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 the pillow, breathing in the perfume, and relishing the coolness of the linen against the warmth of her skin.
When at last she heard Sandro returning, she burrowed further down under the sheet, closing her eyes so tightly that coloured lights danced behind her lids.
She sensed that the other lamp had been extinguished, then heard the rustle of silk as he discarded his robe, and the faint dip of the bed as he took his place on the far side of the bolster.
There was a silence, then he said, ‘Paola, you are permitted to stop acting when we are alone together. And I know you are not asleep.’
She turned reluctantly, and looked at him over her shoulder. In the shadows of the room, she could see the outline of him, leaning on the bolster, watching her, but she was unable to read the expression on his face.
She kept her voice cool. ‘But I’d like to be. This has been one hell of a day.’
‘Crowned, I imagine, by your meeting with my cousin Emilio,’ he drawled. ‘Where did you encounter him?’
Polly, unprepared for the question, hunched a shoulder. ‘He happened to be on the terrace while I was there,’ she said evasively.
‘Emilio does not “happen” to be anywhere, cara,’ he said drily. ‘His locations are always intentional.’ He paused. ‘Did you share a pleasant conversation?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not particularly. I hope he isn’t a frequent visitor.’
‘I believe he comes mainly to see Zia Antonia,’ he said. ‘Usually when I am not here. As he is leaving early in the morning, he has asked me to pass on a message to you.’
Polly shifted uncomfortably. ‘Oh?’
‘He sends you his homage,’ Sandro went on silkily. ‘And hopes that tonight will provide you with wonderful memories for the rest of your life.’
She punched the pillow with unnecessary vigour, and lay down again. ‘Well, neither of us are likely to forget it,’ she said shortly.
‘That is true,’ he said. ‘But I am surprised to find you on a level of such intimacy with Emilio.’
‘I’m not,’ she returned heatedly. ‘He’s a loathsome little worm, and I’m amazed that someone hasn’t dealt with him by now.’
‘They have tried,’ Sandro said drily. ‘He has been pushed off a balcony in Lucca, and thrown into the Grand Canal in Venice. And he was nearly the victim of a drive-by shooting in Rome, but it seems that was a case of mistaken identity.’
Polly was surprised into a giggle. ‘What a shame.’
‘As you say,’ he agreed solemnly. ‘But, in a way, he can be pitied. For years he has been waiting confidently for me to break my neck on the polo field, be caught in an avalanche or drown while sailing. The car crash must have made him feel that his dream could come true at last.
‘Yet here I am with a wife and a son, and his hopes of the Valessi inheritance are finally dashed.’
She put up a hand to her pillow, hugging it closer. Her voice was faintly muffled. ‘Is that why you were so determined to take Charlie? To put Emilio out of the running?’
‘It played its part. But I wanted him for his own sake, too.’ His voice sharpened. ‘Paola, you cannot doubt that, surely.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I—know you did.’
It was almost her only certainty, she thought. Emilio’s vile insinuations were still turning like a weary treadmill in her brain, reminding her yet again just how tenuous her position was. And how easily she might lose everything in the world that mattered to her.
And in spite of the warmth of the night, she gave the slightest shiver.
He noticed instantly. ‘Are you cold? Do you wish for a blanket?’
‘It’s not that.’ She sat up, making a little helpless gesture. ‘I—I just don’t know what I’m doing here—why I let myself do this. I don’t understand what’s happening.’
He was silent for a moment, then he said wearily, a trace of something like bitterness in his voice, ‘Currently, you and I, cara mia, are about to spend a very long and tedious night together. When it is over, we will see what tomorrow brings, and hope that it is better. Now, sleep.’
He turned away, and lay down with his back to her, and, after a pause, she did the same.
Time passed, and became an hour—then another. Polly found herself lying on the furthermost edge of the bed, listening to Sandro’s quiet, regular breathing, scared to move or even sigh in case she disturbed him.
She felt physically and emotionally exhausted, but her brain would not let her rest. She was plagued by images that hurt and bewildered her, images of fear and isolation, but she found them impossible to dismiss, however much she wanted to let go, and allow herself to drift away into sleep.
