The Marchese's Love-Child (9 page)

But that, she thought, had always been her downfall from their first meeting. She had been too much in love, too blinded by the passion and glamour of him to ask the right questions and demand answers that made sense.

Her first major surprise had been his brilliant command of English, but when she'd asked him about it he'd simply said he'd had good teachers.

Polly had wondered, with a pang, whether he meant other women, and decided not to probe any further. Now she suspected that he'd gone to school in England, and probably university too, either here or in America.

He'd told her too that he worked at the Grand Hotel Comadora, but she'd never gone there to see him because its sheer expensive exclusivity discouraged casual visitors. The entrances were controlled by security guards, and the staff were subject to strict rules, so she'd stayed away. Otherwise she'd have soon found out that he wasn't simply an employee, but the owner. And that had been the last thing he wanted her to know.

Her own naivete made her cringe now. The way she'd trusted him with all her small, loving dreams of their future.

'I'd like a tiny house,' she told him once. 'In one of the villages high above the sea, with a terraced garden, and its own lemon tree.'

'Mm.' He'd stroked her hair back from her love-flushed face with gentle fingers. 'And will you make me limoncello from our tree?'

He was talking about the lethally potent liqueur that was brewed locally, and she'd laughed.

'Well, I could try.'

God, what a fool she'd been, and how he must have been secretly amused at her, knowing full well that he was going to dump her once their warm, rapturous summer together was over.

He'd found himself an inexperienced virgin, and cynically turned her into an instrument for his pleasure.

I bet he couldn't believe his own luck. I must have been the perfect mistress, she thought, wincing. Easily duped, and ecstatically wanton. He didn't even have to kiss me. The sound of his voice—the warmth of his skin as he stood next to me were enough.

And, as she'd discovered tonight, they still were.

So how was she going to deal with the bleak sterility of the future that awaited her in Italy? A wife who was not a wife, she thought, living in a house that would never be her home. Her only link with Sandro, the child he had made in her body. A child, at the same time, who had driven them further apart than any years or miles could have done.

Sandro blamed her for keeping her pregnancy from him, but what else could she have done when she'd been dismissed so summarily from his life? And the accompanying threat might have been veiled, but it was real enough to have kept her from Italy ever since. Or until yesterday, at least.

And that had been all his own doing.

And now amazingly she was going to return to the Campania at his side. Somehow, she was going to have to learn to be his marchesa. To sit at his table, wearing the clothes and probably the jewellery he provided. To be pleasant to his family, and welcoming to his guests. And never by word, look or gesture let anyone suspect that she was bleeding slowly to death.

She supposed there would be compensations. She knew there would be heartbreak. And she was scared.

Scared of the inevitable isolation that awaited her—the power he still exerted over her trembling senses—and the ever-present danger of self-betrayal.

She needed to work on her anger—her bitterness at his desertion. They would protect her. Build a barrier that not all his sensual expertise could breach. That was the way she must go.

All the same, she found her mind drifting wistfully back to the tiny dream house and its lemon tree, and she saw herself walking beneath it with Sandro, her hand in his, as the sun glinted through the leaves.

And though her mouth smiled, there were tears on her face as she finally fell asleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

She was weighed down, sinking into the depths of a dark and bottomless sea, unable to move or save herself.

Polly opened her eyes, gasping, to the familiar surroundings of the flat, bathed in early-morning light through the thin curtains, but the sensation of being pinned down persisted. Even increased.

Slowly, and with foreboding, she turned her head, and saw that Sandro was lying next to her, on top of the covers. The blue blanket was thrown lightly over him, and, she realised incredulously, Charlie's small pyjamaed form was also present, sprawled across his father's bare chest, his dark head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. Both of them were fast asleep.

For a moment Polly was transfixed by this unexpected tableau. And deep within her, she felt such a stir of tenderness that she almost cried out.

She swallowed deeply, reclaiming her self-control. Reminding herself that she would have to get accustomed to seeing them together, although not in such intimate circumstances. And, at the same time, knowing a pang of jealousy that Charlie, usually awkward with strangers, should have capitulated so readily. She overcame an impulse to snatch him back.

