She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. I can’t think about that, she told herself desperately. I dare not go there …
But there was another problem, too, that she had to confront. Was it just Emilio or did other members of the family know that he’d tried to pay her off three years before? If so, that was the ultimate humiliation, and she wanted to run somewhere and hide, away from the smiles and sneers that would accompany such knowledge.
But most of all, she wanted to hide from Sandro. And instead she was obliged to go upstairs, and get into one side of the extravagantly wide bed she had to share with him tonight. And be expected to sleep.
Oh, God, she thought, her fists clenching convulsively. It’s all such a charade. Such total hypocrisy.
And if I had any guts, I’d get Charlie, and make a run for it back to England, and see how Sandro deals with a scandal like that.
But, realistically, how far would she get? She was here in this—fortress in a foreign country, where he had power, and she had none. Even the money in the bank account he’d opened for her had been transferred to Italy.
She was helpless—and she was suddenly afraid too.
‘So, here you are.’ Sandro was walking across the terrace towards her. ‘What are you doing out here alone?’
She swallowed slowly and deeply, aware of the frantic thud of her heart at the sight of him.
‘I needed some fresh air.’ She forced herself to sound light and cool. ‘Pretending to be pleasant is hard work, and every actress needs an interval.’
‘Is it really so hard to meet such goodwill halfway?’ he asked unsmilingly.
‘I think it exists for Charlie, not myself,’ she returned curtly. ‘I’m your wife by accident not design, and they must know that.’
He said drily, ‘In the eyes of most of my family, you are not yet my wife at all. I am being given embarrassingly broad hints that I should take you upstairs without further delay and rectify the matter.’
‘Oh, God.’ Polly pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.
‘I am truly sorry, cara mia.’ His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘I never meant you to be subjected to this. We had better face them.’
‘Very well.’ Ignoring his outstretched hand, she walked stiffly beside him towards the open windows of the salotto.
‘I can give you ten minutes’ privacy,’ he added quietly. ‘But no longer, or Zia Vittoria will be demanding to know why I am not with you, doing my duty by the next generation.’
Her throat muscles felt paralysed, but she managed a husky, ‘Thank you.’
In spite of her tacit resistance, Sandro slid an arm round her waist, holding her against his side, as they went into the brightness of the room and paused to meet the laughter and faint cheers that awaited them.
Then she felt his lips touch her hot cheek, as he whispered, ‘Go now, bella mia.’
The door seemed a million miles away, especially when she had to reach it through a sea of broad grins and openly voiced encouragement. She was aware that people were swarming after her into the hall, watching her walk up the stairs.
She glanced back once, and saw Sandro standing a little apart from them all. He was unsmiling, his eyes bleak, as he looked at her, raising the glass he was holding in a cynical toast. Then he drained the contents in one jerky movement, and went back into the salotto.
Leaving Polly to go on, feeling more alone than she had ever done in her life before.
THE bedroom was empty, but it was prepared and waiting for her. And, she thought, her senses tautening, for him.
Lamps on tall wrought-iron stands were burning on either side of the bed. The coverlet had been removed and the white lace-edged sheets turned down and scattered with crimson rose petals.
And, she supposed, inevitably, the black lace nightdress was draped across the bed in readiness too.
Well, that she could deal with, she thought, folding it with quick, feverish hands into a tiny parcel of fabric. She went into the dressing room, and stowed it away in her wardrobe in the pocket of a linen jacket against the moment when she could dispose of it for good and all. Otherwise it was going to haunt her.
She also needed an alternative to wear, she thought, rummaging through the exquisitely arranged contents of her lingerie drawer. She decided on a plain ivory satin nightgown, cut on the bias, its neckline square across her breasts, and supported by shoestring straps.
Discreet enough to be an evening dress, she thought as she slipped it over her head after showering briefly in the bathroom. Especially with the diamonds still glittering round her neck. Where they would have to remain, as the clasp resisted all her efforts to unfasten it.
Sighing, Polly shook her hair loose, ran a swift brush through it, and went back into the bedroom.
She was aware the minutes had been ticking past, but she’d still hoped she might be granted a little more leeway than Sandro had suggested. Prayed that it might be possible to be in bed, pretending to be asleep before he came to join her.
But her hopes were dashed, because Sandro was there already, dinner jacket removed and black tie loosened, walking towards the bed. He turned, surveying her without expression as she hesitated in the doorway.
He said, ‘Do you not think you are a little overdressed, bella mia?’
Her heart skipped. ‘What are you talking about?’
His mouth twisted. ‘I was referring to the diamonds, naturally.’
She lifted her chin. ‘I couldn’t unfasten them—and Rafaella wasn’t here.’
‘She would not risk her life by intruding.’ He beckoned. ‘Come to me.’
She went slowly towards him, waiting, head bent, while he dealt with the clasp, his touch brisk and impersonal.
‘Take it.’ He dropped the necklace into her hand.
She said, ‘But shouldn’t you have it?’
‘It was a gift, Paola,’ he said shortly. ‘Not a loan.’
‘I meant—wouldn’t it be better in a safe … somewhere?’
‘There is a place in the dressing room for your jewellery. Rafaella will show you in the morning.’ Sandro turned back to the bed, and began brushing away the rose petals. One of them drifted to Polly’s feet, and she bent and retrieved it, stroking the velvety surface with her fingertips.
She said, ‘Someone has taken a lot of trouble. Perhaps you were right about the goodwill.’
‘The wedding night of a marchese and his bride is always a great occasion.’ Sandro dragged out the bolster from under the pillows, and arranged it down the centre of the bed. ‘How fortunate they will never know the truth,’ he added sardonically.
‘There,’ he said, when he had finished. ‘Will that make you feel safe?’
‘Yes,’ Polly said stiltedly. ‘Yes—thank you.’
He walked away towards the dressing room, and Polly switched off her lamp and got hastily into bed. She slid her necklace under the pillow, then lay down, her back turned rigidly towards the bolster. The scent of the roses still lingered beguilingly, and she buried her face in