Ellie walked to the bed, and slid under the covers, remembering with a stab of pain how Silvia’s hand had touched them in possession. Had in the past touched him.
She kept her tone cool. ‘I think you have enough memories, signore. I have no wish to add to your tally.’
For a moment, he was very still. When he spoke, his voice was harsh. ‘I shall not ask again. Let it be as you wish.’
He flung off the robe and got into bed beside her, propping himself on an elbow as he looked down at her. He muttered what was undoubtedly an obscenity under his breath, then drew her towards him, under him, his hand stroking the skirts of her nightdress away from her body as he did so, before parting her thighs.
Eyes closed, Ellie experienced the first intimate touch of a man’s fingers. She had quite deliberately made him angry, yet this initial exploration was gentler than she’d expected—or probably deserved—and she felt sudden shame mingled with another emotion, less easy to decipher.
Angelo sighed again, very quietly this time, and his other hand lifted to cup one small pointed breast through its veil of chiffon, his thumb moving softly, rhythmically against the nipple until Ellie pushed it fiercely away.
‘Don’t!’
‘Carissima,’ he whispered urgently. ‘I am not some brute. Must I be denied one caress—or even a kiss?’
Yes, she thought, you must. Because I want to be able to protect myself by hating you, so that I’ll never be tempted to allow you near me in any way or to want more than this.
But she said nothing and, after a brief hesitation, he reached for one of the pillows, and slid it under her hips, raising her towards him. He lifted himself above her, and she felt the velvet hardness of him in stark and powerful arousal between her thighs, and a shiver of apprehension ran through her at what she had invited.
She thought wildly—This can’t happen. It’s not possible. Then Angelo moved unhurriedly and with great precision, taking himself there to the hidden centre of her womanhood and beginning slowly and carefully to enter her, resting his weight on his clenched fists on either side of her body.
She heard his terse whisper warning her to relax.
Yet there was no pain. What disturbed her most was the total strangeness of the sensation—and the way her untried, unbidden flesh seemed so ready, even eager to yield in order to accommodate him and further his total possession of her.
She had not, she thought dazedly, bargained for that particular danger.
Although her eyes were still shut tight, some instinct told her that he was looking down at her, the dark gaze searching her face for signs of discomfort or fear, and she had to fight an almost overwhelming impulse to reassure him in some way. To touch his face, or his hair, maybe even to slide her arms round his neck.
Which, of course, was sheer madness, but, then, nothing that was happening seemed to be real. Except, she thought, for his body, which with one last measured thrust, was now completely sheathed inside hers. His voice saying quietly, ‘Is it well with you, Elena? I need you to tell me.’
And her whispered, ‘Yes.’
In spite of everything, he was trying to be kind, she thought, bewildered, even as some female instinct she’d not known she possessed told her that, if she had let him, he could have been so much more than that.
He began to move inside her, gently at first, then more forcefully, withdrawing a little, then pushing back ever more deeply, awakening new and threatening feelings. Making her realise with alarm she would have to fight her body’s wish to respond to the imperative drive of his loins as their force increased.
That there was an unfamiliar tide rising in her bloodstream, her bones, her skin, nudging at every atom of her consciousness that threatened to overwhelm her, urging her to lift her hips in answer to each warm and silken thrust. To make demands that were all her own.
And then—it was over. She heard his breathing change, quicken. He threw back his head, his voice crying out harshly almost bitterly and she felt a spurt of scalding heat far within her. Then he was still and there was silence.
For a moment or two, Angelo remained where he was, head bent, chest heaving, sweat slicking the bronzed shoulders, then, with the same care he’d shown her when it began, he lifted himself away from her, lying supine at her side, one arm resting across his closed eyes.
Ellie lay still too, her heartbeat going crazy as she attempted to adjust to what had happened. The words, ‘It could have been so much worse,’ were running through her brain like a ribbon unwinding, but she was not sure she believed them. Instead, and with even greater difficulty, she had to face what might have been …
He had done exactly what she’d told him she would accept, she thought. No more, no less. She had faced him and won, so why did she suddenly feel as if she had lost? Because that made no sense—no sense at all.
She turned her head slowly to look at him just as Angelo sat up abruptly, swinging his legs to the floor, and reaching down for his discarded robe.
‘Congratulations, Elena.’ He tossed the words over his shoulder. ‘You have survived your ordeal with great fortitude. Let us hope for both our sakes that you will soon have good news for me, so that you are never called upon to endure it again.’
She watched him walk to the door. Her lips parted to say something—she wasn’t sure what, it might have been just his name—then the door closed behind him, and she realised it was too late.
Too late, she repeated silently, and turned over, burying her face in the pillow.
The following April
She had learned long ago how to conduct herself at all these social events which Angelo required her to attend at his side.
Had mastered how to walk in with her hand resting lightly on his arm, and her smile already nailed securely in place. To offer all the appearance of a cherished young wife blissfully approaching the first anniversary of her wedding to one of the most glamorous men in the city. And to dazzle them with the diamonds and other jewels that would be regarded as an overt sign of Count Manzini’s satisfaction with his marriage.
Knowing that none of the eyes watching them—friendly, inimical, admiring or jealous—must be allowed to catch even a glimpse of the reality of her abject failure and his bitter disappointment. Their mutual ongoing nightmare.
Tonight—a charity reception which Contessa Cosima was helping to host in aid of an orphanage—was an occasion like any other. She moved slowly round the room, slender in her black dress, the drink in her hand virtually untouched, pausing to greet acquaintances, to laugh and talk for a while before moving on, her timing immaculate, her appearance serene.
But underneath it all, her stomach was churning as she contemplated the end of the evening, the return to Vostranto and, later still, the promise of her husband’s brief, monthly visit to her bedroom, conducted as always with cool efficiency and dispatch. Her terms strictly adhered to in every respect. The only verbal exchange between them Angelo’s polite enquiry about her physical comfort as he took her.
Also just an occasion like any other, she told herself, her throat tightening. That was how she had to look at it, anyway, even when it could mean going to him eventually to tell him she had not conceived this time either. Just as she’d done every month up to now.
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