Slowly and stealthily, she began to ease her way towards the edge of the bed. It was still early, but her need for coffee was evenly matched with her desire to extract herself from a difficult situation.

Besides, she wanted both Charlie and herself to be ready by the time Julie arrived.

Julie, she thought, her mouth tightening, who was going to get a piece of her mind. And yet was that really fair to the girl, who'd only been doing the job she was hired for?

Yes, she had concerns, but so had Polly. She'd been worried about her mother's apparent resolve to keep Charlie a baby for as long as possible and therefore more dependent than he should be at his age. Mrs Fairfax had lavished presents on 'my little prince' and 'Gran's sweet little man', most of them in the form of expensive clothing which she fussed to keep pristine. Even helping his grandfather to gather up hedge clippings seemed to be on the forbidden list, Polly recalled wryly. Hardly any wonder that Charlie didn't shine at outdoor activities.

And he was lazy about feeding himself, and doing simple tasks that Polly set him, probably because he was used to having everything done for him at other times.

I knew there were problems, she admitted as she slid with infinite care from under the covers, but at the same time I wanted to avoid another confrontation with my mother. So I have only myself to blame.

She stood up, then paused, suddenly aware of movement behind her. Stiffening as Sandra's voice said a husky, 'Buongiorno'.

'Good morning.' She didn't look at him. 'I was going to make coffee—if you'd like some. I—I don't have espresso,' she added stiltedly.

'Coffee would be good,' he said. 'If I can free myself sufficiently to drink it.' She could hear the smile in his voice, and bit her lip.

'Shall I put him back in his cot?' she asked.

'Why disturb him for no cause?'

'Perhaps I should ask you the same thing.' Polly stared down at the floor. 'What is he doing here?'

'He was crying,' Sandra said shortly. 'He wanted a drink, which I gave him. Should I have left him thirsty?'

'He'd have needed changing too.' God, she thought, she sounded so carping—like a miserable shrew.

'I even managed that,' he returned. 'After a struggle. Although I do not guarantee my handiwork,' he added drily.

'You did that?' Polly turned then, staring down at him.

'But of course. He was uncomfortable.'

'Well—thank you for that,' Polly said reluctantly. She shook her head. 'I can't understand why I didn't hear him myself. I always do...'

'You were dead to the world.' His voice gentled a little. 'You did not even scream "rape" when I joined you on the bed. Perhaps you sensed Carlino was there to act as chaperone.'

'Maybe so,' she agreed stiffly.

'A friend warned me that when you have a child, the concept of "three in a bed" takes on a new meaning,' he went on. 'I now know what he means.'

Polly looked away, her mouth tightening, and he sighed. 'That was a joke.'

'An inappropriate one,' she said, hating the primness in her voice. 'I'll get the coffee now. And—thanks again for helping with Charlie.'

'It was my pleasure,' he said, his voice faintly weary.

By the time she returned, Charlie had woken and was in a grizzly mood.

'You are sour in the mornings, figlio mio,' Sandro told him. He slanted a faint grin at Polly. 'Like your mammina.'

She sipped the strong, scalding brew she'd made. 'I'm sorry.' Her voice was defensive. 'But this isn't easy for me.'

'Or for me, cara mia' he said. 'Or for me.'

He swallowed his own coffee with the complete disregard for its temperature that she remembered so well, then rose, swinging Charlie up into his arms. 'Come, my little grumbler. Come and take a bath with Papa and see if it improves your temper.' He glanced at Polly. 'You have no objections, I hope.'

'No,' she said. 'None.'

She occupied herself with stripping the bed and turning it back into a sofa, while attempting to ignore the noise of splashing and Charlie's gleeful squeals coming from the bathroom. Trying hard, too, not to feel envious and even slightly dejected, because that would get her nowhere.

Her path might have been chosen for her, but she had to follow it, whatever the cost.

What would happen next? she wondered. She supposed she would have to see Mrs Terence and tell her that Safe Hands would be losing her earlier than planned.

