Wife in the Shadows (7 page)

Which was where, she thought resolutely, she wished it to remain.

I must be one of nature’s spinsters, she told herself, and derived no great comfort from this prosaic reflection.

She had not bargained either for being introduced to his relations. His Aunt Dorotea had been one of their earliest callers, a formidable matron who had given Ellie a searching look from head to toe then given an abrupt nod as if expressing satisfaction. Though what all that was about defeated Ellie entirely.

On a more positive note, Signora Luccino had brought her daughter Tullia with her, a girl with a sweet, merry face, married to a lawyer the previous year, and Ellie thought with regret that, under different circumstances, they might have been friends.

The Contessa Cosima, too, was a frequent visitor, alarming Ellie with a gentle flow of chat about churches and wedding dresses. That, she thought, was carrying pretence too far, and wished she had the nerve to say so.

In fact clothing had become an issue altogether. Her
wardrobe might be basic, she thought defensively, but it was perfectly adequate—a view that her godmother clearly did not share. The large
guardaroba
in her room was beginning to fill up with skirts, pants and tops in linen and silk, and a growing selection of evening wear in clear jewel colours and floating fabrics. And each outfit seemed to have its own shoes and bag in softest leather.

As if, she thought, scowling, it was not the done thing for Count Manzini to see her wearing the same thing twice.

She had tried to protest more than once that she was not a clothes horse, but the Principessa had waved these contentions away, smiling. It was her pleasure to see her dear Elena looking so lovely—and so happy too, she added brightly as Ellie’s jaw dropped.

But there was no visit from Silvia. At first Ellie had thought that her cousin was quite understandably steering clear of her, only to be told by the Principessa that Ernesto, presumably in his role as good and caring husband, had taken Silvia for a little vacation on Corfu where his family had a house.

The days at the
palazzo
became weeks, and as they approached a month Ellie wondered how much longer the negotiations between Galantana and Credito Europa could possibly drag on, and when the deal would finally be done.

Because until that happened, she couldn’t calculate how soon she’d be able to escape from this gilded cage, no matter how luxurious and loving it might be, and begin to reclaim her own life again.

More than anything, as the city heat increased, she missed the Casa Bianca and the breezes that blew from the sea, but her suggestion that she should spend some of her weekends there had been kindly but firmly declined. While her supposed engagement endured, it seemed she was going nowhere.

Surely it can’t last much longer, she told herself each night with increasing desperation as she lay in bed staring up at the painted ceiling where gods and goddesses cavorted with unfeeling cheerfulness at some woodland banquet.

Worst of all, she’d noticed that one of the gods—probably

Mars—was black haired and dark eyed, his lean muscular body hardly concealed by the lion-skin thrown across one shoulder, and bearing a disturbing resemblance to Angelo Manzini. Or was that simply her over-active imagination?

Whatever, it wasn’t an image she wished to find invading her bedroom all over again, but found to her acute annoyance that it still lingered in her mind, even when she turned over and buried her face in the pillow. Rendering her still more tongue-tied when she encountered the Count in the flesh, as it were, although he was always elegantly covered in some designer suit or other.

Another potent suggestion that the quicker she got out of there and back to sanity, the better it would be for her.

And each night she breathed the silent prayer. ‘Oh please—please—let it be soon.’

Angelo stepped out into the heat of the Roman morning, as the automatic glass doors of the Credito Europa Bank whispered shut behind him. His face was calm as he walked to his car, taking his seat in the back with a murmured acknowledgement to the driver holding the door open for him, but this outward appearance was deceptive.

Because, underneath, he was blazingly, wickedly angry.

‘Does Your Excellency wish to return to the office?’ Mario asked with faint bewilderment as the silence lengthened.

Angelo pulled his thoughts away from the meeting he’d just attended, and met the chauffeur’s enquiring gaze in the driving mirror. He said curtly, ‘No, take me to my apartment.’

If Mario found this a strange request in the middle of a working day, it was not his place to argue. He dropped his employer at the main entrance, was told he would not be required again, then watched with a puzzled frown as Angelo strode inside.

The apartment was cool and silent, Salvatore as usual doing his marketing at that time of day. Which was good because Angelo wanted to be alone.

He walked into the
salotto,
impatiently stripping off his
jacket and tie, and tossing them over a chair. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, tore open the neck of his shirt, then poured himself a large Scotch, swallowed it, and poured another, even larger. He’d come home with the intention of getting blind, roaring drunk and wasting no time about it.

