The Italian's Bride

‘Have you said anything to her?’ Aware that he was clenching his fists, he had forced himself to relax. Were they already betrothed? Was she already choosing her wedding gown? Was he too late to stop this madness?

‘No.’ Eduardo’s eyes had softened, the hand that held his walking stick growing more relaxed. ‘I wouldn’

t dream of approaching her with such a proposal until I had spoken with my remaining son and heard his opinion.’ He had smiled then. ‘Tell me your opinion, Lucenzo.’

He’d asked for it, so he’d given it him. ‘I think you have to be mad!’

Fully aware that once his father had made up his mind nothing would change it, Lucenzo now made his way to his own room, detouring briefly into his study to collect a stiff whisky. He would have to tackle the problem through Portia herself, but only after he’d worked out an approach that would guarantee success. He couldn’t afford to foul up; it was too important.

Would she accept his father’s proposal, he questioned himself as he showered away the stickiness of long hours of travel, turning his face to the jets of hot water in the hope that the fierce onslaught would clear his brain. Logically, his mind told him that any woman would leap at the chance of marrying into one of the world’s wealthiest banking families.

But Portia wasn’t any woman, he conceded as he towelled himself dry with a ferocity that dissipated some of the anger inside him. Though why the feeling of rage hadn’t died down after the initial first seconds he couldn’t quite understand.

Contrary to his first opinion—one that he freely admitted had been cynical and biased—Portia wasn’t out for all she could lay her hands on, and it was high time he made his apologies for that.

He’d thought long and hard about it since he’d been away. He believed her version of events, and his insight told him that if she hadn’t attended Vittorio’s funeral, unwittingly drawing attention to herself, and if that pathetic letter she’d written and his half-brother had ignored hadn’t been found, then the family wouldn’t have known of Sam’s existence. He would stake his life on that.

Worried about his father’s state of health, he’d wanted her and Sam to make the villa their home, but the luxurious lifestyle here hadn’t tempted her to stay on permanently. Hadn’t she already confided that she would be returning to England when Eduardo was stronger? She was sensitive to and caring of other people’s feelings and had found her position here as the mother of Vittorio’s bastard son more than uncomfortable.

But if her position changed?

As the wife of Eduardo Verdi, with her son legitimised, she would have legal security and the respect not only of their high-ranking social circle but of the local people too. Wouldn’t she, if only for her son’s sake, agree to the marriage?

And there was another consideration, he thought as he stuffed his severe white shirt into the waistband of his narrow-fitting black trousers. A consideration that made his guts clench into painful knots.

His father was by no means an old man and Portia was generous and appealing and capable of fiery passion, of bringing out the lustful beast in members of the male sex—as he’d discovered to his cost! So how long would the in-name-only marriage remain just that?

The thought was intolerable!

Lucenzo swallowed his whisky in one gulp. He had to see her, talk to her, before his father made that proposal.

Portia exited the bathroom wearing only a smile. Today had been as near perfect as it could get, she thought, hurriedly blanking out the idea that it would have been even better if Lucenzo had been around. It was Assunta’s regular day off so she’d had Sam all to herself, apart from the pleasure of sharing him with Eduardo for a few hours this morning. And being in sole charge of her baby had given her the perfect excuse to stay here when Lorna had demanded she go shopping with her.

So Lorna had driven off in a huff, muttering about the stupidity of having offspring because all they did was cramp your style, but Portia had known she didn’t really mean it.

Lorna had become her friend, which was pretty amazing, all things considered. And although she never came out and said anything when Donatella made nasty remarks she knew she was on her side—like the time when she’d submitted to Lorna’s wheedling and had silver highlights put in her hair and the straggly ends tidied up so that it swung in a smooth bell to her jawline. The older woman had given her one sneering look and said something about silk purses out of sow’s ears. She’d ignored her, as if she hadn’t spoken at all, but she’d seen the laughter in Lorna’s eyes and caught her audacious wink.

But it wasn’t pleasant, especially now that Nonna had returned to her own home and wasn’t around to keep her daughter in order. And as for Giovanni—well, he was simply a pain. Only this afternoon, as she’d been pushing Sam round the grounds in his buggy, he’d come up behind her, pinched her backside and actually tried to kiss her.

He probably thought that as an unmarried mother she was game for anything! The slap she’d given him should teach him otherwise.

There were rumours among the staff that he was to be sent to the bank’s Paris branch to continue his apparently snail’s pace rise through the ranks. And if that happened Donatella, as his doting mother, would go with him.

But that wouldn’t make any difference to her, because by that time she’d be long gone.

Not that she’d breathed a word of her intentions to anyone. She’d promised Lucenzo she’d wait until he returned and discuss it with him first.

The thought of seeing him again made her stomach turn over and fill up with lot of little jumping, fluttery things. So she would stop thinking of it, of him, stop inflicting this pleasure-pain on herself, do herself a favour and think instead of how to spend the rest of this peaceful evening.

Getting dressed would do for starters, and she rummaged in one of the drawers for clean underwear—daring black satin briefs and a matching bra which made her feel kind of wicked when she wore them. There were several dresses she hadn’t yet had a chance to wear, she thought, and she opened the cavernous hanging cupboard door.

The shabby things she’d brought with her were hidden at the end of the rail; the rest was taken up with the sort of clothes most women would give anything to own. It would be a pity to leave them all behind but she couldn’t, in all conscience, take them. Besides, they wouldn’t suit her Chevington lifestyle. Whoever had heard of a waitress wearing designer jeans teamed with a gorgeous white satin blouse, or a sleek linen suit?

Cutting off a sigh before it could get properly started, she picked out one of the dresses she hadn’t yet worn. It was of soft silk chiffon in gently blending diagonal stripes of cream, soft pink and coffee shades, with a slightly flared knee-length skirt and a sleeveless top with tiny fabric-covered buttons all down the front.

Anchoring the final button, she gave an experimental twirl as someone knocked on the door to her suite. Ugo with her dinner tray, though he was rather early.

In the absence of Assunta she wouldn’t be joining the rest of the family this evening. When she’d asked Ugo for a tray in her room he’d insisted she use Italian, and after many mistakes, prompting on his part and giggles from both of them, she’d managed it.