The Italian Duke's Virgin Mistress (14 page)

Raphael released her, stepping back from her, removing the temptation to ignore her better self.

‘It will take some time for everything to be sorted out—a couple of weeks at least, I imagine—and during that time it will be necessary for you to remain here at the
palazzo.’

‘And where will you be?’ Charley had to ask him.

‘I shall be in Rome. I cannot be here,’ Raphael told her bleakly. ‘Not now. It would be too much—for both of us. Do not look at me like that,’ he warned her. ‘I am doing this for your sake, and one day you will thank me for it.’

Charley shook her head, her vision of him blurred by the tears filling her eyes.

‘No,’ she told him brokenly. ‘I will never do that, and I will never stop loving you.’

He was walking towards the door. She couldn’t let him go.

‘Raphael, please,’ she begged him, running towards him, the sunlight splashing her naked body with golden light.

He had reached the door.

She put her hands on his arms and pleaded, ‘We could be together. I understand now why the garden and its restoration is so important to you. It’s because it is what you will give to posterity, isn’t it? Instead of your children—your son. We could do it together, Raphael; together we could restore and create something of great beauty to give to your people.’

Charley felt the shudder that ripped through his body.

‘Trust a woman to find some ridiculous and fictitious emotional fairytale and insist on substituting it for reason,’ said Raphael, dismissing her statement, but he knew that she had touched a nerve. Her words were like the careful, gentle touch of an archaeologist, brushing away a protective covering to reveal something unbearably fragile beneath it. Only in his case what she had revealed was not some priceless piece of
antiquity but instead his pitiful attempt to find a substitute in his life for all that he could not have—to find a purpose and a meaning that would compensate him for what he had to deny himself.

Charley’s naked body was pressed close to his own, her face turned up to his, her gaze brimming with love and hope. All he had to do was open his arms to her and she would be his for ever. There would be no turning back. He would have her love to sustain him through the darkest of dark nights.

‘A garden lives and breathes, Raphael, it gives love and joy to those who come into it. We could share that. It could be ours…’

The pain was almost too much for him. It reached out to every single part of him, along with the awareness of all that would be lost to him. He had to resist temptation. He had to endure the pain—for Charley. Desperately, Raphael formed a mental image of Charley—not as she was now, but as she would be holding her child in her arms, her whole body alight with the love she felt for it. Her child, but never, ever his.

‘No!’ he told her harshly, reaching for the door handle, forcing her to release him and step back from him.

It was over. There could be no going back.

S
HE
would be leaving Florence in ten days’ time. Everything was arranged. She had her ticket; she would be picked up and driven to the airport—all she had to do was ensure that her paperwork was left in order and her appointments cancelled.

Charley started to pull open the drawer in the desk, to remove the desk diary she kept as an extra backup reminder of the appointments stored electronically, determined to make sure that professionally nothing was overlooked. Her misery overflowed into irritation when the drawer wouldn’t open properly. Kneeling down in front of the desk, she felt inside the drawer, quickly realising that the diary had become wedged against the underside of the desk. Picking up her ruler, she used it to try and prise the diary free, exhaling in impatient relief when she finally succeeded. The force of her probing, though, had sent the diary skidding right to the back of the drawer, with a definite thud of sound, obliging her to pull the drawer further out. Only when she did so, to her dismay,
there was no sign of the diary and the back of the drawer itself was missing.

She had damaged Raphael’s mother’s desk. Horrified, Charley pulled the drawer out completely, and then frowned as she realised how much shorter it was than the full depth of the desk. Very carefully she slid her hand and her arm into the empty space where the drawer had been, feeling her way to the back of the space. It was more or less the same depth as the drawer, and indeed a good ten inches short of the depth of the desk. Curious now, Charley re-examined the space, pressing against the back wall and then exhaling in triumph when it suddenly gave way. It must be a hidden compartment, operated by a spring, and she must have inadvertently touched it when she had pushed her diary free. It was too deep for her to reach inside it, so she had to use her ruler again to edge out her diary and bring it within her reach. Only it wasn’t just the diary she had edged out. There was something else as well: several thick sheets of expensive notepaper, poking out of an envelope that had obviously never been sealed.

