The Italian's Token Wife

On cue, Giuseppe appeared, bearing the requisite beverage, and as he placed the tray on the table between them Rafaello murmured something to him. The man nodded, and retired. Rafaello busied himself opening the bottle and liberally filling up the glasses and spreading them around.

Lucia gave a click of irritation. ‘Giuseppe has brought one glass too many,’ she said acidly. ‘It is high time he took his pension!’

Rafaello presented her with her foaming narrow glass. ‘When you are mistress here, you may tell him so,’ he said lightly.

A small but distinct smirk of satisfaction—and anticipation—curled at her scarlet mouth. Rafaello watched it, his face still quite unreadable.

His father picked up his glass and got to his feet. ‘A toast.’ Satisfaction rang in his voice. He was well pleased with his son’s decision to finally see reason, as was his niece. ‘A toast to the new Signora di Viscenti—’

Rafaello lifted his glass. ‘How kind,’ he murmured. There was a slight sound in the doorway to the drawing room and he tilted his head towards it. ‘And how very timely.’

The girl stood there, Giuseppe just behind her. Fierce gratification surged through Rafaello. The girl made exactly the picture he had intended. As the others at the table turned to stare at her she stood there, atrociously dressed, her hair drawn back off her plain face with an elastic band, and—best of all—an open-mouthed baby on her hip. Her expression was completely blank.

Rafaello got to his feet and drew her forward. She was as stiff and unyielding as a board, and almost stumbled. He took her hand, making sure the wedding ring was visible.

‘Allow me to present,’ he said, in a voice that was as bland as milk, ‘my wife, Signora di Viscenti.’

For a moment, as Magda stood completely immobile, wanting the earth to swallow her, there was complete silence. Then, a second later, there was uproar.

It was the old man’s voice that was the loudest. It was like a lion roaring. She could understand not a word, but the rage in it was like a hurricane pouring over her. At her side Rafaello di Viscenti, the man to whom she had been legally joined in matrimony, gripped her left hand in a vice.

Her breath was frozen in her chest. The old man—who just had to be Rafaello di Viscenti’s father, for the arrogance of his head and the similarity of the features argued nothing else—was still roaring. The butler-type was looking as if he’d been hit over the head by a heavy object—and the woman sitting next to the older Signor di Viscenti was simply looking totally and completely incredulous.

For one long, timeless instant there was nothing except the roaring Italian rage of the old man, and then, in absolute terror, Benji started to howl.

Magda jerked her hand free and used it to cradle her son up against her breast, turning away, back into the lavishly elegant drawing room.

What on earth was going on? A new voice had interrupted the roaring—Rafaello’s. His voice was sharper, far more biting, but just as angry. Desperately Magda got as far away as she could, clutching the sobbing Benji to her while she tried to calm him—an impossible task, given the human racket going on out on the terrace.

Suddenly her sleeve was seized. There was an overpowering smell of heavy perfume, and a voice was hissing something at her in Italian. The venom in the words, incomprehensible though they were, made Magda flinch.

‘Please—’ she said jerkily. ‘I…I don’t understand.’

The woman caught breath. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Inglese?’ Then she shook Magda’s arm again. ‘Who are you? What are you playing at? Pretending to be Rafaello’s bride.’ The woman tried to seize her ring finger, as if to check its authenticity, but Magda fielded her off, turning so that her body was between the woman and Benji. He was still howling fearfully.

She tore herself away and headed for the door. Stumbling, Benji still wailing in terror, she rushed across the marble hall and hurled herself up the staircase as quickly as she could, heading back to the sanctuary of the bedroom. Only when she was safely within did she pause to draw breath.

Her first thought was for Benji. He was all but hysterical now, and calming him down took for ever. But gradually, as she sat on the bed with him on her lap, rocking gently and soothingly, his anguished sobs died away. A thumb slipped into his mouth and he began to relax at last.

Magda felt shaken to the core. She might not have understood a word of that roaring anger, but the fury had been unmistakable.

Oh, dear God, what have I let myself in for? Please, please, let me wake up and find myself at home…