At one point, she seemed to be standing at one end of a long tree-lined avenue, watching Sandro, who was ahead of her, walking away with long, rapid strides. And she knew with total frightened certainty that if she allowed him to reach the end of the avenue, that he would be gone forever. She tried to call out, to summon him back, but her voice emerged as a cracked whisper.
Yet somehow he seemed to hear, because he stopped and looked back, and she began to run to him, stumbling a little, her legs like leaden weights.
She said his name again, and ran into his arms, and they closed round her, so warm and so safe that the icy chill deep inside her began to dissolve away as he held her.
And she thought, This is a dream. I’m dreaming … And knew that she did not want to wake, and face reality again.
When she eventually opened her eyes the following day, that same feeling of security still lingered, and she felt relaxed and strangely at peace.
The first thing she saw was that the bolster was back in its normal place, and that the bed beside her was empty. She was completely alone, too, with only the whirr of the ceiling fan to disturb the hush of the room. Sandro had gone.
Well, she thought, I should be grateful for that.
She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. It was very hot, she realised, and the shutters at the windows were closed to exclude the molten gold of the sun. At some moment in the night, she’d kicked away the covering sheet, but her satin nightdress was clinging damply to her body.
She glanced at her watch, and gasped. No wonder the temperature was soaring—the morning was nearly over. She felt as if she’d slept for a hundred years, and that, if she left this room, she would find the passages choked with cobwebs.
And, as if on cue, there was a knock on the door and Rafaella came in carrying a tray.
‘Buongiorno, madam.’ Her smile was wide and cheerful.
Polly spread her hands helplessly. ‘It’s almost afternoon!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why did no one wake me?’
‘The marchese said that you needed to sleep, and should not be disturbed,’ Rafaella returned demurely, her eyes straying to the tray she had just placed on the bed.
Polly followed her gaze, and saw that in addition to the orange juice, the fresh rolls, the dish of honey, the bowl of grapes and the silver coffee pot, there was a red rose lying across the snowy tray cloth, and a folded note beside it.
Swallowing, she reached for it. It said simply, ‘Grazie, mi amore,’ and was signed with his name.
Polly realised she was blushing to the roots of her hair, and hurriedly crushed the paper in her hand. Everyone in the palazzo, she thought, would know about his message by now, and the remembered passion implied in its words.
It was simply another brick in the wall of pretence around their marriage, and she knew it, but that didn’t make it any easier to take.
She had also seen the faintly puzzled glance that the girl had sent the ivory nightgown.
Maybe I should have left the black one shredded on the floor, she thought ruefully. Silenced any lingering doubts that way.
She cleared her throat. ‘Where—where is the marchese?’
‘He has been bidding goodbye to his guests, madam. Now he has gone down to the port with his son and the bambinaia.’ She beamed. ‘The little Carlo wished for ice-cream, I think.’
‘His father has a short memory,’ Polly commented crisply. ‘Charlie, ice-cream and a car ride could be a lethal combination.’
‘Ah, no, signora. The marchese was also ill on journeys when he was a bambino, and Dorotea has her own special remedy,’ Rafaella reassured her cheerfully. ‘Shall I pour signora’s coffee?’
Dorotea? Polly thought, as she sipped the strong brew. Then where was Julie?
‘The maggiordomo, Teodoro, sends his respects to vossignoria,’ Rafaella reported when she returned from running Polly’s bath. ‘The marchese has instructed him to show you the palazzo, and he awaits your convenience.’
‘Oh,’ Polly said, slowly. ‘Well, please thank him for me. It will be my pleasure.’ She paused, spreading a roll with honey. ‘I was also thinking, Rafaella, that I would really like to meet your grandfather.’ She made her tone casual. ‘Thank him for all he did for the marchese. Could you arrange that for me?’
‘It would be his honour, signora,’ Rafaella’s dark eyes shone. ‘But at the moment he is away, visiting my sister in Salerno, who is expecting her first child. When he returns, perhaps?’
‘That would be fine,’ Polly agreed. ‘I’ll hold you to it.’
An hour later, bathed and dressed in a knee-length white skirt and a sleeveless navy top, she made her way to the nursery, hoping that Charlie might be back. Instead, she found Julie sitting alone at the big table, listlessly leafing through the pages of a magazine.