Uncertainly Charley turned the envelope over, her heartbeat accelerating as she stared at what was written on it.

To my beloved son, Raphael…

Charley sank down onto the floor, still holding the envelope, her diary forgotten.

This was a letter to Raphael from his mother. It had to be. And she had no right to read it, but her hand was
trembling so much that somehow the letter had begun to slip free of the envelope, the thick sheets sliding into her lap.

Putting down the envelope, Charley quickly picked the paper up.

Impossible now not to be aware of the elegant handwriting, of the date written at the top of the first sheet in dark ink.

The letter was nearly twenty years old, written quite obviously when Raphael had only been a boy. An aching longing filled her, a tender smile for the boy that Raphael must have been curving her mouth.

She looked down at the letter, the words written on it springing up as though demanding that she read them.

My dearest and dearly loved son—and you are that, Raphael, MY son, the son of my heart and my love. I am writing this letter to you in English because it is the language that my English governess taught me, as your father and I have taught it to you, so that we could all speak it together—our special ‘secret’ shared language. Your father is gone now, and my life without him is so empty. One day, when you yourself know true love, you will understand all that this means.

I write this letter now, knowing that it is what your father would want me to do. It is to be given to you when you come of age. We had planned to tell you together, and I fear I shall not have the strength to tell you on my own.

I beg you not to judge me too harshly, Raphael, for being too cowardly, too afraid of losing your love, to tell you the truth myself. The truth, though, must be told—for your own dear sake.

Now you are young, a boy still, but one day you will be a man, and when that time comes there are things that you will need to know.

She mustn’t read any more, Charley told herself. She must fold up the letter and hand it to Anna to send on to Raphael. To continue to read something so obviously private was a gross invasion of the privacy of mother and son. And yet she was filled with a compulsion that she could not resist to read on.

Spreading out the heavy sheets of paper, Charley continued to read.

You know already of the terrible inheritance that has come down to me through my family. I have told you stories of lives ruined and destroyed, of the horror of the cruelty and madness that has surfaced in members of our blood, and part of the reason I have told you this is so that you will understand why your father and I chose to do what we have done.

You are my beloved son, Raphael, the greatest gift life has given me along with the love of your father. From the first moment of your conception, even before I held you in my arms for the first time, I loved you. You are my son, my child, even though the source that gave you life was not me.

I made a vow as a girl that I would not pass on to a child the burden that I had had to carry—the knowledge that whilst I had escaped the taint of our blood, my children, and their children after them might not do so. When your father and I married he knew of this vow I had made and he supported me in it. However, as the years went by I yearned increasingly to hold a child of our love in my arms. That need became a sickness in me for which I believed there could be no cure, until I learned that there was a doctor—not here in Italy but abroad—who had discovered a way to enable women who could not conceive naturally to have a child of their own. Initially your father was against such a thing, but he knew of my desperation, and so in the end he gave way, and we travelled abroad to see this doctor. He warned us that it would not be easy, nor the result guaranteed, but now I had hope—the hope of having a child from the love your father and I shared that would be free of my own blood.

So it was that your life began, with the gift of life from a childhood friend of mine of good family who had fallen on hard times. A woman with children of her own, who understood my need.

Those first early weeks when I knew that I carried you inside my body I hardly dared to believe that you actually were there. I was so afraid that I might lose you, but you yourself gave me strength, Raphael, because you were
there, growing. You had not rejected me or spurned my body; instead you had made yourself part of me. I cannot tell you the joy I felt because you had accepted me as your mother, because you trusted me to protect you and provide for you. With every day that went by my strength grew because of your strength. I was so proud of you, so proud to be carrying you, your father’s child, growing within me. Even before you were born I knew you and loved you.

To me you were mine every bit as much as you would have been had you been conceived from me. When after your birth you were placed in my arms I was joyful—not just because you were the image of your father, or even because I was holding you, but because I knew your life would be free of the shadows of my family past.

Over the years I have told you over and over again about that past, hoping that when the time came for me to tell you what I have written here you would understand and not turn away from me, or accuse me of deceit, no longer thinking of me as your mother. Even if you should do that, Raphael, you will always be my child, my so beloved son, who I carried with such joy and pride and who I have watched grow with equal joy and pride.