The news—no, the ultimatum—that he’d just received at the bank called for nothing less.

He could still hardly believe it. He thought he’d dealt with the trap that had been set for him at Largossa. Believed that simply going through the motions of courting the girl who’d been used in the snare—this Elena, Silvia’s cousin and so much unlike his former mistress that she might have come from a different planet—would be enough to get him what he wanted, and he could then walk away. And that she would be equally grateful to see the back of him.

Dio mio,
he thought. He’d almost felt sorry for her, recognising the reluctance of her co-operation. But no longer.

He walked to the sofa, flinging himself back against the cushions, taking another mouthful of Scotch, eyes narrowed, mouth compressed as he stared into space.

Now, too late, he recalled someone telling him when he was younger that Cesare Damiano had been nicknamed the Crocodile in banking circles.

Today the Prince had more than lived up to his name.

‘My wife cares deeply for her god-daughter, Count, and is naturally concerned for the immense harm to her reputation if there were—consequences resulting from your liaison with her.’

He had sat on the other side of his polished desk, hands together, fingertips forming a kind of steeple, his expression grave as he studied the younger man. ‘I am sure you understand me.’

And I, thought Angelo bitterly, fool that I am, I never saw it coming. Never understood that another trap had been set and was waiting for me. And while, if I’d used an atom of commonsense, I might have avoided the first, there is nothing I can do about the second.

Holy Madonna, I couldn’t tell him there’d be no consequences as I’d simply been tricked into the wrong bed, or I’d have found myself lying on the pavement outside, thrown there by his security staff. And the consequences of that would be truly horrendous.

Therefore if I want his money, I have to bite on the bullet by accepting the eternally damned terms he spelled out to me with such care, and somehow persuade the little Signorina Milk and Water to become my wife. With the assurance that, once the knot is tied, the finance will become immediately available.

He punched the arm of the sofa with his clenched fist.

Dear God, what a prospect, he thought despairingly. To have to marry a girl who looks at me as if she’d come across a snake sleeping in the sunshine. Who shrinks from my lightest touch and answers me in monosyllables from surely the coldest mouth in Rome.

But I know quite well it’s not the Prince pulling the strings. That I have his charming wife, plus my own grandmother, and, of course, Zia Dorotea to thank for this current horror. All they needed was the opportunity I was stupid enough to give them, and my fate was sealed.

I must have been insane to think that an engagement would be enough to satisfy them, he told himself. And perhaps I should have asked myself too if their chosen candidate for the post of my wife was really only the scapegoat she appeared to be.

And, for a brooding moment, found himself remembering a slim body warm against his and soft lips that had briefly trembled beneath his kiss. Very briefly, he thought, because the next moment, she had scratched him like a tigress.

Restively, he finished the whisky in his glass and set it aside. Well if there was no other way to secure the promised loan, and they all wished to transform Elena Blake into the Contessa Manzini, he would oblige them.

But, he decided with icy resolution, she would have the title and the status—nothing more, because she was the last woman
in the world he would have chosen for himself, and he had no intention of making her his wife in any real sense.

In fact, he told himself harshly, he would continue to seek his pleasures where he found them, though with rather more discretion in future, and he hoped they would all—the girl Elena included—be satisfied with the result of their machinations.

And as he had the phone number of an enchanting creature he’d met at a reception the previous week, instead of drinking himself into oblivion, he would call her right now and see if she was free for lunch, and whatever else the afternoon might suggest.

Starting, he thought with sudden grimness, as he meant to go on.

At first she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Didn’t want to believe it, yet found herself listening numbly to what Madrina was saying so gently but with such total finality.

At last, she said, her voice shaking, ‘I didn’t even want to be engaged. You know that. But—marriage—to him! I couldn’t—not possibly. And he—he doesn’t wish it either. I know it.’

The Principessa patted her hand. ‘But after what happened between you, the Count has to make reparation. Surely, you understand this.’

She sounded like the voice of sweet reason, Ellie thought, aghast.

‘Your engagement must now be followed by a wedding,’ her godmother went on. ‘Quite apart from other considerations, our families bear two ancient names, and his own sense of honour as well as ours demands it. Besides it is high time he was married.’

She added with a note of reproof, ‘You cannot have forgotten, dearest child, the exact circumstances under which you were discovered.’

