The Italian's Token Wife

‘Told you what?’

Rafaello’s voice was sharper than he meant. His unpleasant exchange with Lucia made it sound harsher.

‘Told me that I was walking into a human minefield,’ Magda said tightly. ‘Everyone is furious that you married me. Your father, that woman—whoever she is—even the housekeeper and your butler. I didn’t know everyone here would be angry with me.’ There was a tremor in her voice she tried desperately to conceal.

‘They are not angry with you,’ Rafaello answered flatly. ‘They are angry with me. And the only person I am angry with,’ he continued, even more flatly, ‘is my father. You might as well know…’ He took a heavy breath. ‘He wanted me to marry Lucia—she is my cousin, and would like to be Signora di Viscenti and have my money to spend. She worked on him to persuade him she would be the ideal wife for me—and the ideal mother of the grandchildren he is obsessed with having. He sought to force my compliance by threatening to sell his controlling share of the family company. That I will not permit—I have worked too hard for the last ten years to throw away all my efforts just to ensure I am not manipulated into marriage with a woman I do not wish to marry. So I outmanoeuvred him. I arrived the day before my thirtieth birthday already—already married.’

‘To a putana.’ Her voice was even flatter than his.

Rafaello stiffened. Could she possibly know what that word meant? As if she could read his thoughts, she said thinly, ‘A whore—isn’t that the right translation, Mr di Viscenti?’

She started to walk past him. She just wanted to get away. The ugliness around her was choking her.

He caught her arm. ‘You must take no notice of Lucia. She is bitter and angry. She lashed out at you. That is all.’

‘Thank you—but I prefer not to be lashed out at in the first place. You and your cousin know nothing of me or my circumstances—or my son’s.’

His face darkened at her retort. ‘I know that a young girl with a baby and no man to support it means that you were, at the very least, careless about who you chose to sleep with.’

Her expression stiffened. ‘I think I was more careless, Mr di Viscenti, about whom I chose to marry yesterday morning. I definitely should have checked out your charming relations.’

She shook her arm free and walked rapidly away from him. Behind her, Rafaello swore. Then, quickening his step, he caught up with her.

‘I regret that you were exposed to such a scene,’ he said tightly. ‘But I would suggest you remember that you are being paid a substantial amount of money to undertake what you have done.’

She stopped, deflating instantly at his blunt reminder. She stared down at his polished shoes. He was right—and she must not forget it, however economical with the truth he had been about his reasons for marrying her.

‘I’ve done my best, Mr di Viscenti,’ she answered with quiet dignity, lifting her eyes to him. ‘I’ve done what you wanted me to do, when you wanted me to do it. But I really didn’t appreciate that one of my duties would be to serve as a punch-bag for those of your household who are displeased by your marriage.’

Rafaello’s lip curled. ‘Are you asking for more money?’

Her face seemed to whiten under his question. ‘No, Mr di Viscenti, I am not asking for more money. I am asking merely not to be subject to the anger and insults of members of your household. If nothing else, it is upsetting for Benji. And now, if you please, if you would be so kind as to give me my instructions for the day I shall carry them out to the best of my ability. Do you wish me to return to my room?’

‘You may do whatever you please.’ A spurt of quite unnatural anger at her response shot through him. ‘The house and grounds are at your disposal. I am not an ogre—and I have expressed my regret for my cousin’s behaviour. She will be leaving shortly, as shall I. Please make yourself at home.’

He walked away, leaving Magda feeling impotently angry. Slowly the feeling drained away. What was the point of her making a fuss like that? The rich were heedlessly indifferent to others; she knew that well enough. To Rafaello di Viscenti she was nothing more than a tool to be used—hired and paid for. When she was of no use to him she should stay quiet and not make a fuss—whatever uproar was going on around her.

She let Benji slip down to the ground again, and silently watched him busying himself scooping up handfuls of gravel and throwing them down again with a satisfied air. When, finally, he was bored, she took his hand.

‘Come on, let’s go back indoors.’