An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance (11 page)
Read An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance Online
Authors: Romy Sommer
She
smiled at him, a smile tinged with sadness. “You would, but you shouldn’t. You
should be loved just as you are.” Just as she deserved to be.
“And
I don’t love you.”
“Love
will come with time. If we have a high regard for each other, the rest will
follow.”
“I’m
sorry, Christopher. You’re a good man, and I know you care for me, but I need
more. I will only marry for love.”
He stiffened,
the light in his eyes fading. She hated to be the one to put that hurt look
there. She tried another tack. Perhaps she could turn her rejection to good
account. “Besides, I couldn’t do that to Frances.”
For
a moment, her words did not register, then his expression changed.
“Frances?”
The way he said her name, softly, with hope, gave him away. How had she not
seen it? How had she not known that for Christopher she would always have been
a consolation prize?
“I
know she’s not who your family would choose for you, but this is a new world we
live in, a world where anything is possible. If you want it enough.” She smiled
as she echoed Stefano’s words.
Christopher
took her hand between both of his. “Thank you, Izzy. I hope when you fall in
love, the man will know how lucky he is.”
She
refused to acknowledge the sharp stab of pain in the vicinity of her heart.
“Let’s go in to dinner.”
The
painting was unlike anything she’d done before. It was bolder, splashed with
vivid colour, and its style owed a great deal to the frescoes in the di Cilento
chapel. It was also the best work she’d ever done. She didn’t need to be told;
she felt it. With every brush stroke a little more emotion appeared on the
canvas.
Desire.
Love. Fear.
On
the canvas, Positano was nothing more than a silhouette against a vibrant sky.
Dark storm clouds gathered on the horizon, the storm clouds of her impending
return to London, the future over which she had no control.
The
stormy greys leaked into the glorious golds and reds of the Mediterranean
sunset; vibrant, full of colour, energy and passion. The future she wanted for
herself.
Now
it was done, completed in a feverish spurt of energy that had kept her going
for days, and filled her restless nights.
Isobel
set down her paint brush and perched on the edge of the stone balustrade, in
the same place she’d sat that night when Stefano had come to her, not as a
simple fisherman, but as the Conte di Cilento, the night when she’d made the
decision to give herself to him.
She
had poured all her emotions onto the canvas, and all she was left with was a
feeling of peace. She would face her future, and she would decide her own fate,
whether it be claustrophobia or ruin or joy.
Closing
her eyes, she lifted her face to the sun. After she returned to England, would
the Mediterranean sun ever again heat her skin?
She
would miss this place. The rich scents of earth and sea, the wildness of the
briny breeze, the song of the cicadas. And more than anything, Stefano, and the
person he had shown her she could be.
She
had no regrets. These weeks in Italy had moulded her into a new person, a
person she was proud to be, and there was no going back.
She
lifted the painting from the easel and wrapped it in oil cloth, setting it
aside. She would pack her paints away into her largest trunk after breakfast.
There was still one more thing she needed to do before she could leave.
Morning
light filtered through the trees, as it had the first time she’d been here. It
was calm and quiet in the glade, as though she were alone on earth. Her
footsteps echoed as she crossed the loggia and reached for the key hanging on
the rusted nail against the wall. In spite of its age, the key turned smoothly
in the lock, and she swung the door open.
The
di Cilento chapel was even more breathtaking than she remembered. The vivid
colours of the ceiling drew her gaze upwards. She stood for a long moment
within the path of slanting light falling through the doors, overwhelmed with
reverence.
She
crossed the uneven floor of the chapel, down the imaginary aisle between the
spaces where benches would once have been set out for the congregation. When
she reached the altar, bare of all ornamentation but a pair of tall golden
candle-sticks, she knelt on the steps. The tiles were cold and hard beneath her
knees.
Silence
stretched around her, alive with bird song and the rustle of the leaves on the
trees beyond the chapel. She allowed her thoughts to wander, and of course the
first thought, as always these days, was of Stefano.
She
was growing used to the physical pain, the sharp ache that assaulted her each
time she thought of him. Three days had passed since she’d last seen him. Three
desolate days in which every ring of the doorbell, every footstep on the gravel
path outside, set her nerves aflutter. And with each passing moment, the
realisation that he wasn’t coming grew, and a little more of the hope inside
her died.
Now
she was out of time, and this prayer to the Madonna was all that was left of
her hope. She closed her eyes and bent her head. Her prayer was simple.
You
know what is in my heart. You know what I want. Please help me.
A
measured footstep startled her, bringing her to her feet. She spun to face the
doors which she had left standing wide and her heart seized.
Framed
in the doorway, lit by the golden sunlight, stood Stefano.
Even
across the vast space of the chapel, his dangerous smile, full of lazy heat,
sent an ache of longing through her. It took all her willpower not to throw
herself at him.
She
inclined her head towards him in a cool greeting. “Hello Stefano.”
He
stepped inside, slowly closing the space between them. “
Ciao
Bella.”
His
voice was as warm and seductive as it was in her fevered dreams. She had to
remember that this was the man who’d let her walk away, who had not wanted her
enough to call her back or run after her. This time she would be the one to
walk away, with her dignity intact and her head high. “I’m sorry if I’m
trespassing. I was just leaving.”