‘Oh.’ Polly checked at the sight of her. ‘So you didn’t go to the port.’
Julie sighed. ‘Dorotea may not speak much English, but she made it plain I wasn’t wanted,’ she said wryly. ‘Instead, I’ve been cleaning out these already spotless cupboards.’
Polly frowned. ‘Doesn’t she realise you’re here to be with Charlie?’
‘That’s the problem. Apparently there’s only one way to look after his excellency’s son, and it’s not the way I do it. And the Contessa Barsoli was here earlier, asking when I planned to go home.’ She looked squarely at Polly. ‘I think my coming here was a big mistake.’
Polly forced a smile. ‘I’m hardly the flavour of the month with them either. I was only just allowed to say goodnight to him yesterday,’ she added candidly, then paused. ‘But please hang in there, Julie. I’m sure things can only get better.’ And mentally crossed her fingers.
Teodoro was waiting in the hall for her, still looking anxious, but his face cleared a little when Polly spoke to him in his own language. Overall, she thought afterwards, the tour of the palazzo went well, although there were too many rooms, too many glorious works of art on the walls, too many priceless tapestries, statues and ceramics on display to be assimilated all at once. And most of the furniture in everyday use would have graced any museum. Becoming familiar with it all would be a life’s work. And her days here were limited.
If she had a criticism, she thought, it would be that it all seemed incredibly formal and curiously lifeless. Everything appeared to have its own place, which it had occupied for centuries.
The exception was Sandro’s study, and the small office which adjoined it, staffed by a severe woman with glasses called Signora Corboni. This was where the work was done, Polly surmised, surveying the computers and fax machine, and metal filing cabinets, but even here the past intruded in the shape of a massive antique desk.
And she had never seen so many fireplaces. Every room seemed to have one, and the largest often had two. But there was no central heating, so logs would be burned to dispel the chill and damp of an Italian winter.
There was only one door locked against her. The room, Teodoro told her with faint embarrassment, occupied by the contessa. And Polly smiled and shrugged to indicate that there was no problem—that the contessa was an elderly woman entitled to her privacy.
Teodoro had clearly been keeping the best until last, flinging the final door open with a flourish. ‘And this, vossignoria, this is all for you.’
It was far from the largest room she’d been shown, yet her flat in England would probably have fitted into it quite comfortably. And comfort was the theme, with a carpeted floor, two deeply cushioned sofas covered in a blue and cream floral design flanking the stone hearth, and matching curtains hanging at the large window.
‘Oh.’ Polly knelt on the window seat, looking down over a sloping riot of dark green trees and shrubs to the azure sea beyond. ‘Oh, how lovely.’
Teodoro beamed in satisfaction, and began to point out the other amenities, which included a television set, a state-of-the-art music centre with a rack of CDs, and a tall case stocked with the latest English fiction and non-fiction titles.
There were no old masters on the walls, but some delightful water-colours. There were roses filling the air with scent on a side-table, and the ornaments, although undoubtedly valuable, had clearly been selected for their charm.
‘This was the favoured room of the marchese’s late mother, may God grant her peace,’ Teodoro said, crossing himself devoutly. ‘Messere Alessandro ordered it to be specially prepared for you. He wished you to have somewhere quiet and private for yourself alone, to sit and read, perhaps, or play music.’
And be out of his way? Polly wondered wryly. But, whatever Sandro’s motives, she couldn’t deny her pleasure in the room, or fail to appreciate the thought that had gone into it.
She said quietly, ‘That’s—very kind of him.’
He nodded, pleased. He indicated the telephone standing on a small, elegant writing desk. ‘If you wish to make a call, our switchboard will connect you. And if there is anything else vossignoria requires, be gracious enough to pull the bell by the fireplace.’
After that there were more practical matters to be dealt with. There were food stores and the wine cellars to be inspected, plus the laundry and the bakery to be visited.
The palazzo was a little world of its own, she thought, and pretty much self-sufficient, probably dating from the days when it was regularly besieged by its enemies.
Not a lot of change there, she thought ironically as she refused lunch, but gratefully accepted Teodoro’s offer of iced lemonade served on the terrace.
She had just seated herself in a cushioned chair under the shade of a sun umbrella when Sandro appeared, walking up the steps from the garden.