‘No,’ Ellie said bitterly. ‘Or the reason for it.’

The Principessa pursed her lips warningly. ‘Put whatever you imagine out of your mind, Elena. It is of no use to dwell on something that cannot be altered.’ She paused, then went
on more briskly. ‘Do not forget that Angelo Manzini is one of Rome’s most eligible bachelors, and many young women would be glad to take your place at his side.’

Ellie wanted to say ‘And they’d be welcome to him,’ but something in the set of Madrina’s mouth warned her against it.

Although that did not mean she was going to meekly submit to this new and frankly terrifying plan for her future. Far from it.

All this family honour stuff is like something left over from the Renaissance, she thought, seething. But I’m not a Damiano, and I have no intention of becoming a Manzini. My name is Blake and I make my own decisions.

So, I wouldn’t have his glamorous Nobility as a husband, even if he came gold-plated and loaded down with sapphires.

He’s well and truly off the hook, and so, thank God, am I.

O
N HIS ARRIVAL
at the
palazzo
the following day, Angelo was informed by the butler that the Signorina was in the courtyard, and that it would be his honour to conduct the Count to her side.

So the purpose of his visit was clearly no secret, he thought grimly, as he followed in Massimo’s stately wake, aware that his elegant silk tie seemed to be on the point of strangling him, and realising that, probably for the first time in his adult life, he was nervous about a meeting with a girl.

Although, of course, it was not just any meeting, as he swiftly reminded himself. So much—too much—depended on his ability to persuade her to his way of thinking, his personal reluctance notwithstanding.

The courtyard, at the rear of the
palazzo
was only small but pleasantly shaded by a lemon tree. The ideal setting, he supposed cynically, for such an encounter.

Elena, he saw, was sitting on the broad stone rim of the goldfish pond, her head bent, trailing her fingers through the water.

When Massimo announced him, she got to her feet in one hasty, almost clumsy movement, and Angelo realised that his own tensions at the coming interview were shared, if not exceeded.

At the same time, he saw that she was even paler than usual, her eyes shadowed and her lips pressed together as if to stop them trembling. She was more than tense, he thought with a
jolt of shock. She was actually scared, and suddenly the wave of simmering resentment that had carried him here ebbed a little under the need to reassure her.

To explain, as well as he could, that the union being proposed between them would not include any of the usual physical obligations of being his wife. In fact, few constraints at all, if he could only make her believe him. And that she would spend their time together in all the comfort she could wish.

He walked slowly towards her, halting at what he hoped was a safe distance, unwilling to intimidate her further.

He said quietly,
‘Buona sera,
Elena.
Come sta?’
He paused, and when she made no reply, continued, ‘I think you have been told why I am here.’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was husky, her hands curling into fists in the folds of her very ordinary navy skirt. The plain white shirt she wore with it demonstrated she had not thought it necessary to adorn herself for the occasion, he thought sardonically.

She went on quickly, ‘And I need you to know that I—can’t. That what you ask is—quite impossible.’

‘But you do not yet know what I want.’ He kept his voice gentle. ‘And that is what I wish to discuss with you now—alone and privately. An arrangement between the two of us that no-one else will hear of. Are you willing at least to listen to me?’

‘There’s no point.’ She shook her head. ‘I—I have to stop it now while I still can. They may have made you ask me, but they can’t force me to say “yes” in return. Not in this day and age. It would be—barbaric. Even Prince Damiano would have to accept that.’

He said drily, ‘I think,
mia bella,
that you overestimate the Prince’s degree of tolerance. He expects us to be married.
Ecco,
a wedding ceremony will take place.’ ‘No,’ Ellie said. ‘It can’t. I—I won’t.’ ‘There is another man in your life perhaps?’ ‘No,’ she said raggedly. ‘But that’s not the point.’ Sighing, Angelo walked over to her and sat down on the pond’s stone surround, indicating with a brief gesture that she
should join him. She obeyed mutinously, maintaining a more than decorous distance between them, making him suppress a flicker of irritation.

He said, ‘Neither your wishes nor mine are the only consideration here, Elena. That is the real point, as I believed I had made clear to you.

‘I have already committed myself to serious expenditure on my company’s behalf on the basis of the financial package agreed in principle with Credito Europa. But unless you now become my wife, the package will be withdrawn and my dealings with the bank, which are already public knowledge, will be cancelled altogether with potentially disastrous results.

