The Italian's Bride

Nervously, she plucked at the edges of her gaping cotton robe—an attempt at maidenly demureness that seemed hugely hypocritical, not to mention ridiculous, after what had happened in that bed last night, she informed herself miserably.

‘Have you given some thought to what I said?’

Portia peered up at him through the hank of hair that was falling over her face, hoping it was hiding her violent blushes. In spite of looking swooningly gorgeous and elegant, in beautifully tailored cream trousers and a toning collarless shirt that deepened his tan and the darkness of his hair and heavily lashed eyes, he had sounded just a tiny bit unsure of himself.

He was probably regretting he’d ever asked her to marry him and was wondering how he could get out of it, she decided sympathetically. The elation, if that was what that strange squirmy feeling had been, drained right out of her, leaving her with everything else: the confusion, muddle and stress.

‘No,’ she muttered breathily, telling fibs again because she’d thought of little else. ‘Not yet.’

Emboldened by the way he hadn’t immediately jumped at the let-out she’d handed him on a plate by saying something like, Good, just forget I ever mentioned it, she said squeakily, ‘Just because—because of what happened, you don’t have to go as far as marrying me.’

‘Last night had nothing to do with it,’ he stated firmly, sitting in one of the armchairs, looking unfairly relaxed. It was the truth, after all. ‘It simply proved that there’s pretty strong sexual chemistry between us and that’s a bonus.’

‘Then why? Why should you suddenly want marriage?’ she asked tremulously, and found herself hoping with all her heart—quite probably insanely—that he would now tell her that he loved her and couldn’t possibly live without her.

‘Well—’ Lucenzo rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, steepled his fingers and placed the tips lightly against his mouth. ‘If you look at it logically you’ll see it makes sense. I married for love once; we were both twenty years old at the time. Two years later I lost her. I have never had the least inclination to fall in love again, hence my continuing unmarried state.’

He slanted her an assessing look. ‘Forget romantic clap-trap, Portia, and think about the situation. Free your mind up to see the big picture, if you can. I don’t mean to sound patronising, but you and Sam need this family’s support. Without it, from what I can see, all you can hope to do is merely survive. True, you can have our support indefinitely by simply staying on here, but in your present position you’d be in a permanent state of limbo. You have already said you find it uncomfortable enough to send you back to England and a life of waiting on tables and worrying about adequate childcare.’

Frowning at the way she seemed to be suddenly afflicted by complete dumbness, because he was sure he’d put the facts precisely and succinctly, he asked, perhaps more sharply than he’d intended, ‘Isn’t that so?’

‘Suppose so,’ she snapped back, stupidly hurt because he’d openly stated that being in love with her was the last thing he’d ever think of. ‘But you can let me worry about how Sam and I will survive,’ she muttered chokily, fighting tears as she saw a fairy-tale marriage to the man of her dreams, a man who loved her as much as she loved him, go down the drain.

‘No, Portia, I can’t do that.’ He sprang to his feet and sauntered over to where she was kneeling, her head sinking down into her shoulders. ‘I like you too much, and I respect you. Vito treated you badly and I don’t want to see you or your child suffer in consequence. As my wife you would have financial security, respect. On our marriage I would legally adopt Vittorio’s son. He would be legitimised and brought up here, as he should be. He would have every advantage,’ he stated. ‘Surely you can see the logic in that?’

‘And what would you get out of it?’ Portia asked crossly, swallowing salty tears. ‘Why tie yourself to a woman for life just because you’re sorry for her?’ She wished he’d go away and stop tormenting her. He was looming far too close. She’d got cramp in her legs, if she tried to stand up she’d fall over, and all she wanted to do was to cry her eyes out in private.

But he said, with a trace of gentle humour that made her want to cry even harder, ‘I’m not in the least sorry for you, cara. I just want to take care of you.’ And then he bent down and lifted the gurgling baby in strong capable hands, asking, ‘May I take him? Promise you’ll think carefully of what I’ve just said before you join us for breakfast on the terrace.’

And he was gone before she could draw breath to tell him it didn’t need thinking about because she’d already made up her mind.

She wouldn’t marry him. Of course she wouldn’t. No matter what he thought she wasn’t a charity case, and she refused to be treated like one.

Repeating that to herself all the while she was under the shower made her feel slightly better, in control of her life and of her emotions. She dressed in a pair of pale cream linen trousers and a dramatic red silk shirt, and finished off with high-heeled sandals that gave her much needed added height.

To tie herself to a man who couldn’t love her when she loved him to pieces would be the cruellest thing she could ever do to herself. Bed would be wonderful; there was no doubt about that. But sexual chemistry wouldn’t last if love wasn’t there to cement it, so it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Joining the others for breakfast was the last thing she wanted right now, but for some unknown reason Lucenzo had taken Sam with him, and where her baby was she had to be.

Though perhaps his reasons weren’t entirely inexplicable, she fretted as she descended the stairs. Hadn’t he said he’d adopt Vittorio’s son when they married? If they married!

Maybe he was already beginning to look on little Sam as his own. Her lower lip trembled. That would be wonderful, all she could want, if only they could form a loving family unit.

But he didn’t love her so they couldn’t. And that, Portia Makepeace, she scolded herself, is that! She might be a romantic dreamer but she did have her feet on the ground. Well, one foot maybe.

And to prove it she would tell Eduardo of her decision to leave when she saw him later this morning, she decided as she stepped out onto the sunny terrace.

A table had been set beneath the dappled shade of the old fig tree. A spa

rkling white cloth, bowls of fresh fruit, baskets of bread, jars of honey, tall pots of coffee. And there was laughter, a family warmth she could almost reach out and touch.

They were all there, even Eduardo, who for as long as she’d been here had eaten breakfast in his room. Donatella was holding Sam, her gaunt face wreathed in smiles of pleasure, while Eduardo watched with doting eyes. Even Giovanni was grinning, leaning over to tickle the chortling baby’s tummy. While Lucenzo, his back to her, watched over the proceedings.

Portia swallowed painfully and briefly closed her eyes. Like every Italian family, they adored the new arrival. Particularly in this case. Sam was all they had of the lost Vittorio.

Only her pride, her refusal to be seen as a charity case, her fear of seeing boredom in the eyes of the man she loved when, for him, the sexual chemistry he’d spoken of wore off, as it must, was about to deprive her precious baby of all this love, of his Italian heritage.

Back in England his life would be bleak by comparison. Her parents had made no secret of the fact that they resented the intrusion of a baby into their quiet, boring and rather joyless lives. And her own earning power was low so it could be ages before she could save enough to afford to rent a couple of rooms. Then there would be the question of proper childcare. She would manage it somehow, she knew that, but it would always be second best.