At Her Latin Lover's Command: The Italian Count's Command / The French Count's Mistress / At the Spanish Duke's Command

‘He’s a very lovable child,’ she said with affection. ‘Open and outgoing.’

‘Unlike you,’ Dante muttered.

She winced. ‘No problem with the language?’ she asked, changing the subject hastily.

‘A friendly smile goes a long way, it seems. And he’s picking up more and more Italian phrases as the days go by.’

A friendly smile. Yes. It broke down barriers. It was something she could put into practice too.

‘Children learn very quickly from their peers,’ she said soberly.

‘And need to be with them,’ he agreed. ‘I had my doubts about putting him in the school when Sonniva suggested it, but she was right. It took his mind off you and he was able to enjoy himself with children of his own age.’

‘I’m glad he’s settled so well,’ she said softly. ‘He’ll have a good life here.’

Her eyes shone. Carlo was happy. She glanced at Dante’s face and saw how strained he looked. The urge to reach out and take his arm, to snuggle into him and cheer him up, was overwhelming. But she didn’t do that kind of thing.

Or hadn’t. Had that been the problem? He’d criticised her for being an ice queen with a harlot’s heart. Told her that he never knew what she was thinking until they were in bed and making love—and even then he’d always wondered if it had been pure bodily gratification on her part.

Her shocked protests had washed over him. He claimed he didn’t know her and, while her reticence had impressed him when she was his secretary, he hadn’t expected it to continue when they were married.

But all her life she’d hidden her feelings—and the cause of them. It had been the only way to survive the hurt when she was eleven and her beloved father had disappeared for ever. And it had stood her in good stead when her mother had screamed at her that it was her fault because having kids meant you couldn’t go out at the drop of a hat with your husband.

Miranda had also hidden the resentment she’d secretly felt within days of her father’s disappearance, when she’d become the prime carer for her little sister so that her mother could have some kind of a life. Miranda thought of the invitations out to parties she had refused and, later, the dates she had turned down. It had been hard, staying at home and watching her mother getting ready to go out on the town instead.

Worse, it had been difficult to cope with the fact that Lizzie had always been the favourite. Miranda had never been loved like the ebullient Lizzie, or allowed the same freedom.

But she knew that resenting your mother and sister, or feeling angry and sorry for yourself, was wrong. Consequently she had told no one of this, determined not to play the victim. And so she had learnt to remain composed and silent, despite the volcanic emotions simmering within her.

Desperate needs…desperate measures. Why not, for once, behave as she wished—as she really felt? In the secret depths of her heart she was spontaneous and loving. Maybe she should abandon the habit of a lifetime and wear that heart on her sleeve. Wryly she looked at her arm. Looked then at Dante’s.

On an impulse, she slid her arm through his and smiled up at him, her breath high in her throat as she waited nervously for his rejection. Instead, he gave her a tight little smile in return and lifted his eyebrow in a query.

‘I wanted to thank you,’ she said in barely concealed delight.

‘For providing you with a luxury lifestyle?’ he asked cynically.

Taking a deep breath and determined not to be rattled, she persevered.

‘No. For being so kind to Lizzie. I managed to speak to her before she left. She was thrilled with your suggestion that you could lend her your car and Luca, to enable her to shop in Milan at your expense.’ Her eyes danced. ‘It was very clever of you, too. I don’t think she even noticed that you’d got her on the evening flight, even though she’d been angling to stay for a week!’

For that, she had a genuine smile from him, Dante’s eyes softening into what seemed like melted chocolate. Her heart beat faster and her pulse rate increased.

‘Carlo told me he was going to paint you a picture today,’ Dante murmured.

‘Oh, really?’ She beamed in delight. ‘I can’t wait!’

‘You mean that!’ He stared at her in surprise.

‘Of course I do.’ She fixed him with an earnest stare, her eyes huge with love for them both. ‘Use your eyes, Dante. Trust your intuition. Would he love me so deeply if I hadn’t loved him? If every small detail of his life wasn’t of the utmost importance to me? I’m thrilled at the thought of having one of his pictures.’ She smiled, encouraged by the softening of Dante’s expression. ‘I hope I can recognise what it is, though!’

