Married Under The Italian Sun. Lucy Gordon

to feel his hands on her. In fact, she had wanted it ever since the first day in the kitchen.

      ‘It ought to be enough that I dislike him,’ she muttered crossly, when she’d woken up for the third time. ‘You’d think that would protect me.’

      But there were some things against which there was no defence.

      That kind of consciousness, Angel discovered, was an insidious thing. It didn’t leave you alone for a moment. It was there even when a man was talking to you with barely concealed impatience, without even looking at you properly, all his attention directed at the papers he was spreading out. You might try to concentrate on the figures he was explaining, but you couldn’t help noticing the shapeliness of his hands, or remembering their unexpected power. And afterwards you wouldn’t be able to recall any of the figures.

      The gardeners were re-employed and Vittorio brought them to be introduced to her. In a private talk afterwards, he told Angel what he had promised them in wages, and what she would be paying him. She had an odd feeling that he was accepting less than he was entitled to, but his distant manner forbade her to mention it.

      The gardeners were polite to her, but there was no doubt whom they regarded as their real employer. In fairness, Angel had to admit that they had a point.

      ‘Is all this agreeable to you, padrona?’ Vittorio finally asked.

      ‘I’ve put everything in your hands, and I won’t go back on my word.’

      He gave a brief, wry smile. ‘Of course not, since it would not be in your own interests to do so.’

      ‘Meaning that you think I couldn’t be trusted otherwise?’

      ‘Meaning that I have the highest regard for your intelligence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, your servants will get to work.’

      ‘Don’t give me that nonsense,’ she exploded. ‘You’re no servant and we both know it. You’re getting a kick out of this, aren’t you?’

      ‘If you really believe that, padrona, perhaps you’d like to change your situation for mine.’

      She had no reply, and after a moment he moved away, leaving her mentally kicking herself.

      She watched the three of them walking across the grass, and she couldn’t help but notice how easily he moved. The other men were clodhoppers by contrast, but he was like a prince, with an easy, languid grace that was a pleasure to behold.

      But she would still keep out of his way, Angel decided. Every conversation was like duelling with a thorn bush.

      Not that she avoided him entirely. It was only sense to watch him at work and learn how the estate functioned. She told herself that she was guarding against the day he would decide to walk out.

      Vittorio found himself as content as he could ever be as a servant in the place where he had been master. Angel behaved well, in his opinion, which was to say that she followed his advice, engaged those whom he wished to engage, spent money as he directed, and didn’t argue with him.

      Here in the gardens he could find the only peace possible for him. It wasn’t happiness, or even contentment, but it could be merciful oblivion. Nature didn’t change. The trees still needed the same care no matter what.

      The same was true of Luca, the huge, shabby dog who had wandered in off the streets and attached himself to Vittorio four years ago, refusing to be dislodged. He had followed his chosen master, without complaint, from the grandeur of the villa to the poverty of the rented house, and today he had followed him back to a small copse of trees, to sit hopefully at the bottom of the ladder at the top of which Vittorio was working.

      It was rare for him to make any noise, so, when he gave an excited ‘wuff’, Vittorio looked down.

      ‘What is it?’ he asked, seeing nothing.

      ‘Wuff!’ Luca repeated, his eyes fixed on the distance.

      Then Vittorio understood. Walking towards them was Angel, wearing a colourful silk top and snowy white trousers.

      ‘Stay!’ Vittorio ordered hastily.

      He was too late. Luca was already bounding away towards her. Vittorio scrambled down the ladder and began to run, but Luca was too fast for him, hurling himself at her, leaving dirty paw marks over the white trousers and clawing the silk blouse until it tore. Vittorio arrived just in time to witness the demolition job.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, almost choking on the words.

      ‘Oh, forget it,’ she said. ‘He’s only being friendly.’

      Astonished, he realised that she was laughing. Nor had she made any attempt to fend off her new friend, but had dropped down beside him, wrapping her arms about him.

      ‘That’s very generous of you,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But have you seen the state he’s left you in?’