Telling herself not to be stupid, Ellie turned restlessly on to her side and tried to relax. Her rose had been rescued from the lunch table by Giovanni and was now in a slim glass vase beside her bed. Something else she could have done without, she thought, as its evocative perfume reached out to her again, bringing with it unwanted and frankly dangerous memories.
Warning her that the coming days and weeks—she prayed it would be no longer—might well be some of the most difficult of her life.
Her most immediate problem, she realised sombrely, was the suggestion, fast turning into a decree, that she take up residence in the Damiano palazzo in Rome in order to prepare for her wedding. And, of course, to avoid any further sexual temptation before the legalised union of the wedding night.
It was almost funny, but she’d never felt less like laughing.
She could only hope that the Principessa would come to her rescue and use all her considerable powers of persuasion to convince her husband that such precautions were quite unnecessary, without stating precisely why this was so.
I just want my own life back, she told herself with a kind of desperation. My apartment, my work, my friends, and, more than anything, Casa Bianca, my house by the sea. If I’d only stuck to my guns and spent the weekend there, I’d have been spared this nightmare.
But even this won’t last forever, and then I can start to be happy again.
And tried to ignore the small insistent voice in her head warning her that her life had changed forever, and, however hard she tried, nothing would ever be the same.
The dress she’d brought to wear for dinner that evening was new, ankle length in a dark blue silky fabric, with cap sleeves and a crossover bodice, the slenderness of her waist accentuated with a narrow band of blue and gold silk flowers. As she put it on, she realised, to her annoyance, that its colour matched the Count’s sapphire almost exactly. As if it had been planned in advance, she thought with an inward groan.
She wished with all her heart that she could change it for something crimson—or magenta, or even bright orange—but she didn’t possess as much as a scarf in any of those colours. Nor could she bring herself to wear the sunflower skirt two nights running.
The concealer that Consolata had left for her did its work again, and her freshly washed hair shone as it curved gently round her face, so, in spite of her inner confusion and anxiety, she looked relatively composed when she went down to the salotto.
Giovanni was waiting in the hallway to open the door for her, and she paused, drawing a deep breath, feeling as if she was about to walk onstage without knowing what play she was in, let alone any of the lines she was supposed to say. But the major domo’s discreet smile and nod of approval helped launch her into the room, even if the sudden hush that met her appearance was disconcerting enough to induce a wave of shyness to sweep over her.
For a moment, she wondered if she was late, but one swift glance told her that she was not the last arrival. That neither Ernesto nor her cousin were yet present. No doubt Silvia was waiting as usual to make a last minute entrance in something by Versace that would knock everyone sideways.
I just wish I could do the same to her, she thought grimly.
‘My dear.’ Prince Damiano walked towards her. ‘How charming you look.’ He turned to Angelo who had accompanied him. ‘You are a lucky man, Count.’
‘I am well aware of exactly how fortunate I am,’ Angelo returned silkily. His lips were smiling, but there was no accompanying warmth in the dark eyes as he took Ellie’s unresisting hand and kissed it lightly. ‘Mia bella, Nonna Cosima is anxious to be better acquainted with her future grand-daughter. May I take you to her?’
His choice of words made her heart miss a beat. ‘Yes,’ she said huskily, recovering herself. ‘Yes, of course.’
The Contessa was seated on a sofa, chatting to Signora Ciprianto, who rose to make a tactful retreat at Ellie’s approach.
‘I have brought you my treasure, Nonna,’ Angelo said lightly. ‘I am sure you will be as delighted with her as if you had chosen her yourself.’ He paused as the Contessa bit her lip and changed colour slightly, then turned, smiling, to Ellie. ‘May I get you something to drink, mia cara?’
There was something going on here, Ellie decided. Something she didn’t know about, and probably wouldn’t like.
Sudden anger shook her, and with it a desire to be perverse. She met Angelo’s gaze limpidly. ‘Oh, just the usual, please.’ And being rewarded with a swift flash of annoyance in his eyes, she added, ‘Darling,’ as he turned to walk away.
The Contessa leaned forward and took her hand. ‘Elena—I may call you that, I hope, and you must say Nonna Cosima. We have met in difficult circumstances, but we must now put them behind us and look instead to the future, and to happiness. Do you agree?’
Ellie was taken aback. The Contessa was speaking as if there’d been a slight glitch, now sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction, when she knew—she must know—that the contrary was the case.
She said quietly, but with emphasis, ‘The whole thing can’t be forgotten too quickly as far as I’m concerned. And please believe that is something I absolutely look forward to.’ She added stiltedly, ‘I hope that’s the reassurance you want.’
There was a glint in the dark eyes that struck Ellie as far too reminiscent of the lady’s grandson. ‘Not precisely,’ said the Contessa. ‘But it will serve for now.’
And then she began, with great charm, to ask questions. If Ellie had ever thought it was only the Spanish who had an inquisition, five minutes with Angelo’s grandmother would have convinced her that the Italians weren’t far behind.
She found herself speaking with total candour about her parents, her friends, her work at the publishing company, revealing, she realised, probably more than she wished. And, finally, she told the Contessa about her apartment.
When she mentioned she lived there alone, the Contessa’s delicate brows rose. ‘Then the sooner you accept the invitation to move to the Palazzo Damiano the better, dear child.’
Ellie sat up very straight. ‘I see no need for that. Besides I love my apartment. It’s my home.’
‘But not for much longer. After all, you are going to be married, and you will share your husband’s home.’
Ellie’s hands clenched together in her lap. ‘And—when I get married, I will do so.’ Or if … ‘But until then, I’ll stay where I am.’
‘Yet surely you must see that is impossible.’ The Contessa sounded almost coaxing. ‘Angelo could not be permitted to visit you there.’ She gave a resolute nod. ‘From now on, there must not be as much as another whisper of scandal about your relationship with my grandson.’
And as Ellie’s lips parted to tell her without mincing her words that visits from Count Manzini did not feature on her personal agenda, and that there was no relationship with him—neither past, present nor future—she heard Angelo’s voice saying coolly, ‘Your drink, Elena mia. Campari with a splash of soda.’ Adding softly, ‘Just as you like it, carissima.’
Of course, Ellie thought, almost grinding her teeth. He’d have asked Madrina. As I should have known.
Accepting the glass from him, with a murmured, ‘Grazie,’ she wished very much she could throw the drink at him, drenching the open mockery in the dark face and staining, perhaps irrevocably, his immaculate dress shirt as well. Before, that is, she left the room, screaming.
As it was, she took immediate refuge behind a wall of reserve, returning only monosyllabic replies to any remarks made to her, and thankful to her heart when the Prince, his wife and the rest of the party came to join them, and