The Marchese's Love-Child. Sara Craven

did you leave me?’ because she now knew the answer to that, beyond all doubt.

      Besides, it would expose the fact that she cared, and that he still had the power to hurt her. And she needed that to remain her secret, and her solitary torment.

      Besides, at the moment she was faced with all the suffering she could handle.

      Unless she could divert him from his purpose somehow, she thought. Unless …

      She picked up the phone irresolutely, then put it down again. She said quickly, before her courage ran out, ‘Sandro, it doesn’t have to be like this. Surely we could work something out. Share custody in some way.’

      His mouth thinned. ‘I am expected to trust you? When you have deliberately kept our child from me and even claimed to have a lover to sustain the deception? How much do you think your word is worth?’

      Polly swallowed. ‘I don’t blame you for being angry.’

      ‘Mille grazie.’ His tone was sardonic.

      ‘And maybe doing my best to be Charlie’s mother hasn’t been good enough,’ she went on, bravely. ‘But he doesn’t know you at all, and if he was just whisked off to another country among strangers, however well-meaning, he’d be disorientated—scared. He—he’s shy with people at first.’

      ‘A trait he shares with you, mia bella, if memory serves,’ Sandro drawled with cool mockery.

      She remembered too. Recalled how gentle and considerate he had been that first time in bed together. How he’d coaxed her out of her clothes and her initial inhibitions.

      She flushed hotly and angrily. ‘May we cut out the personal reminiscences?’ she requested curtly.

      He shrugged. ‘It is difficult to see how. Making a child together is an intensely personal matter.’ He paused. ‘And by the time I take Carlino to Italy, we will be well acquainted with each other. I guarantee that. And my own old nurse, Dorotea, will be waiting to look after him. The transition will not be too hard.’

      But it will be agony for me, she thought, her throat tightening convulsively. First I lost you, and now you’re trying to take Charlie away. And already I feel as if I’m dying inside.

      She said tonelessly, ‘I’d better make those calls.’

      He inclined his head courteously, and went past her, and out into the garden.

      Presently, distant but gleeful, Charlie’s laughter came to her on the light summer wind, and she stood, staring in front of her unseeingly, her teeth sunk so deeply into her lower lip that she could taste blood.

      She wanted to hate Julie Cole, but it was impossible. She was too kind, too tactful, and she thought that Charlie was heaven on legs.

      And if she knew that her job was more for security than enjoyment, she kept that to herself.

      The creamy scrambled eggs she made for supper were good too, and Charlie loved the triangles of buttered toast that went with them, although Polly could barely force her portion past the sick, scared lump in her throat.

      She had wanted to wait at the house to talk to her father, or perhaps just put her head down on his shoulder and cry out her fear, but suddenly there was a car and driver at the gate, and Sandro was insisting quietly but implacably that she should take Charlie home.

      She’d begun a protest, but Sandro had simply looked at her, his brows lifted haughtily, questioningly, and the words seemed to stutter and die on her lips.

      ‘You begin to learn,’ he had approved coldly.

      She had been shaken to find him carrying Charlie down to the car in his arms, and found herself hoping that the little boy would have one of his infrequent tantrums, kicking, screaming and reaching for her as proof that no one else would do.

      He didn’t; nor did he burst into tears when Sandro had gently but firmly removed his thumb from his mouth.

      She had said defensively, ‘He doesn’t really do that any more. Only when he’s tired—or frightened.’

      ‘All the more reason, then, to take him home,’ Sandro had retorted unarguably.

      She could only imagine the kind of scene that would erupt once her father returned, and her mother had some solid support.

      ‘I’ll make your father sell the house,’ she’d hissed at Polly as she was leaving. ‘Marquis or not, I’m going to fight this man through every court in the land.’

      Polly sighed silently. She really doesn’t know what she’s up against, she thought unhappily. And I’m only just beginning to find out, too.

      Only twenty-four hours ago or less, she’d been planning for her life to change, but not to this extreme, catastrophic extent. She’d seen a period of struggle ahead, but never the bleak desert of loneliness that now threatened her.

      ‘He may not win,’ she thought. And only realised she’d spoken aloud when Julie said, ‘Are you all right, Miss Fairfax?’

      Polly jumped, then mustered an attempt at a smile. ‘Yes, fine,’ she lied.

      Julie studied her dubiously. ‘I saw some white wine in the fridge while I was getting the eggs. Why don’t you sit down and put your feet up, while I do the dishes, and then I’ll bring you a glass?’

      I don’t want a glass, thought Polly. I want a bottle, a cellar, a whole vineyard. I want the edges of my pain blurred, and to be able to stop thinking.

      She cleared her throat. ‘I know Sandro—the marchese