‘And did she succeed?’
‘She did. She could put on a good performance when the need arose.’
‘And what was that like—being back with her?’
Darcy swallowed. How much could she tell him? How much before a look of disgust crossed his face and he started to worry whether she might have inherited some of her poor mother’s addictive traits—or the other, even more unpalatable ones? ‘I’ll leave that to your imagination,’ she said, her voice faltering a little. ‘She used me to interact with her dealer, or to answer the door when people she owed money to came knocking. There’s nothing quite like a child in an adult’s world for throwing things off balance.’
‘And were you safe?’ he demanded.
‘I was lucky,’ she said simply. ‘Lucky that some kind social worker went over and above the call of duty and got me out of there. After that I went to the children’s home—and, to be honest, I felt glad to be there.’
Not safe. Never really safe. But safer.
‘And what did you do when you left there?’
‘I came to London. Went to night school and caught up with some of the education I’d missed. It’s why I ended up waitressing—nobody really cares if you’ve got a GCSE in Maths if you can carry a tray of drinks without spilling any.’
There was no sound in the room, other than the ticking of some beautiful freestanding clock which Darcy suspected might have been in place when Napoleon himself was living there.
‘So...’ His voice was thoughtful now; his black eyes hooded. ‘Seeing as so much of your childhood was spent with people making decisions for you, where would you like to live when our baby is born, Darcy?’
Not only was it not the reaction she’d been expecting, it was also the most considerate question anyone had ever asked her and Darcy was terrified she was going to start blubbing—an over-the-top response from someone who’d experienced little real kindness in her life. But she needed to keep it together. She’d been given enough false hope in life to build Renzo’s offer up into something it wasn’t.
‘I would prefer to be in England,’ she said slowly. ‘Italy is very beautiful and I love it here but I feel like a foreigner.’ She forced a laugh. ‘Probably because I am.’
‘My apartment in Belgravia, then?’
She shook her head. ‘No. That won’t do. I don’t really want to go back there.’
He looked faintly surprised, as she supposed anyone might be if their new wife had just rejected a luxury apartment worth millions of pounds. ‘Because?’
Should she tell him that she felt as if she’d lived another life there? She’d behaved like someone she no longer recognised—with her balcony bras and her tiny panties. She’d been nothing but his plaything, his always-up-for-it lover who was supposed to have been expendable before all this happened. How could she possibly reconcile that Darcy with the woman she was now and the mother she was preparing to be? How could she bear to keep reminding herself that he’d never planned for her to become a permanent fixture in his life? ‘It’s not a place for a baby.’
He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘You’re not suggesting we decamp to that tiny cottage you were renting in Norfolk?’
‘Of course not,’ she said stiffly. ‘I think we both know that wouldn’t work. But I would like to bring up the baby away from the city.’ She licked her lips and her tongue came away with the salty flavour of capers. ‘Somewhere with grass and flowers and a park nearby. Somewhere you can work from, so it doesn’t necessarily have to be a long way out of London, just so long as it’s green.’
He nodded and gave a small smile. ‘I think we can manage that.’
‘Thank you.’
Hearing her voice tremble, Renzo frowned. ‘And you need to get to bed. Now. You look washed out.’
‘Yes.’ Awkwardly, she rose to her feet and walked across the room, feeling the soft silk of a Persian rug beneath her bare feet. But despite her initial reservations at having told him more than she’d ever told anyone, Darcy was amazed by how much lighter she felt. And she was grateful to him, too—stupidly relieved he’d managed to keep his shock and disgust to himself because most people weren’t that diplomatic. All she wanted now was to climb into bed and have him put his arms round her and hold her very tight and tell her it was going to be all right. She closed her eyes. Actually, she wanted more than that. Could they be intimate again? Could they? Hadn’t that book on pregnancy explained that sex in the latter stages was perfectly acceptable, just as long as you didn’t try anything too adventurous?
For the first time in a long time, she felt the faint whisper of hope as she brushed her teeth, her hands wavering as she picked up the exquisite silk nightgown she’d worn on her wedding night, feeling the slippery fabric sliding between her fingers. It was beautiful but it made her feel like someone she wasn’t. Or rather, somebody she no longer was. Wouldn’t it be better to be less obvious if she wanted them relaxed enough to get to know one another again? Shouldn’t it be a slow rediscovery rather than a sudden wham-bam, especially given the circumstances in which they found themselves?
Pulling on one of Renzo’s T-shirts, which came to halfway down her thighs, she crept beneath the duvet and waited for him to come to bed.
But he didn’t.
She tried to block the thoughts which were buzzing in her mind like a mosquito in a darkened room, but some thoughts just wouldn’t go away. Because apart from that very public kiss when he’d claimed her as his bride, he hadn’t come near her, had he? And something else occurred to her, something which perhaps she had been too arrogant to take into account. What if he no longer wanted her? If he no longer desired her as a man was supposed to desire a woman.
Tossing and turning in those fine cotton sheets, she watched the hand of the clock slowly moving. Soon her heart rate overtook the rhythmical ticking. Eleven o’clock. Then twelve. Shortly before one she gave in to the exhaustion which was threatening to crush her and Darcy never knew what time Renzo came to bed that night, because she didn’t hear him.
‘SO... WHAT DO you think? Does it meet with your approval?’ Renzo’s eyes didn’t leave Darcy’s profile as they stood in the grounds of the imposing manor house. A seagull heading for the nearby coast gave a squawk as it flew overhead and he could definitely detect the faint tang of salt in the air. A light breeze was ruffling his wife’s red curls, making them gleam brightly in the sunshine. How beautiful she looked, he thought—and how utterly unapproachable. And how ironic that the woman he’d spent more time with than anyone else should remain the most enigmatic woman of them all. ‘You haven’t changed your mind about living here now that it’s actually yours?’
Slowly she turned her head and returned his gaze, those glittering emerald eyes filled with emotions he couldn’t begin to understand.
‘Ours, you mean?’ she said. ‘Our first marital home.’
He shook his head. ‘No. Not mine. I’ve spoken with my lawyers and the deeds have been made over to you. This is yours, Darcy. Completely yours.’
There was a moment of silence before she frowned and blinked at him. ‘But I don’t understand. We talked about it in Rome and I thought we’d agreed that a house in England was going to be the best thing for us.’ She touched the ever-increasing girth