‘Please understand that I have no intention of allowing such a thing to happen. Galantana provides a living for too many people in these difficult times, and I will not jeopardise my company’s current success or the future of my workforce and suppliers while I have the power to avoid such a catastrophe.’

He looked at her, his mouth twisting wryly. ‘You clearly do not want me as a husband.
Bene.
Let me be equally frank and say that I do not desire you as a wife.

‘I suggest therefore that we regard our marriage as nothing more than a business deal—a temporary inconvenience that can be speedily concluded once Galantana’s expansion has been paid for.

‘As we shall be sharing no more than a roof, a discreet annulment can be arranged, and you will receive a generous settlement in return for your co-operation.’ He smiled at her coaxingly, willing her to soften. ‘So—what do you say?’

Stormy colour warmed her face. ‘That it’s the most flagrantly immoral idea I’ve ever heard, and you must be mad to think I’d ever agree.’

Angelo stayed silent for a moment, irritation warring with disappointment within him. She might be quiet, he thought, but she was certainly not biddable. He would have to be more direct in his approach.

‘I think madness will be waiting for us if you refuse.’ He allowed a grim note to enter his voice. ‘If the deal with Credito

Europa fails, I shall have no reason to hide the truth about that night at Largossa. I shall tell Prince Damiano about the trick your cousin Silvia played on us both, and why, and point out that there is no reason for our engagement to each other to continue. I believe you can imagine what might follow.’

He bent and picked up a pebble from the ground, then dropped it into the water.

Ellie stared down as the ripples began to spread slowly but surely, becoming wider all the time.

It did not need any great exercise of the imagination, she thought bitterly. The consequences of Silvia’s reckless behaviour had always been there, like shadows on the edge of a room. A very public divorce from Ernesto would probably be the least of it. The shadows would touch them all.

She said, ‘This is like—blackmail.’

‘Call it rather a matter of expediency.’ His voice was level. ‘If there is no marriage between us, the Barzados would no longer be silent, but rush to add their own embellishments to the existing gossip. Do you truly wish to be the centre of stories of midnight orgies at the Largossa estate, Elena? Be responsible for the damage to the Damiano reputation?’

‘No.’ She almost choked on the word.
‘Certo che no.
Of course not.’

He shrugged. ‘Then it can all be quite simply avoided. There will be a wedding ceremony and, after it, life will go on much as it does now, except that you will live at my house at Vostranto.’

He ignored her faint gasp and continued, ‘It is quite large enough to accommodate us both without awkwardness. In any case, I intend to remain at my apartment in Rome during the week, so you will have little more of my company than you endure at present.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Perhaps less. And your nights you may spend alone with my goodwill. Let that be clearly understood.’ He shrugged again. ‘Then after an interval—a year, two years perhaps—we can set about dissolving the marriage, and you will be rich and free.’

As she hesitated, he added quietly, ‘Elena, I beg you to
think how much we both and others have to lose if you persist in rejecting me.’ He paused. ‘Believe me, if there was another choice to be made, I would take it.’

For a long moment, dizzy with uncertainty, she stared down at the flagstones at her feet, imagining them cracking apart, herself falling through the gap helplessly into some abyss.

In a voice she barely recognised, she said, ‘You promise—you give me your word that you’ll leave me alone. That you won’t …’ She broke off in embarrassment, not knowing what to say.

‘I guarantee you will have nothing to fear from me.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I think our previous encounter was enough for us both.’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was small, stifled, as she tried hard not to think about those brief shocked and shocking moments, and the greater nightmare that had so swiftly followed. That still enveloped her in spite of his assurances.

And yet …

I do not desire you as a wife.

Words that were, perhaps not quite as comforting as they should have been. That—if she was totally honest—stung a little in their indication that she had somehow fallen short of a standard that was none of her making. That she had not even known was required of her.

‘So may I tell the Prince that you have consented to be my bride?’

She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes enormous in her pale face. ‘If there is no other way, then I suppose—yes.’

His brows lifted mockingly. ‘You are graciousness itself.’

‘If you wanted a more generous reply,’ she said, ‘you should have asked a more willing lady.’

‘On the contrary, Elena,’ he said softly. ‘I think you will suit my purpose very well.’

He reached for her hand and made to raise it to his lips, but Ellie snatched it back, flushing.