Charley lifted her head from the letter, biting her lip in an attempt to stem the tears spilling from her eyes. Every word she had written was filled with Raphael’s
mother’s love for him, and reading the letter Charley had felt her emotion.

Why, though, had she hidden the letter away? There was no signature to it. Perhaps she had put it aside to be finished at a later date, but had not had the opportunity to do so?

How selfless a mother’s love could be. Raphael’s mother’s desire to ensure that her son need not fear her past had come before her own obvious fear that the truth might come between them.

The truth!

Charley sat back on her heels. She was only just beginning to appreciate herself what the letter would mean—not only for Raphael himself, but also for them!

They could be together. Now there was nothing to keep them apart. Now they could love one another, without Raphael feeling that he was denying her anything.

She wanted to jump up and dance around the room. She was filled with energy and impatience. She would drive to Rome, take the letter herself to Raphael, so that she could be there when he read it. She knew that he would not reject his mother, that like her he would know how much and how selflessly she had loved him as her own child.

Her mind was racing ahead, making plans, but then abruptly a new thought struck her.

What if she was taking too much for granted? Raphael was a duke, the holder of an ancient title and estate, a member of a group of people who tended to marry within their own class in order to produce heirs.
Raphael might have seemed to care about her when he had believed that he must never have children, but what if his mother’s revelations changed that? Just as he had put his concern for her future before his own feelings, wasn’t it only right and fair that she should step back a bit now and allow him to come to her freely?

And if he didn’t? If he should turn away from her? Charley shuddered under the misery of the pain that bit deeply into her. She had to do what was right—for Raphael.

An hour later she stood and watched as the courier drove away from the
palazzo,
taking with him the letter she had written to Raphael, enclosing his mother’s letter to him, to be delivered by special delivery, no later than the morning.

She had been open and honest with him in her letter, admitting to reading what his mother had written, telling him how much she loved him and saying she hoped that now they could be together, but telling him as well that she would wait for him to make contact with her, and if he did not then she would leave for England, as arranged, and accept that their relationship was over.

She told herself she was worrying unnecessarily, because Raphael
did
love her. He had told her so himself. He had said, too, how much he wanted her as the mother of his children. It was foolish of her to have any doubts, but it was the right thing to do to wait for him to come to her to confirm his feelings for her.

By this time tomorrow he would be here, and she would be in his arms.

I
T WAS
over, Charley acknowledged bleakly, as the plane taking her home to Manchester began its descent through the grey clouds to the rain-soaked tarmac of the airport. Her throat felt raw from the tears she refused to allow herself to cry. Now, with them threatening again, she had to close her eyes tightly, no doubt making the man sitting next to her think she was a nervous passenger. Charley smiled wryly.

Right up until the last moment she had gone on hoping—right up until the car had arrived for her this morning and she had finally had to accept that Raphael did not want her.

It was ten days now since she had sent him the letters. At first with every new hour she had expected to see him arrive at the
palazzo,
to take her in his arms and tell her how much he loved her.

But when the hours and then the days began to pass, without him making any contact with her at all, her expectation had turned to despair. Unable to eat or sleep, she had watched hollow-eyed, night after night, unable
to sleep, simply staring out through her bedroom window into the darkness, hoping against hope that he would appear.

His silence meant that her pride would not allow her to contact him again—not so much as an e-mail. What was the point when he had made it so very clear that he no longer wanted her?

Soon now she would be home. Home? There was no home for her now. It was hard for her to keep her misery at bay as the plane touched down. Her only true home, the only home she wanted, was within Raphael’s heart, and there was no place there for her. She was an outcast, denied the only place she wanted to be, the only man she wanted to love.

The arrivals hall was busy with people pressing close to the barriers, eager to see the friends and family they were there to welcome. Charley barely spared them a glance. She hadn’t warned her own family to expect her, clinging on right to the last second before her plane took off to the hope that by some miracle Raphael would not allow her to leave.

How foolish she had been—but at least she had her memories. She was past the waiting crowd now and in the arrivals hall proper, thronged with tired travellers intent on making their way to whatever transport they had arranged to get them from the airport to their homes. She would have to take a taxi—expensive, but fortunately the house she shared with her sisters in South Manchester wasn’t very far from the airport.

