they’d had together. To relegate her to some corner of his existence while Ginny’s money bought her the status of wife.
‘Of course, I don’t love her like I love you,’ he’d told her over and over again. ‘You know that, darling. But it’s always been understood we’d marry each other. Fixed up by the families years ago. Her father and mine do a lot of business together, you see. I—I can’t afford to pull out. But it needn’t make any difference—to us.’
And she’d replied, as she always had, ‘It makes all the difference in the world, James. Because I can’t afford to stay.’
In last night’s dream she’d seen James again, standing at the altar in a great Gothic church, with Ginny beside him in her white dress and veil. And she’d tried to reach him—to run up the aisle and prevent the ceremony. To tell him he was making a terrible mistake.
But her legs and feet had felt like lead, and the harder she’d tried, the greater the distance had seemed to become between them.
And when, eventually, she’d got to his side and seized his arm, forcing him to turn and face her, it hadn’t been James at all who’d stood looking down at her with smiling contempt, but Guido Bartaldi, his eyes like flint.
She could explain it all away, of course. The memories of James she’d thought were dead and buried had been revived by her conversation with Violetta. And as for the Marchese—well, he was never far from her thoughts, although it made her cringe to admit it, even to herself.
He was there, in her mind, she thought restively, as if he’d been etched there, impossible to erase.
But it wasn’t really impossible. Time and distance would make him fade into obscurity, and set her free again.
She needed to be rid of him while it was still possible. Before he hurt her—damaged her beyond repair.
And taking herself off to live under his roof was quite the worst thing she could do.
I should never have agreed, she told herself, swallowing past the sudden tightness in her throat. It was crazy.
Because he was another James—the kind of man she most despised. A man marrying for convenience rather than any involvement of the heart. Someone prepared to treat his marriage as a licence to do anything he wanted.
And expecting herself, of all people, to reconcile his intended bride to this unenviable fate, she thought furiously. Although he couldn’t know, of course, what an insult this was. The kind of devastating memories it had evoked for her.
But it wasn’t an insult she necessarily had to put up with…
The thought strayed idly into her mind, then took firmer hold, making her sit bolt upright, her mouth set with sudden determination.
‘I don’t have to do this,’ she said aloud ‘and I won’t. I’m going to cut my losses and get out of here. Back to sanity. Back to safety.’
Although she didn’t want to examine too closely the exact nature of the danger she was in, or its current depth.
She pushed back the sheet, and swung her legs to the floor.
She could leave right now, before anyone was any the wiser, she told herself. If she was quick—and quiet—she could be miles away before she was even missed. Her packing, after all, was done. All she needed was to put her bags in the rented Fiat—and drive.
And Violetta was unlikely to disturb her for several hours. Not when Clare had left her the previous evening with the excuse that she needed an early night to prepare her for the coming ordeal.
‘Such an ordeal.’ Violetta had cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Most girls would give anything to take your place.’
‘But I’m not most girls,’ Clare had returned, kissing her cheek.
She’d been relieved to find that Violetta’s sudden spurt of ill-temper had been short-lived, and that her godmother had soon reverted to her usual charming self once they were back at the Villa Rosa.
But I still don’t fully understand what was going on, she admitted frowningly, as she grabbed some undies and a plain cream skirt and top and headed for the bathroom.
But Violetta’s vagaries had to take second place in the scheme of things, as Clare showered and dressed and made her plans.
Returning to Rome was probably her safest bet, she thought, grimacing. It would be easier to stay hidden in a crowd—always supposing anyone was to come looking for her…
There she’d find a travel agent, and buy herself any ticket on any flight back to the UK.
She would leave a note for her godmother, saying simply that she’d changed her mind, and gone away to avoid embarrassment. She only hoped Violetta’s invitation to the Villa Minerva would still stand in her absence, as she was clearly looking forward to it with keen anticipation.
After all, it’s not her fault that I’m reneging on our bargain, she thought defensively. Although Guido Bartaldi might not see it that way. He would not be pleased to find his arrangements for Paola jettisoned like this.
But—in every war there were bound to be casualties. And she regarded her dealings with Guido Bartaldi as war-like in the extreme.
But the problem of Paola remained, of course, she admitted, biting her lip. Especially now that Fabio was around again to muddy the waters.
Paola was still little more than a child, after all. She didn’t deserve to be left to the tender mercies of a man who was marrying her for commercial reasons—whether he was a confidence trickster, or a member of the Italian nobility, she added with a certain violence.
No, she didn’t like the idea of leaving the girl in the lurch, but what choice did she have? Her own peace of mind had to be her priority.
I’ll write to Violetta, she promised herself guiltily. Warn her about Fabio. She’s been targeted by men like him ever since she was widowed, and she’s seen them all off. She must be able to find some way of bringing Paola to her senses.
As she made her way quietly down the stairs, she could hear faint clattering from the kitchen regions, signalling that Angelina had started her day.
She opened the heavy wooden door with exaggerated care, wincing as the hinges creaked, and edged round it into the bright morning sunlight.
For a moment she was dazzled, and blinked. When she could see again, she realised there was a car parked at the foot of the steps—something long, dark and sporting.
And leaning against its bonnet was someone tall, dark and definitely unsporting.
Guido Bartaldi, totally at his ease, and looking as if he had all the time in the world.
Shock and disbelief turned her to stone. She stood, staring down at him, lips parted in silent horror.
‘Buongiorno.’ He looked up at her, and smiled, and she felt her heart turn over. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’
She found her voice. It emerged with something of a croak. ‘What—what are you doing here?’
‘I