‘Perhaps you’d restrict your overtures to those times when we have an audience to convince, Count.’

There was a pause, then he said courteously, ‘Just as you wish,
signorina.’

But Ellie knew that in that moment’s silence she’d detected anger, like a flare of distant lightning, and even though she wrote it off as a typical male reaction to a dent in his machismo, she found the discovery oddly disturbing just the same.

They were married two weeks later at a very quiet ceremony held in the
palazzo
‘s private chapel.

Ellie refused outright, despite all persuasions, to wear a conventional white gown and veil, and chose instead a silken slip of a dress, high-necked and long-sleeved in a pretty shade of smoky blue.

Signora Luccino looked at it askance, but her brows lifted in open disapproval when she heard that the pressure of work currently being experienced by the bridegroom had caused the postponement of the tradition
luna di miele.
Indefinitely.

‘You astonish me, my dear Angelo,’ she said majestically. ‘I would have thought your new bride should take precedence over any matter of business.’

Angelo gave her a cool smile. ‘You concern yourself without necessity, Zia Dorotea. Vostranto will provide us with all the peace and seclusion we could ever wish. Is it not so,
carissima?’
he added, turning to the new bride in question, who was silently praying for the entire farce to be over and done with, and as soon as possible.

The one bright spot in a hideous day, she reflected, had been the absence of Silvia, who was, it seemed, accompanying Ernesto to a conference in Basle.

But even that was small comfort as she stood before the ornate gilded altar listening to herself say the words that, in the eyes of the world, gave her to Angelo Manzini.

Now she could only blush vividly and murmur something incoherent that might have been assent to his question. Her awkwardness, however, did her no disservice either with Signora Luccino or any of the other guests. Indeed, her obvious shyness
at the prospect of being alone with her glamorous husband was seen as charming.

Yet in an odd way Vostranto had become the least of Ellie’s concerns about her unwanted marriage. The first time Angelo had taken her there, she’d sat beside him in the car, staring at the back of the driver’s head, taut and unhappy as if she was on her way to jail.

The house itself was a surprise, an impressive pile of pale golden stone against the folded greenery of the foothills. It was roofed in green terracotta tiles and two massive wings reached out from the central building like arms outstretched in welcome, enclosing a gravelled courtyard where a fountain played in front of the lavishly carved doors of the main entrance.

Ellie stepped out of the car, and stood for a moment, relishing the warmth of the sun after the air-conditioning of the limousine, and watching the sparkle of the drops as a marble Neptune, his head thrown back in smiling triumph, endlessly poured water from an urn shaped like a shell.

To her own astonishment, she found her inner tensions begin to dissipate a little, even if the idea of the house welcoming her was clearly a figment of her imagination, and allowed herself to be escorted inside with more composure than she’d anticipated.

The entrance hall seemed vast and directly ahead of her a wide staircase made from the same marble as the floor led up to a broad half-landing carpeted in crimson, where it divided with two shorter flights of stairs leading up to twin galleries on either side.

‘Your rooms will be in the West Wing,’ Angelo informed her almost casually, nodding in that direction. ‘Mine, in the East.’ His smile was brief and did not convey much amusement. ‘I hope that will provide enough distance between us to put your mind at rest.’

It occurred to Ellie suddenly—almost bleakly—that even if he’d said he’d be sleeping in the adjoining room to hers, there would still be a space like the Sahara Desert between them.

And had to catch at herself with faint bewilderment—because that was a good thing. Wasn’t it?

Aloud, she said woodenly, ‘You are very considerate.’

‘I cannot take the credit.’ He shrugged. ‘The arrangement is a tradition.’

A pretty chilly tradition too, like all that insistence on family honour, Ellie decided silently as she followed him to the
salotto.
And could surely be dispensed with in this day and age. Although not on her account, naturally, she added hastily.

But one day, when they were free of each other, he would no doubt marry again, this time to a girl who would persuade him to rethink the sleeping arrangements because she wanted him close to her all night and every night.

And once more felt something she did not totally understand stir in the pit of her stomach.

The
salotto
was long and low-ceilinged, with a fireplace even bigger than the one at Largossa, suggesting how cosy the room could become in the depths of winter. But for now, the French windows at the far end stood temptingly ajar, inviting the occupants to step out on to the sunlit terrace beyond, and drink in the green lawns and flower beds she could only glimpse.