bowed her head defeatedly.

‘You are feeling the cold, carissima?’

The softly spoken words made her turn quickly to see Raf lounging in the archway, his dark face alight with amusement as he studied how she was dressed.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she snapped defensively, observing that, by contrast and in spite of the temperature, he was wearing nothing but a towel knotted loosely round his hips.

His grin widened. He strolled across, sliding both arms round her waist, his lips nuzzling her neck. ‘Then you should have stayed in bed with me,’ he whispered. ‘I find I am in a much better mood this morning.’

‘Then I hope it continues,’ Emily said bitterly, trying to free herself from his clasp. ‘Especially when I tell you we have no electricity.’

‘Davvero?’ He sounded more interested than perturbed. ‘Well, it is not the end of the world.’

‘No?’ She wrenched herself away and stepped backwards. ‘You enjoy being without heat or light, do you? I don’t think so.’

‘We have a fire, candles and a stove to cook on.’ He shrugged. ‘Life goes on.’

‘But there’s no hot water. I can’t even have a bloody bath.’ She raised two clenched fists. ‘Oh, God, why did I ever come to this hellish place?’

‘I think, Emilia mia,’ he drawled, ‘that is a question you should answer for yourself rather than troubling Il Signore.’ He paused. ‘Your father told me once he feared he had over-indulged you. I have often thought since that he was right.’

‘Don’t you dare mention my father,’ she flared. ‘What do you imagine he’d think of you, if he knew you’d broken your word about this marriage?’

‘He asked me to give you time,’ he said. ‘He did not expect me to wait for ever. So he would assume we had reached some accommodation with each other at last and already have begun to look forward to his grandchildren.’ His tone was brusque. ‘Now, let us leave your flights of fancy and be practical.’ He opened a cupboard and extracted several large saucepans, along with a huge preserving pan.

‘If you wish to bathe, you may do so. It will not be luxurious, naturalmente, but it is the best that can be managed.’

Emily’s nose wrinkled doubtfully. ‘You mean we’re going to carry hot water—all the way upstairs—in pans?’

‘No,’ he said wearily. ‘I am going to do it for you, so you will not be inconvenienced in any way, Contessa.’ He took out a much smaller pan. ‘And before you ask, this is to boil water for coffee. I think I may need it.’

She bit her lip. ‘That’s why I came downstairs to—to make coffee…’

‘I think not.’ His smile was swift and ironic. ‘You came down, cara mia, because you realised you had spent the night nestling against me in a way it took all my self-control to resist and you found the discovery an embarrassment.’

He walked past her to the sink and began to fill the preserving pan with water.

‘I suggest you wait upstairs,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘And be sure to put some cold water in the bath first. I would not wish you to be scalded.’

She was scalded already, Emily thought furiously, as she marched out of the kitchen. Burning from head to foot. And not just because he clearly believed she was running scared after last night’s gaffe. The claim that she was some kind of spoiled brat rankled even more, implying that he and her father had calmly discussed her faults and failings before the marriage.

I’m surprised he didn’t ask to see my school reports or examine my teeth, she fumed under her breath as she climbed the stairs, trying not to trip on the trailing nightgown.

And if he has some idea that finding my arm round him in the night meant anything, he can think again—and fast.

But she took his advice about the cold water before retiring to the bedroom and assembling her clothing for the day. As many layers as possible, she thought. Warm tights under her cords and a long-sleeved T-shirt under her thickest sweater. And dismissed the sly inner voice which suggested that she could be wrapping herself against more than the weather.

She had just finished making the bed when Raf appeared in the doorway.

‘Your bath awaits, signora.’ He paused. ‘It reminds me that I must instruct Gaspare to engage a personal maid for you. A girl with muscles.’

‘That,’ said Emily coldly, ‘is entirely unnecessary.’

‘I disagree.’ He gave her nightgown another long look. ‘She will also conduct a complete review of your wardrobe and list what is required.’ He added softly, ‘I shall choose your lingerie myself—and it will not be black.’

He doesn’t forget a thing, Emily thought bitterly. She lifted her chin. ‘Thank you, but my existing clothes are perfectly adequate for my life.’

‘But not for the life you will lead with me,’ he told her with finality.

‘And where am I expected to shop for this new wardrobe?’ she challenged. ‘At Valentina X, maybe?’

There was the faintest of pauses, then Raf said softly, ‘Of course, if that is what you wish. Although I think Signora Colona may cater, perhaps, for more sophisticated tastes.’

He allowed her to assimilate that, then smiled at her. ‘But the choice is entirely yours, cara. Every designer in Italy will welcome the Contessa Di Salis.’

‘How very exciting for me,’ she said. ‘Now, excuse me please, or my bath will be getting cold.’

But of course it wasn’t. In fact the temperature was perfect and, annoyingly, he had even added some of her favourite bath oil.

Swiftly, she shed her nightgown and stepped in, reaching for the soap and rubbing it fiercely into her skin in a vain attempt to conceal the fact that she was smarting already.

Confronting Raf about his mistress had achieved nothing, she thought. He’d remained completely unfazed. Whereas she’d probably sounded young and silly. But not jealous, she prayed, closing her eyes. Oh, please, not jealous. Because it wasn’t true—it wasn’t true at all…

The creak of a board brought her abruptly back to the here and now and the realisation that Raf had walked into the bathroom, carrying another large pan.

‘It’s all right, thank you,’ she said, trying to fold herself into startled invisibility. If she lived to be a hundred, she thought, she would never become accustomed to his casual attitude to nudity—hers or his. ‘The water’s fine as it is.’

‘But not for me, carissima,’ he said silkily. ‘I like the temperature raised a little.’ He poured the contents of the pan carefully into the bath, dropped the towel he was wearing and joined her.