Carrying His Scandalous Heir

He caught himself—was that what he was seeking to do? Tempt her to stay with him now instead of heading back to Rome?

Well, why not? Why shouldn’t I suggest she stay with me tonight and head down to Rome tomorrow? It’s a perfectly reasonable suggestion.

But that wasn’t the reason for his question to himself—he knew that perfectly well. The reason for the question was why he should object in any way to Carla getting back to her own life. Because he shouldn’t object—of course he shouldn’t. She was her own woman, with her own life, not in the slightest bit assuming that her life was melded to his—and that was very necessary. Essential, in fact, for their liaison to continue.

So why should I need to remind myself of that?

That question was displaced only when he heard Carla’s answer. Her tone was a little more clipped than usual, the quick shake of her head infinitesimal.

‘I can’t, I’m afraid. I’ve promised my mother, and I don’t want to let her down.’

Was there regret in her voice? Hesitation? As if she were reluctant to turn down his invitation to stay with him longer, issued on an impulse he did not wish to scrutinise beyond wanting their mutual enjoyment. If there was, Cesare couldn’t hear it. Could only hear her turning his suggestion down.

Could only feel the nip of...of what, precisely? Merely annoyance that he was going to have to do without her until they next met up again in Rome? It couldn’t be more than that—he would not permit it to be more.

Making himself give a slight shrug of polite regret, he nodded. ‘Ah, in that case, then, no,’ he murmured courteously.

The turning for the airport was coming up, and he steered off the autostrada. Yet after he’d dropped her off he was again conscious of a sense of displeasure. Even regret for himself, that Carla had not stayed with him when he’d wanted her to, despite her perfectly valid reason for not doing so. He would not wish her to neglect her mother for his sake.

Memory flickered in his mind, and he recalled his own mother. How she had always moulded herself around her husband’s wishes, whatever they had been, always at his side, always compliant.

It was something he recalled again as, returning home after Milan, he busied himself with the myriad items waiting for him at the castello.

Passing the doors of the trophy room—one of a series of staterooms, including the galleria containing priceless artworks such as the Luciezo-Caradino triptych—he paused to glance inside. It was his least favourite room, despite its imposing grandeur, for the walls were thick with the antlers and heads of creatures slaughtered by his forebears and added to copiously by his father.

His own open distaste for his father’s predilection for slaughtering wildlife had been frequently voiced to his mother, and he’d known she’d shared his disapproval, yet never had she criticised his father. She had acquiesced in that, as she had in everything to do with him, subjugating her views to his on all matters.

Her perpetually acquiescent attitude had both dismayed Cesare and exasperated him.

Cesare’s mouth tightened as he walked on into the more recent eighteenth-century part of the castello, where the family accommodation was. Every window of the magnificent enfilade of rooms looked out upon terraced gardens and dramatic views over the plunging river valley beyond, framed by the soaring upward slope on the far side that drew the eye to the stony peak of the mountainous summit.

Instinctively, his footsteps took him to the French windows of the drawing room, and he stepped out into the fresh air, drinking in the vista all around him. For a few pleasurable minutes he stood on the terrace in the breeze-filled sunshine, feeling the customary deep and abiding sense of possession of this landscape—this was his home, his domain, his patrimony. And, whatever the dissensions between himself and his father, he had done his best—would always do his best—to prove himself worthy of his inheritance, to shoulder his responsibilities and carry out all the duties of his title and estates.

r /> Including the most critical of all—to establish his new contessa, so as to continue the bloodline that stretched far back into the past, to safeguard it for the future. When the time came to take that step—as come it must, one day—his choice of wife would be a wise one—that was essential.

Taking one last deep breath of the crisp, clean air, he went back indoors, made his way to his study at the furthest end of the enfilade. Although the windows gave out onto the same spectacular view he’d enjoyed from the terrace, he schooled himself to turn his attention to the stacks of paperwork neatly piled by his secretary on his desk.

Time to get down to work.

A swift perusal of the files and business correspondence enabled him to select his priorities for the morning, and he was just about to open his emails when his eye caught a glimpse of the handwriting on an envelope in the in-tray containing his personal correspondence. For the most part this consisted of social invitations he would sort through later. But the sight of the handwriting arrested him.

He pulled the envelope out of the pile. Stared down at it a moment. It bore an airmail sticker and a US stamp—and Cesare knew exactly who it was from.

It was from the woman he was destined to marry.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘DARLING, HOW LOVELY to see you—it’s been such a long time!’

Carla’s mother’s embrace was reproachful, and Carla felt herself wincing guiltily. It had been a long time since she’d spent any amount of time with her mother. Their last meeting had been several weeks ago, and only for lunch while out shopping.

‘Well, I’m here now!’ she answered lightly, exchanging a careful cheek-to-cheek kiss with her mother. ‘And I’m in no rush to leave!’

She would stay at Guido’s villa for a few days—it would be at least a week before Cesare was back in Rome and she would see him again.

But you could still be in Milan with him tonight if you’d said yes to him!

The reminder was like a little stab. On the short flight down to Rome she’d replayed that brief exchange a dozen times—and a dozen times wished she’d not given him that short, cool answer. Yet at the time it had seemed essential to say what she had.