He was wearing shorts, and an unbuttoned cotton shirt, his feet thrust into canvas shoes, and was carrying an excited Charlie on his shoulders.
‘Ciao.’ His greeting was casual, but the look he sent her was curiously watchful. ‘Did you sleep well?’
She forced a smile. ‘Better than I could have hoped. And you?’
He said laconically, ‘I survived.’ And lowered Charlie down to the flags.
The little boy came rushing to Polly. ‘Mammina, I went in a boat, with big sails.’ Waving arms indicated a vast expanse of canvas. ‘And a man give me a fish all of my own. Doro says I can eat it for supper.’
Polly sent Sandro a surprised look. ‘What’s this?’
‘I took him to meet an old friend of mine, called Alfredo.’ Sandro poured himself some lemonade. ‘When I was a young boy, I used to escape whenever I could down to the port, and Fredo would take me fishing with him. A pleasure I would like Carlino to share.’
‘But he can’t swim,’ Polly protested. ‘Supposing the boat had capsized?’
Sandro shrugged, his face hardening. ‘Supposing we had all been abducted by aliens?’ he countered impatiently. ‘And I intend to give him his first swimming lesson later today, after siesta.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you would like to come and make sure his life is not endangered again.’
She said stiffly, ‘I suppose you think I’m making a fuss about nothing.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if you think I would allow harm to come to one hair on his head.’
Biting her lip, she turned back to Charlie and gave him a big hug. ‘So, tell me about your fish, darling. What colour is it?’
He gave it frowning thought, then, ‘Fish-coloured,’ he decided.
Sandro’s lips twitched. ‘Avanti,’ he said. ‘Let us go and find Doro, figlio mio. It is time you had a rest.’
‘Let me take him,’ Polly said quickly. ‘To Julie.’
‘But I am already going upstairs,’ he said. ‘So there is no need for you to do so. Unless, of course, you wish to share the siesta with me,’ he added with touch of mockery.
‘Thank you,’ Polly acknowledged, stonily. ‘But no.’
His mouth twisted. ‘You seemed to find it enjoyable once.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But I really don’t need to be constantly reminded of my mistakes—especially those in the distant past.’
‘Last night is not so distant, cara,’ he said softly. ‘And you slept happily in my arms for most of it.’
Polly put her glass down very carefully. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Think about it,’ he advised, then swung Charlie onto his hip and went indoors, leaving her staring after him, alarm clenching like a fist inside her.
He was teasing her, Polly told herself, pacing backwards and forwards across her living room. For reasons of his own, he enjoyed needling her—seeing how far he could push her before the explosion came. That was all it was. She was sure of it.
And yet—and yet …
She couldn’t forget that curious feeling of well-being that had surrounded her when she’d awoken that morning. How rested she’d felt. How completely relaxed.
And remembered, too, those times when they were lovers that he’d joined her in bed when she was already asleep, and she’d woken to find herself wrapped in his arms, her head tucked into the curve of his shoulder, and her lips against his skin. And, smiling, had slept again.
There was a strange familiarity about it all.
Oh, no, she groaned silently. Please—no …
And, all too soon now, she had to face him again, she thought glumly. She couldn’t hide away anywhere, so the only thing she could do was bluff it out. Pretend that nothing had happened, which might even be true, and never refer to it again.
She was halfway to the door, when it opened abruptly and the contessa came in.
So much for privacy, Polly thought wryly.
She said, politely, ‘Buongiorno, contessa. Is there something I can do?’
The older woman stared around her for a long moment, then turned back to Polly, smiling stiffly. ‘On the contrary, dear Paola. I came to make sure that you had everything you wanted—in your new domain.’
She gave the room another sharp, appraising look. ‘I confess I have not visited it since Alessandro gave orders for its total renovation. I—I find it painful to see the changes, indeed I can barely recognise it, but I know I must not be a foolish old woman.’
Polly said quietly, ‘I don’t think anyone would ever see you in that light, contessa.’ She paused. ‘Were you very close to Sandro’s mother? I didn’t know.’
