She said in an undertone to the Principessa, ‘But, Madrina, Silvia and Ernesto haven’t come down yet.’
‘They are not here, mia cara.’ Her godmother conveyed the news almost casually. ‘Silvia felt that she was developing a migraine—so painful, so debilitating—therefore Ernesto took her back to Rome. Such a good and caring husband.
‘But do not concern yourself about your own return,’ she added brightly. ‘Cesare has already said that you will travel with us. At the same time, arrangements can be made to bring your things from your appartamento. Which makes everything so very convenient, don’t you agree?’
No, Ellie didn’t agree, but she knew, through experience, that there was no point in saying so. Not once Prince Damiano had spoken. And since when had Silvia suffered from anything like a migraine?
It’s like trying to find your way out of a maze, she thought bitterly as she made her way to the dining room. Every way you turn, you come up against a blank wall.
But later, when she looked up and found Angelo watching her across the silver and crystal of the polished dining table, his dark gaze frankly speculative, it occurred to her that blank walls might be the very least of her troubles.
As an object lesson in discovering how the other half live, Ellie soon realised, residence at the Palazzo Damiano could hardly be bettered.
She walked on marble floors from one massive, high-ceilinged room to another. She slept on the finest linen sheets, and her delicious food was served on delicate porcelain.
Her little flat would have fitted easily into the bedroom she’d been given alone, quite apart from the small but comfortable sitting room which led to it, and the luxurious bathroom which adjoined it.
And her second-hand Fiat screamed ‘poor relation’ when parked beside the Prince’s limousine and her godmother’s elegant Alfa Romeo on the gravelled sweep in front of the palazzo.
But when all this nonsense is over, she told herself staunchly, unlike so much else, it will be still around and still reliable.
And so, she hoped, would her job, even though her engagement had proved to be a nine day wonder at the office, to her acute embarrassment, while the sidelong looks from certain people had confirmed beyond doubt that rumours of Silvia’s affair with Angelo Manzini had indeed reached the public domain.
In addition, one of the directors had called her in and asked outright at what point prior to her marriage did she plan to resign. Totally taken aback, she had flushed and stammered that she loved her work, and had no intention of abandoning it, and been answered by sceptically raised eyebrows, and the comment that her fidanzato might have very different ideas.
If I have to go on biting my lip each time he’s mentioned, she thought savagely, I shall soon have no mouth left.
Even more galling was having to endure his actual physical presence at the palazzo, where he’d become a regular visitor, dining with them several times a week. And telling herself that his visits were only part of the pretence and that it was Prince
Damiano whom he really came to see made the situation no easier to bear.
He sent her flowers, too. Her sitting room was full of them.
And he kissed her. Mainly on the hand and the cheek admittedly, but sometimes on the lips—invariably when it was impossible for her to take evasive action.
Ellie supposed that nine out of ten women would have asked why on earth she would wish to avoid being kissed by one of the most attractive men in Italy, and found it difficult to explain, even to herself.
After all, she couldn’t say that it was because she knew his kisses were prompted by duty rather than desire, when the last thing she wanted was for Angelo Manzini to desire her. Those brief moments in bed in his arms when she’d suddenly turned into a complete stranger had taught her that. And the memory of them still had the power to dry her mouth and make her tremble in a way that was totally outside her experience.
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