She
headed towards the doors, determined that he should not see the longing in her
eyes, or sense how quickly she needed to get away from him, before her
new-found calm shattered.
As
she brushed past him, his voice arrested her. “On that first day we met, you
promised that you would tell me when you had worked out what it is you want for
yourself. Do you know yet what you want?”
She
turned to face him, keeping her expression cool, disinterested, even though her
body tingled with his nearness. “I know,” she answered quietly. “But wanting
isn’t enough. It’s dangerous, and selfish.”
“It’s
not selfish to want to be happy.”
Her
emotions bubbled, threatening to shatter the careful calm. “Happiness can be
found in many ways, not only in pleasure and indulgence.”
“And
that’s how you see me? Indulgent?” His voice was sharp as a knife.
She
shook her head. “I know there’s more to you. You care passionately about your
country and your people. I understand that. But for me, this summer has been
nothing more than an indulgence. It was an adventure, but it means nothing.”
“This
meant nothing to you?” For a brief moment she wondered if she’d wounded him.
Then his eyes narrowed, glinting dangerously. “Tell me what you want, Bella.”
Her
voice was low, the words pulled from her. “I want more than you can give,
Stefano.”
She
wouldn’t accept second best with Christopher, and she wasn’t prepared to be
second best with Stefano either. She deserved more. She deserved to be loved
and adored, and she’d settle for nothing less.
She
raised her chin and met Stefano’s eyes. The calm was back, firmly in control.
“I need to go. My ship sails from Naples this afternoon.”
The
hard light in his eyes softened. The mischief was back again, burning her
blood. “Are you not yet brave enough to ask for what you want?” He took a step
closer.
Her
hands fisted at her sides as she fought a sudden burst of anger. What did he
want from her? Why couldn’t he just let her go?
“Why
don’t you tell me what you want from me? One last tumble before the summer
ends?” The bitterness in her voice shocked even her. She breathed in deeply,
reaching for the feeling of peace that had deserted her. “Tell me what
you
want. Tell me what I mean to you.”
She
wished the words unsaid, but it was too late. Her soul lay bare to him. Her
need, her hunger, her love.
“I
want what I always wanted from you.” Another step closer. “You’ve always meant
more to me than a ‘tumble’, Bella. I don’t want you to go. You belong here.
Stay with me.”
“As
what? Your lover, your mistress ...?”
His
sensual lips curved into a smile. “As my wife.”
She
forgot to breathe. Perhaps this was a dream. Like the others she’d dreamed
since she’d last seen him.
He
took another step closer, and now he was so near she had to tilt her head up to
look into his face. He cupped her face in his hands.
Not
a dream. His rough hands on her face were real.
The
warm tears spilling over her cheeks were real. He smiled, and the Mediterranean
sun was nothing to the warmth of his smile and the light in his eyes.
“You
have a soul of fire, and I love you.
Ti amo
, Bella.”
He
bent his head and kissed her, a fierce kiss that demanded her surrender. Her
hands slid beneath his loose cotton shirt, finding the muscle beneath. The
hard, male feel of him undid her. She yielded willingly.
“
That’s
what I wanted,” she said, when he pulled away from her at last. “Those words.”
His
hands slid into her loose hair. “Will you marry me?”
“Of
course I will.” She wrapped her arms around his waist, savouring the thrill of
being again in his arms; the delight of being loved by him. She couldn’t have
dreamed a more perfect moment.
He
laughed softly. “There is only one problem,
cara
.”
She
stiffened in his arms.
“My
desire for you has already led me to places I should not have gone. Now we must
do this right.”
“What
do you mean?”
“I
must first ask for your parents’ permission.”
“But
you’d have to come to England. That’d take ages!”
Stefano
laughed. “I have a berth booked on the same ship to England this afternoon. I
will court you the old-fashioned way, and when we arrive in England I will ask
your parents for your hand in marriage.”
“You
already planned this?” Her heart overflowed. Of course he had. He was not a man
to leave what he wanted to chance.
“But
you’re right that we have one problem.” She pressed against him, enjoying his
body’s instant response.
“I
am descended from the Kings of the Two Sicilies and the Princes of Savoy. Do
you think that perhaps if they know this, your parents will overlook the fact
that I am a foreigner, and that I want to take their daughter away from
England? Will they accept me?”
“I
have learned that anything is possible, if only you want it enough.” She
smiled. “But that’s not what I meant. What exactly does your idea of courting
entail?”
If
he meant not to make love to her again until they were married, she would not
be able to endure. Already, the fire licked through her.
He
slid a hand down her breast, across the nipples that strained against the thin
fabric of her camisole. She arched her back, leaning into his touch. “There’s
one way I can think of to ensure my parents agree to our marriage.”
“Oh?”
“You
will need to take shameless advantage of me. Then they’ll have to let me marry
you.”
He
laughed. Then he kissed her again, and it was the most delicious kiss yet,
possessive, fervent, complete.
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Contemporary romances by
Romy Sommer
Historical novellas by Romy Sommer
Thank you for reading
An Innocent
Abroad
. If you enjoyed this novella, read on for the
opening chapter of prohibition gangster Tom Carlisle’s story in
Prohibited
Passion
.