‘Close to Maddalena?’ the older woman queried sharply. ‘I knew her, of course, but we were never on intimate terms. No, I was speaking of my cherished Bianca, who was also given this room by Alessandro’s father as her personal retreat. She loved it here.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Now every trace of her has gone, even the portrait of her that my cousin Domenico had painted.’ She paused, and a note of steel entered her voice. ‘I am astonished that your husband should have so little regard for his father’s wishes.’
‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ Polly said, caught at a loss. ‘Maybe you should take up the matter with Sandro himself.’
‘My poor Bianca.’ The contessa swept on regardless. ‘How much she loved him—and what she endured for his sake. And how soon she is forgotten.’ And she sighed again.
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Polly told her quietly. ‘I know he has the greatest respect for her memory, contessa.’
‘Dear child, you are kind to say so. But the evidence makes that so hard to believe. She was such an innocent, and her only sin was to love Alessandro too much. And because of that—she died.’
She shook her head with the appearance of someone labouring under more sorrow than anger.
‘He drove too fast—always. And that terrible day, he was in a temper—a wicked, dangerous rage. He had quarrelled with his father, so Bianca followed him, like the angel she was—insisted on going in the car with him to reason with him. To persuade him to return and make peace with his father.’
Her voice broke a little. ‘Only for her, there was no return. He was too angry—too reckless to judge the bend correctly, and the car went into the ravine.
‘He was never made to answer for what he had done, of course. His own injuries saved him from possible charges.
‘But it is guilt he feels, my dear Paola—not respect—and that is why he has had every remnant of my poor Bianca’s presence removed—even her portrait.’
She paused, looking keenly at Polly, who was standing with her arms wrapped round her body in an instinctive gesture of defence. ‘I am sorry if I grieve you, but it is as well you should know the truth.’
Polly said quietly, ‘I am sure my husband blames himself just as much as you could wish, contessa.’
The older woman’s tone was almost purring. ‘But call me Zia Antonia, I beg you. We cannot be strangers. Your position in this house is hardly an enviable one,’ she added. ‘Alessandro is so—unpredictable, and I fear you may find yourself much neglected. I hope that when problems arise, you will know you can always turn to me.’
‘Thank you,’ Polly said. ‘I—I’m very grateful.’ Or am I? she asked herself silently as she watched the contessa walk to the door, bestow another thin, honeyed smile and leave. It’s like feeling obligated to a cobra that’s already bitten you once.
But the contessa’s words had left her shaking inside. She was clearly implying that Sandro was guilty of manslaughter at the very least.
This, coupled with Emilio’s comments about a possible cover-up at the official inquiry, painted a frightening picture, and one Polly did not even want to contemplate.
If he had been recklessly speeding and made a fatal error of judgement which caused the accident, then surely he had been well-punished for it. The mark of Cain, she thought, and shuddered.
But, at the same time, the power of the Valessi family was being highlighted for her in an awesome way, she realised unhappily.
Money was waved, and things happened. A girl who could prove a nuisance was dismissed back to her own country. An eyewitness to a car crash was persuaded to doctor his account of the tragedy to protect the heir to a dynasty. An expensive court action was threatened, and that same heir acquired a wife and child.
He would have hated the scandal of a court appearance, she thought. If I’d listened to my mother and stood up to him, maybe he’d have backed off. And I would not be here now, torn apart by doubts. Tormented equally by my fears and longings.
She looked down at the glow of the diamond on her hand. A symbol of a fever in the blood? she wondered. Or a cold flame that would consume her utterly, reducing her to ashes? As it might have destroyed Bianca three years earlier, she thought, and shivered.
And once she had gone, would she be so easily forgotten too?
There was a tap on the door, and Teodoro appeared.
‘Please excuse me.’ He inclined his head respectfully. ‘But the marchese is asking for you to join him at the swimming pool. I should be happy to show you the way, marchesa, if you will accompany me.’
‘Yes,’ she said, and took a deep breath. ‘Yes, of course.’
She got slowly to her feet, pushing her hair back with a mechanical gesture. Life went on, and whatever her mental turmoil, it seemed she was required to join Sandro, and needed to obey the summons. Accept the situation that had been forced upon her, she thought, and all its implications.
Because, after all, what other choice did she have?
And, straightening her shoulders, she reluctantly allowed Teodoro to escort her from the room, and out into the sunlight.