The Impatient Groom

What a fool she was! Vicar’s daughter meets Sex On Legs. She was bound to be overwhelmed! She chuckled.

‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘An Italian prince in head-totoe Armani—’

‘Gianfianco Ferre,’ he corrected her in surprise, as if any fool could have identified the style of his elegant suit.

‘OK, Ferre—how am I to know?’ she said mildly. ‘Anyway, you’re telling me that a prince, and an impoverished vicar’s daughter in hand-me-downs are linked?’ she finished in mock astonishment, her eyes alive with inner laughter.

‘A vicar,’ he mused, his black-lashed gaze taking in every feature of her face. ‘That explains a good deal.’

‘Well, explain it to me!’ she suggested, quickly concealing a small tremor of her lower lip.

Her face was tingling where his breath had whispered across it. It felt as if he’d caressed it with his hand...or his mouth. Her eyes became soft and filmy with the lingering sensation.

Again that dazzling, blinding smile. Again the tightness in her chest.

‘Another time,’ he said with great gentleness. ‘Believe me, our lives are connected. That’s why we are both here. Brace yourself for a shock. It is good news—something life-changing.’

CHAPTER TWO

SOPHIA gulped and sat back in her seat, her mind reeling. She didn’t want her life changed. Not drastically, anyway. A job, a man to love and even one child instead of four would do very nicely.

Rozzano’s grasp on her hands reassured her. She could feel his strength pouring into her body. Searching the two men’s faces, she saw compassion and joy in their expressions. It wouldn’t be anything bad, she decided, or they’d be offering her brandy and sympathy and pushing smelling salts under her nose.

‘I’m braced,’ she said with resignation. ‘So tell me.’

The solicitor gestured for Rozzano to continue. The prince studied her with close attention as if he was reading every line of her face. But his expression remained inscrutable. She realised this was a shrewd man, who saw much and revealed little.

‘Your mother died when you were...?’

‘Two.’ Was this relevant? she wondered. But he seemed to be waiting for her to continue, so she decided to humour him. ‘She was walking in the village with me in my buggy when a lorry got out of control and...’

She drew her brows together sharply, the slaty depths of her eyes reflecting her emotions. Her father had been inconsolable. She remembered his endless sobbing which had filled the house for days, the hushed parishioners who’d cared for her and her own confusion when her father kept holding her too tightly, making her cry too.

‘Poor Father,’ she said gently. ‘He loved her so much.’

There was a silence in the room. She was glad that Rozzano didn’t offer any platitudes or sympathy for people he’d never known.

The warmth of his strong hands seemed to increase. Sophia felt her gaze drawn back to his. ‘Tell me about her.’

‘I don’t remember much,’ she confessed. ‘I just have an overall impression of hugs and kisses and laughter... Oh, she always smelt wonderful; she had these fabulous bottles of perfume—’ She stopped to recover her normal speaking voice.

‘Ah. Perfume.’ Rozzano’s brilliant eyes seemed to be having a hypnotic effect on her.

Sophia drew herself upright, banishing the strange feeling that her body ran with a warm and heavy fluid. Ludicrous. There were definitely bones in there somewhere.

‘There are several photos of her in the house of course,’ she finished abruptly.

‘Would you describe her for me?’ the prince asked softly.

She hoped they’d get to the point soon. Her nerves were shredding with every second.

‘Tall, slender, long, silky raven hair, merry eyes. And very, very beautiful in a kind of delicate, ethereal way,’ she replied, her expression growing wistful.

If only she’d known her mother! She’d lain awake for hours some nights, imagining what it must be like to be one of the other girls in the village, borrowing their mother’s make-up, going on shopping trips to town together, coming home from school to the smell of freshly baked cakes...

‘Sophia?’ prompted the prince. ‘Drifting again?’

She nodded and gave him an apologetic look but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘I was indulging in wishful thinking. She sounded adorable. Father talked about her a lot. It seemed,’ she mused, ‘that he felt she’d needed protecting, that she was fragile and vulnerable. Look, I have a picture of her in my bag.’

Rozzano released her hands and she fumbled for the dog-eared and faded snapshot, which had been lovingly examined a thousand times over the years. He took it, nodded and passed it to Frank.

‘Violetta D’Antiga, without any shadow of doubt.’ Rozzano raised an elegant hand to stop the denial on her lips. ’I’ve seen a painting of her, Sophia. There’s no doubt. D‘Antiga was her name before she married.’ He paused. ‘Your mother originally came from Venice.’

Sophia stared wide-eyed with amazement, her heart thumping as she took this in. So this was the mystery! ‘Truly?’ she asked shakily.

‘Truly,’ came Frank’s confirmation. ‘There’s ample proof I can show you.’

For a while she sat there, trying to absorb the news, persuaded only by the certainty in Frank’s voice. ‘I had...no idea,’ she said weakly.

She stared at the prince, who seemed delighted, and she found herself hesitantly smiling too. Then he rose and went to stand by the window. It was as if he knew she needed time to take in what he’d said.

‘I’m half-Italian,’ she said into the silence.

She heard the clink of cups as the men busied themselves with their coffee. Half-Italian. Images from films and travel programmes came into her head. Sunshine, coffee at little tables in exquisite squares beneath striped awnings, excitable chatter, hands gesticulating theatrically... Rich red wine, loving families and passionate emotions.

Yes. Yes! Slowly several things began to click into place and as she chewed the news over she began to understand what made her tick at last.

It had seemed that her emotions had always been at odds with her loving, but almost Victorian, upbringing. It had been so very hard for her to please her beloved father and not to dance along the street for joy, not to fling her arms around people and touch them so much, not to gesticulate wildly or laugh and sing and shout with glee whenever she felt happy and glad to be alive...

But this exuberance had been part of her nature. A delighted grin widened her generous mouth.

‘Venice!’ she said softly. A deep happiness shone in her eyes and she couldn’t keep the joy from showing in every line of her animated face. ‘Venice!’ she whispered with fervent rapture, thinking of the blue lagoon, the islands, the wonderful medieval city built on water...

‘You’re...pleased?’

Rozzano was leaning casually against the windowsill, but the tautness of his folded arms and the rigidity of his shoulders told a different story. So did the deep throb of his voice. It seemed that her answer was important to him and she found this utterly fascinating.

There was more to come; she knew it. Things they hadn’t told her yet. She soberly masked her nervous excitement, forced her hands to relax and replied quite calmly.

‘I’m thrilled,’ she said in all truth.

‘What do you know about Venice?’

Sophia’s eyes instantly reflected her dreams. There was a book of the city at home with wonderful photographs... She gave a little laugh, realising now why her father had shown it to her with such care.

‘Father stayed there as a young man when he was training for the church and researching St Mark, for his thesis.’ Her face became wreathed in smiles. ‘I suppose that’s where he met Mother!’ she declared sentimentally, imagining the two of them being serenaded in a gondola at midnight, floating silently along the dark canals...

‘Sophia? Come back to us?’