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

Scanning the bustling promenade, she compared the greyness of the city of London and the vibrant colours all around them; the roar of the capital city’s traffic, the dirt and the smell of petrol fumes…and the partially traffic-free Bellagio, where stately ferries ploughed their way across a glittering lake. The hurried, preoccupied Londoners wrapped in their own concerns…and the lively Italians hell-bent on living life to the full and including any passing stranger who caught their attention.

‘I understand why you want Carlo to live here,’ she said soberly. ‘I think it’s perfect for him. You love your house and its setting and I’ve fallen in love with it too. Because of that, I’m sure we can all be happy together in time.’

He looked disbelieving. ‘Happiness? Very unlikely,’ he said with a cynical drawl.

‘Wait and see.’ She felt shaky, as if she were poised on the edge of a precipice. She had to make him believe their marriage could be more than a façade. ‘We must both work to that end.’

There was a long pause. ‘Too much has happened. Too much anger, too many scars that can never heal. But I’ll settle for a harmonious relationship. I’m relieved you’re falling in with my plans.’

‘I’ll do everything I can to let people believe we have a good marriage,’ she said earnestly.

Imperceptibly she moved closer to him and they walked along almost hip to hip. She felt him give a little shudder and knew he felt a physical interest in her. First, she thought, they’d have sex. And then it would gradually turn to a trusting, loving relationship.

She was in seventh heaven. Although she was dazzled by the breathtaking views, charmed by Bellagio and overwhelmed by the pleasure of being close to Dante, she was nevertheless alert enough to realise that the set of his body had changed quite dramatically.

It was as though he had been holding himself back before, as if he, too, had imposed some kind of restraint on himself.

When he pointed out the villages across the lake, he became more animated and flamboyantly Italian. Responding to an inner urge, she put her arm around his waist. When he stiffened, she thought he’d shrug it off. But his muscles relaxed again and he slid his arm around her slender waist, making her heart sing with joy.

As they wandered along, she noticed that they were attracting admiring glances. People smiled at them fondly. One day, she promised herself, this would be for real.

Feeling light-headed, she listened with pleasure to Dante’s enthusiastic descriptions of the sumptuous gardens in the villas open to the public.

‘You really love Bellagio, don’t you?’ she laughed, almost drunk with happiness, when he paused for breath.

He scowled and cleared his throat. ‘Everything about it. There’s so much to show you. The day after tomorrow we’ll take a drive inland…’

He had paused. Like her, he had seen that all eyes seemed to be elsewhere, a murmur of voices buzzing excitedly about something. She looked back over her shoulder and discovered the focus of everyone’s attention.

‘Oh, look, Dante! A bride and groom!’ she exclaimed softly. The bride looked very young, perhaps as old as she’d been when she’d married Dante. Her dress was the purest white and the white roses in her dark, glossy hair gave her a touching fragility. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Miranda breathed dreamily.

‘Beautiful,’ he agreed, his voice sombre.

She frowned, puzzled. ‘Where’s everyone else? The bridesmaids, guests… There’s just the couple and a photographer!’

‘It’s the custom. They’re being photographed in romantic settings.’

He sounded choked. Emotion had claimed her too. The bride looked as if she might burst with love. The fresh-faced groom couldn’t take his eyes off his adoring wife.

That was how it had been for her, Miranda thought, a pain wrenching at her heart. But not for Dante.

With everyone watching fondly, the couple posed at the foot of the cobbled steps then beneath the arcade. She and Dante looked on, each with their own thoughts, as the photographer persuaded the couple into an artistic pose by a stone balustrade, with the lake and mountains in the background.

So loving, she thought as they laughed and giggled their way to the gangplank of the passenger ferry for another shot.

Somehow Dante’s hand had crept into hers. It was poignant, watching the couple. They hadn’t a care in the world. They were starting married life and were confident it would be roses all the way. She felt tears welling up and fought hard to suppress them as she contemplated the ruins of her own marriage.

‘Complimenti,’ Dante murmured as the rapturous lovebirds wandered past them on their way to another venue.

The bride gave him a sweet smile, which became even warmer when she met Miranda’s wistful eyes. Her new husband said something in Italian and Dante’s grip tightened as the couple moved on.

‘What did he say?’ she asked, where once she would have kept silent.

Dante didn’t look at her, but watched the bride and groom running like children to a seat by a large floral display.

‘He returned the compliment,’ he said eventually. ‘He said he imagined we were recalling our own wedding.’

‘I was,’ she admitted shakily.

She remembered with a sigh that she had been in a dream the whole day. Dante’s lovemaking that night had been tender and profoundly passionate.

She also remembered how his face had glowed with an inner radiance. Her heart thudded. Could Guido have been wrong? Had Dante loved her when they got married? She’d truly believed that he did at the time.

Though, she thought with a shiver, his rapturous expression on their wedding day could have been due to something else: imagining himself stepping into Amadeo’s shoes and inheriting a fortune.

‘Lunch,’ he muttered, drawing her to a table overlooking the lake. He seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.

Daringly she blurted out, ‘I wish it was like it used to be between us.’

He winced as though he felt the same pain that shafted through her body.

‘Those days of innocence are gone,’ he growled.

And with that harsh put-down, he picked up the menu and annoyingly disappeared behind it.

But she persevered, risking an outright snub. It was a chance she had to take.

‘You can’t deny that it would be wonderful if we could be truly together,’ she ventured. ‘Easier all round. No pretences,’ she added haltingly.

He lowered the menu sufficiently for her to see his dark, intense eyes.

‘Yes,’ he rasped and dashed her hopes by following that with, ‘but we have to accept that it would be impossible under the circumstances.’

‘Nothing’s impossible—’ she choked out.

‘I think there is something you should understand about Italian men, Miranda,’ he said tightly. ‘Honour is very important to them.’

His mouth twisted but he kept his head down, his eyes lowered to the damask tablecloth. And in a bleak voice he continued, ‘The worst insult you could imagine would be to call a man cornuto. Do you know what that means?’

Glumly she shook her head. But she could guess.

‘It’s a cuckold,’ he said. ‘A man who’s wife has been unfaithful.’ His eyes lifted to hers—hot, burning, indicating the seething emotions he was repressing. ‘It pains me that anyone could call me a cuckold—and the fact that if they did I would have to stay silent, because it’s true. I try to forget it, to put it aside, but it rips me apart to think of you with other men. When I look at you I think of their hands roaming over your body and I can barely contain my anger and shame!’

Hot tears threatened and she beat them back furiously.

‘I did not betray you,’ she insisted. ‘I have always been faithful.’ Taking a deep breath, she decided to seize the moment and added in a low whisper, ‘I have always loved you.’

And she waited for his response, her heart in her mouth. Everything depended on this. Her future happiness, Carlo’s. Please make him believe me, she thought, her hands tightening into fists beneath the table.