To her delight, he gave a warm laugh. ‘After holding his first painting and saying it was a lovely apple—then being told it was a train and it was upside down—I’m very wary of making any detailed comment!’

She giggled, a little wistful that she hadn’t been there to see Carlo’s first picture from nursery school. It was a silly little thing, but to her it was a huge step in her son’s life, like that first word, the first step, and the first pair of shoes.

But Dante had missed those particular moments in his frantic travelling and she couldn’t begrudge him this one. She knew now that he loved Carlo as much as she did.

Their son was the vital link between them—and could, perhaps, bring them together. Whenever either of them talked about him, it was with besotted smiles on their faces. She felt sure that Dante was beginning to realise the part she played in Carlo’s happiness. More importantly, Dante must see now that she loved her child deeply. Maybe soon he’d question the rumours he’d heard about her.

She took a deep breath. Her marriage was worth saving. She’d fight for it with all her might.

Her spirits rose, and as she looked about her with more confidence, she realised they weren’t retracing their steps to the palazzo. Earlier, they had walked with Carlo to the nursery along the improbably named Salita Cappuccini, climbing steep cobbled steps to the top of the hill. Now they were heading down an equally steep set of cobbled steps lined with small boutiques.

‘I’m intrigued. Is this a silent mystery tour?’ she asked with a laugh.

Dante looked a little sheepish. ‘Sorry. I was thinking about something. I was miles away. No, it occurred to me that until we can get your clothes from England, you’ll need one or two things to tide you over. I thought you’d like to do a bit of shopping. And perhaps get your bearings in Bellagio town itself.’

‘That’s very thoughtful!’ she exclaimed gratefully. ‘I was wondering how I could make these clothes last before I was thrown out of Italy for vagrancy.’

His grin flashed and she felt as if she’d drunk heady wine.

‘You would never look a mess,’ he assured her drily.

And then he was greeting acquaintances as they made their way down the hill, drawing her closer as he did so.

Instead of making her happier, this set alarm bells ringing. It dawned on her that his apparent friendliness could be just part of his request that they should keep up appearances. Her joy died.

‘You’ll need some casual clothes and a bathing costume. Perhaps something for the evening,’ he told her. ‘And this is just the place to buy everything.’

Not even noticing how subdued she’d become, he swept her into an elegant boutique and settled himself in an armchair, leaving her to the attentions of a beautiful young female assistant.

Miranda went through the mechanics of choosing stopgap clothes and shoes without much enthusiasm and then began to try on some demure one-piece swimsuits.

She heard him laugh long and hard in a way she hadn’t heard for a long time. Through a gap in the curtain she could see Dante still chuckling over something the young woman had said. The assistant was leaning over him—probably swamping him with perfume, Miranda thought waspishly—and offering him a cappuccino.

Feeling sick with jealousy, she glared at herself in the boring swimsuit. She ought to be bolder. More risqué. Every instinct told her to fight for her man with fair means or foul.

And before she could get cold feet, she grabbed a cotton robe from a hook and tied it around herself. Unnoticed by Dante, who was now surrounded by enthusiastically chattering female assistants, she padded over to the rack of bikinis and grimly selected a turquoise one to take back to the booth.

When she tried it on, she saw that it looked fabulous. Her stomach was very flat but her breasts and hips still held their womanly curves. If he saw this…

No. She dared not. Such behaviour was too outrageous. And yet… This was for her marriage. Desperate measures… For the family she loved.

Taking a deep breath to quell her nerves, she pulled back a tiny part of the curtain so that only her head poked around it.

‘Darling!’ she called as seductively as she dared. The encircling women looked around and he stood up, surprise etched in every line of his face. ‘I’m not sure about this,’ she said with an apologetic smile. ‘I’d like your opinion.’

‘My pleasure. Permesso,’ he murmured to the women and found a way through them.