But Marco, she knew, had not been appeased in the slightest.
On a happier note, she had been touched by the warmth of her reception at the castello. All the staff from Alfredo downwards seemed genuinely pleased by her return as the Signora.
She’d been agreeably surprised to discover that Ninetta had gone, along with her brother, and presumably was now in Rome with the Contessa, so that particular fly had been removed from the ointment.
And it saved me having to fire her, Flora thought grimly.
When she was subjected to some very obvious cossetting, she realised resignedly that the staff had guessed with the speed of light why their young mistress was sometimes unwell in the mornings.
She also discovered that the Signore’s decision to sleep alone was regarded as a sign of his concern for his bride’s fragile health so early in her pregnancy. Not all men, it was hinted, were so kind or considerate at such a delicate time.
Saint Marco, thought Flora, concealing her gritted teeth under a dulcet smile.
But she could hardly complain that he was adhering so strictly to the terms of the deal, after she’d made it abundantly clear that she wanted him nowhere near her, she reminded herself unhappily.
Except that she was lonely. She was surrounded by devoted people, but she realised immediately that the castello was only really alive when Marco came back from Milan at the weekend.
And it was hard to remain aloof—to mirror his cool courtesy—when she longed to run to him and fling herself into his arms on his return.
He had suggested once that she might wish to invite her family to stay with her, but Flora had not taken up the idea. Her mother had reacted badly to news of the wedding, and had refused point-blank to attend. She was still convinced that Marco was connected with the Mafia, and prophesied nothing but doom and disaster. And Flora knew of old that where she led the rest of the family would follow.
The good news, however, was that Hester had holiday left, and was coming to stay in the autumn.
In the meantime, being pampered in the lap of luxury and discreetly coached in the management of a large household by Alfredo and his wife was hardly the worst fate that could have befallen her.
And if she kept repeating that to herself, she might, eventually, come to believe it, she thought, sighing.
Gradually she was noticing her body changing, adapting lushly to its new role, and the eminent gynaecologist that Marco had engaged to look after her expressed complete satisfaction with her progress.
He also mentioned discreetly that now the pregnancy was firmly established the Signora could happily resume marital relations with her husband, and went away thinking sentimentally how charming it was that his latest patient should blush so deeply at such an ordinary suggestion.
The truth was that Flora was fighting a bitter war with herself—her emotions locked in mortal combat with her common sense.
Marco had claimed he’d come to find her because he wanted her, but he had never, even in their most passionately intimate moments, said that he loved her.
And desire, however strong, was such a transient thing, she told herself, troubled. It took far more than that to make a marriage, especially when the female half was on the verge of swelling up like a barrage balloon. That needed the kind of love she would sell her soul for.
And, since she’d arrived at the castello, Marco had never given the slightest hint by word or sign that he’d been tempted to break his self-imposed rules. On the contrary, she acknowledged with a faint sigh.
Which could indicate that only his weekends with her were celibate. That during his working week in Milan he had already found someone else to share his nights.
And that meant that all Flora had to offer him was the tiny human being growing inside her. Once she’d given birth she would be totally surplus to requirements.
The realisation was preying on her mind—driving her crazy.
She should be relaxed and tranquil, as the consultant had told her, and instead she was being torn apart by misery and the kind of jealousy she had never dreamed could exist.
As a consequence, when he was at the castello she heard her voice becoming clipped and cool, knew that her body language was guarded and even hostile.
Because she was already preparing herself for the pain of parting. Armouring herself against a hurt that would be as damaging as it was inevitable.
At the same time she was fighting a real sense of shame that she could feel all this for a man who had taken and used her only to fuel his need for revenge. A man she had tried so hard to hate.
Oh, why couldn’t he have just left her and gone once he’d achieved his purpose? she thought in anguish. Why had he brought her to his home—and allowed her to fall deeply and irrevocably in love with him?
And, once the truth was out, why couldn’t he have left her alone to recover from the trauma of it in peace? Instead, he had condemned her to this half-life, and she wasn’t sure how much she could take.
Her trips back to London were only a passing distraction, too, she’d discovered. Business was good, clients were plentiful, and Jane was running the company with flair. So much so that Flora wasn’t sure she was really needed there either, and knew that sooner or later Jane was going to offer to buy her out.
I’m going to be like a stateless person, she thought.
When Hester came to stay she wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by Andrew, who was tall, brown-haired and humorous, and who looked at Hester so adoringly that Flora felt a lump in her throat. Her wary wise-cracking friend was suddenly transformed into a woman with a dream in her eyes and a smile of pure fulfilment curving her lips.
And Flora hated herself for feeling envious in the face of their obvious joy.
‘The wedding’s going to be in the late spring,’ Hester confided. ‘By which time the baby will be here, and you can wear something glamorous as matron of honour.’
‘It’s a date.’ Flora kept her smile pinned in place, and perhaps Hes noticed, because she gave her a swift hug.
‘How are things?’ she whispered. ‘I must say Marco’s the perfect host.’
‘Everything’s fine,’ Flora returned.
It was while she was waving them goodbye that she was conscious for the first time of a faint fluttering like a tiny bird in her abdomen.
‘Oh.’ She touched herself with a questioning hand.
‘Is something wrong?’ Marco’s tone was sharp.
‘No.’ She marshalled a smile. ‘On the contrary. I think the baby just moved.’
He took a half-step towards her, his hand going out, then stopped, the dark face closing over.
He said quietly, ‘That is—wonderful news. But I hope you will not become too uncomfortable.’
‘No,’ she said, choking back the threatened tears of disappointment. ‘I—I gather that can happen.’ She gave him a brief, meaningless smile, and went back into the castello. By the time she came down to dinner he was already on his way back to Milan.
As her body had swelled she’d been glad to see the end of the intense heat of summer, although she missed her daily gentle swim. Autumn at the castello was cool and rainy, and she walked every day instead.
On one of her forays she found a small terrier dog of indeterminate breed crouching miserably under a tree, and coaxed him to follow her home. He wasn’t received with unmixed joy by the staff.
‘He is a stray, signora. He could