And she would have to visit her parents and break the news to them too—a situation which had all the makings of a Class A nightmare.

And if Sandro was serious about moving her into a larger flat, and so far he seemed to have meant everything he said, then she would have to pack.

She wandered into the tiny kitchen and poured herself some orange juice. She felt as if she needed all the vitamins she could get.

It was as if her life had been invaded by a sudden whirlwind, all her plans and certainties swept away.

And at some point she would have to stand beside Sandro in a church or registry office, and listen to him making promises he had no intention of keeping as he put his ring on her finger.

Three years ago, all my dreams were of marrying him, she thought unhappily. And now it's happening at last, but not in a way I could ever have hoped. Because I'm being offered the facade of a marriage, without its fulfillment. And, for Charlie's sake, I have to find some way—to endure.

She rinsed out her glass and put it on the draining board.

What was the old saying? she wondered drearily. Be careful what you wish for, in case your wish comes true?

Well, she had wished so hard to be Sandra's wife—once.

She gave a small wretched sigh, then went into Charlie's room to choose his clothes for the day, and that was where Sandro found her a few minutes later. He was fully dressed, while Charlie, capering beside him, was in a towel draped like a Roman toga.

'Do you have a mop, or a cloth, perhaps? I need to dry the bathroom floor.' Sandro's tone was faintly rueful.

'It doesn't matter,' Polly said too brightly. 'I'll clear up when I have my own bath.' She paused. 'You seemed to be having fun together,' she went on with an effort. 'Somehow—he's not shy with you.'

'Why should he be?' Sandro lifted a hand and touched his scarred cheek. 'Did you think, perhaps, that this would terrify him—make him run away from me screaming, and force me to think again?' he added sardonically.

'No—oh, no,' Polly stammered. 'But he can be tricky with people he's only just met. But not you.'

Sandro shrugged. 'Blood calling to blood, perhaps.'

'Yes,' she said. 'That must be it.'

He was watching her. He said quietly, 'Paola, I am not trying to take your place. You will always be his mother. But he needs us both.'

Her throat closed. She nodded, unable to speak, her hands restlessly folding and unfolding a little T-shirt.

His hand closed on her shoulder. His touch was gentle, but she felt its resonance through her blood and bone.

'Go and dress yourself,' he directed quietly. 'I will see to our son.'

She didn't want his kindness, his consideration, Polly thought wildly as she fled. She needed antagonism to feed her anger—her determination to stay aloof from him at all costs. To blank out forever the memories of those days and nights when her universe had narrowed to one room, and the bed where she lay in his arms.

She needed to hate him.

The state of the bathroom was a spur to that, of course. It looked as if it had been hit by a tidal wave, and it took ten minutes' hard graft with a mop and bucket, and a roll of paper towels, to render it usable again.

But even then the recollection of Charlie's crows of delight diffused her resentment.

And it occurred to her, too, that next time Sandro chose to play submarines or whatever with his son it would be someone else's task to do the clearing up after them.

It was clear that her life was going to change at all levels, not just the strictly personal. And would she be able to cope?

Although she would not be Sandro's wife in the accepted sense, she would have some practical role to play in his life, and maybe she should ask to have it defined.

She sighed. So many things she needed to know—not least how he'd acquired the scar on his face. Her own assumptions had been totally and embarrassingly wrong, of course, but she'd been offered no other explanation for an injury that must have gone dangerously deep.

She could only suppose that Sandro found the circumstances surrounding it too difficult and painful to discuss. So what could possibly have happened, and could she ever persuade him to talk about it?

Then there was his family. It seemed that he had other cousins apart from the contessa. How much did they know about her existence? she wondered. And what would they feel about her arrival—an interloper with a child?

Polly sighed again. She was just beginning to realise there were problems she hadn't even imagined awaiting her in Campania.

When she emerged from the bathroom, freshly attired in jeans and a pale blue shirt, she found Sandro standing by the window with Charlie in his arms, apparently having a murmured conversation about the traffic in the street below.