She could hear the sound of movement behind
her—someone walking fast, someone reaching for her arm. No, not someone, she recognised weakly as she turned round. Not someone at all, but the only one.

‘Raphael…’ As she breathed his name Charley wondered if somehow he was merely a figment of her imagination, an image she had conjured up out of her own need—because how could he be here?

But he was, and he was pulling her into his arms and holding her there, his heart thumping heavily and fast against her.

‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ was all Charley could manage to say.

‘Believe it,’ Raphael responded. ‘Believe it, and believe too that I will not leave your side until you have promised that you will never leave me again.’

‘I thought it was what you wanted,’ Charley tried to protest, but her heart wasn’t in it—it was far too busy racing with joy and disbelief because Raphael was here, with her.

‘You are what I want—all I want—all I will ever want. I can’t go on without you. I thought I could, but I can’t. Will you marry me, Charlotte Wareham? Will you come back to Italy with me and be my wife?’

He looked and sounded so humble, or at least as humble as it was possible for such a naturally proud man to be, that Charley suspected she would have forgiven him anything.

‘There is nothing I want more than for us to be together, Raphael.’

‘We will be married as soon as it can be arranged. I do not intend to risk losing you again.’ He was
holding her hand now, twining his fingers through her own, lacing the two of them together.

‘I have been thinking about this matter of children,’ he told her abruptly. He was looking at a point over her shoulder, and his jaw was tensing, Charley observed, as it did when he was trying to control his emotions.

‘With modern-day medical science it is perfectly possible for us to have a child that will not carry my genes—a child, that will be born of you but will not carry my genes. A child that I will love as my own because it is part of you. That way I shall not be depriving you of motherhood. And, as for myself, if the day should come when it becomes evident that I have inherited my mother’s family’s curse then I shall end our marriage and give you your freedom.’

Charley stared at him in confused bewilderment, unable to say anything as the thoughts rushed around inside her head. Hadn’t he read her letter?

‘Did you get the letter I sent to you in Rome?’ she asked him.

Immediately Raphael frowned.

‘No. I left Rome three days after we parted. I could not work, I could not sleep—I could not do anything but think about you and all that I had lost. I own a small skiing chalet up in the mountains. I went there, intending to force myself to give up all thoughts of you, but instead I came to realise that I could not bear my life without you. I began to think that maybe you were right—that maybe my anger was not a sign of what I had inherited. I wanted to believe that more than you can know, because it was my way back to you. Then I
told myself that we could still have a child—a child that would carry your genes only—and my hopes grew. All I wanted was to be with you, to talk with you and ask you to be my wife, but there was an accident on my way back to Rome.’

‘An accident?’ Anxiety sharpened Charley’s voice. ‘What happened? Are you all right?’

‘It was my own fault. I was driving too fast, concentrating on being with you instead of on my driving. Luckily no damage was done other than to the Ferrari, but the hospital insisted on keeping me overnight in case I had concussion, even though I told them that it was vitally important that I be allowed to leave. Unfortunately I was too late. As I arrived at the airport your plane was taking off.’

‘But you got here before me. How…?’

‘I hired a private plane,’ Raphael told her dismissively.

‘Oh, Raphael.’ Charley blinked back her tears. ‘Are you sure about what you’re saying? About us being together and everything?’

He didn’t flinch.

‘I mean every word I have said to you. I love you more than I ever thought it possible for me to love anyone. You are my life, my heartbeat, every breath in my body. You are everything to me, Charlotte, and without you I am nothing—there is nothing. Say you will marry me. Come home with me. Tell me that you love me.’

‘I do love you, Raphael,’ Charley confirmed, ‘but there is something I have to tell you before we can talk about marriage—something important.’

She could see that he was concerned, even though he tried to conceal it from her.

‘Very well, but we will discuss this oh, so important matter in the comfort of the plane and not here.’

That would mean going back to Italy with him, and if, once he knew the truth about his own birth, he should change his mind about wanting to marry her she would have to leave all over again. But how could she deny him what he was asking after what he had told her?

Unable to trust herself to speak, silently Charley nodded her head.