The Santangeli Marriage

by Sara Craven

  She said, ‘The villa—is it in Amalfi itself?’

  ‘No, in a village farther along the coast.’

  His tone was not particularly inviting, but she persevered.

  ‘And you said it belongs to your godfather?’

  ‘Yes, it is his holiday retreat.’

  ‘It’s—kind of him to offer it.’

  He gave a faint shrug. ‘It is quiet, and overlooks the sea, so he felt it would be a suitably romantic location for a newly married couple to begin their life together.’ He added curtly, ‘As he was at the wedding, I am sure he now realises his error.’

  Marisa subsided, flushing. So much for trying to make conversation, she thought.

  She looked down at her slim smooth legs, at the slender pink-tipped feet displayed by the elegant and expensive strappy sandals she was wearing—the same hyacinth-blue as her sleeveless dress.

  Apart from having her hair cut, she’d not been a great frequenter of hair and beauty salons in the past, but that had all changed in the last few days, when she’d been taken to Florence and waxed, plucked, manicured and pedicured to within an inch of her life in some pastel, scented torture chamber.

  She’d endured the ministrations of various beauticians in a state of mute rebellion, and as perfumed creams and lotions had been applied to the softness of her skin she’d found herself thinking that maybe the old joke about ‘Have her stripped, washed and brought to my tent’ wasn’t so damned funny after all. That there was nothing faintly amusing in finding herself being deliberately prepared for the pleasure of a man.

  The beautician had imagined, of course, that she rejoiced in all the intimate preparations because she was in love and wanted to be beautiful for her lover. She’d seen the hastily concealed envy in their faces when they realised the identity of her bridegroom.

  What girl, after all, would not want to spend her nights in the arms of Lorenzo Santangeli?

  If they only knew, she thought wryly, wondering what other women passed their time in similar salons, being pampered for his delight.

  Even that morning two girls had arrived at the villa—one to do her hair, the other her make-up—and she’d been presented with a beauty case containing everything that had been used. Presumably so that she could keep up the good work while she was away, she thought, biting her lip.

  Except that it was all a complete waste of time and effort. Renzo had married her by arrangement, not as an object for his romantic desires, but in order to provide himself with a mother for his heir, because she was young, healthy and suitably innocent.

  Not the kind of fate she had ever envisaged for herself, she acknowledged with an inward pang. But this was the situation, and she would have to learn to make the best of it—eventually.

  And it might indeed have been a step in the right direction if she’d made herself accept that token kiss in church earlier, she thought uneasily. At least they’d have commenced this so-called honeymoon on talking terms. Whereas now…

  Even at this late stage, and if they hadn’t been on a motorway, she might actually have been tempted to request him to pull over, so that she could follow her original plan and offer him some kind of apology. Try at least to improve matters between them.

  But that clearly wasn’t going to happen in the middle of the autostrada, and besides, she had a whole month ahead of her in which to make amends—if that was what she wanted, of course, she thought, her hands knotting together in her lap. At the moment she felt too unsettled to decide on any definite course of action.

  In addition, Renzo might well have his own ideas on how their marriage should be conducted, she reminded herself dejectedly, stifling a sigh as she risked another wary glance at his unyielding expression.

  But no amount of dejection could possibly have survived her first glimpse of the enchanting coastline around Amalfi.

  Marisa leaned forward with an involuntary gasp of delight as she saw the first small town, its white buildings gleaming in the late-afternoon sunlight, clinging intrepidly to the precipitous rocky slopes above the restless sea which dashed itself endlessly against them in foam-edged shades of turquoise, azure and emerald.

  The road itself, however, was an experience all its own, as it wound recklessly and almost blindly between high cliffs on one side and the toe-curling drop to the sea on the other. The rockface didn’t seem very stable either, Marisa thought apprehensively, noting the signs warning of loose boulders, and the protective netting spread along the areas most at risk.

  But Renzo seemed totally unconcerned as he skilfully negotiated one breath-stopping bend after another, so she sat back and tried to appear relaxed in her turn. She wasn’t terribly successful, to judge by the swift and frankly sardonic glance she encountered from him at one point.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, just keep your eyes on the damned road,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Yet, if she was honest, her nervousness wasn’t entirely due to the vagaries of the Costiera Amalfitana. It was perfectly obvious that they would soon arrive at their destination, and she would find herself sharing a roof with him—no longer as his guest, but as his wife.

  And that infinitely tricky moment seemed to have come, she thought, her fingers twisting together even more tightly as they turned inland and began to climb a steep narrow road. Marisa glimpsed a scattering of houses ahead of them, but before they were reached Renzo had turned the car between tall wrought-iron gates onto a winding gravel drive which led down to a large, sprawling single-storey house, roofed in faded terracotta, its white walls half-hidden by flowering vines and shrubs.

  He said quietly and coldly, as he brought the car to a halt. ‘Ecco, La Villa Santa Caterina. And my godfather’s people are waiting to welcome us, so let us observe the conventions and pretend we are glad to be here, if you please.’

  Outside the air-conditioned car it was still very warm, but the faint breeze was scented with flowers, and Marisa paused, drawing a deep, grateful breath, before Renzo took her hand, guiding her forward to the beaming trio awaiting them.

  ‘Marisa, this is Massimo, my godfather’s major-domo.’ He indicated a small thin man in a grey linen jacket and pinstripe trousers. ‘Also his wife, Evangelina, who keeps house here and cooks, and Daniella, their daughter, who works as the maid.’

  Evangelina must be very good at her job, Marisa thought, as she smiled and uttered a few shy words of greeting in halting Italian, because she was a large, comfortable woman with twinkling eyes, and twice the size of her husband. Daniella too verged towards plump.

  Inside the house there were marble floors, walls washed in pastel colours, and the coolness of ceiling fans.

  Marisa found herself conducted ceremoniously by Evangelina to a large bedroom at the back of the house. It was mainly occupied by a vast bed, its white coverlet embroidered with golden flowers, heaped with snowy pillows on which tiny sprigs of sweet lavender had been placed.

  It was like a stage setting, thought Marisa, aware of a coyly significant glance from Evangelina. But contrary to the good woman’s expectations, the leading lady in this particular production would be sleeping there alone tonight, and for the foreseeable future.

  The only other pieces of furniture were a long dressing table, with a stool upholstered in gold brocade, and a chaise longue covered in the same material, placed near the sliding glass doors which led onto the verandah.

  On the opposite side of the room, a door opened into a bathroom tiled in misty green marble, with a shower that Marisa reckoned was as big as her cousin Julia’s box room.

  Another door led to a dressing room like a corridor, lined with drawer units and fitted wardrobes, and at the far end this, in turn, gave access to another bedroom of a similar size, furnished in the same way as the first one except that the coverlet was striped in gold and ivory.

  Presumably this was the room which Renzo would be using—at least for the time being, she thought, her mouth suddenly dry. And she was relieved to see that it, too, had
its own bathroom.

  Turning away hurriedly, she managed to smile at Evangelina and tell her that everything was wonderful—magnificent—to the housekeeper’s evident gratification.

  Back in her own room, she began to open one of her suitcases but was immediately dissuaded by Evangelina, who indicated firmly that this was a job for Daniella, who would be overjoyed to wait upon the bride of Signor Lorenzo.

  All this goodwill, Marisa thought with irony, as she followed the housekeeper to the salotto, where coffee was waiting. Yet how much of it would survive once it became clear to the household, as it surely would, that the bride of Signor Lorenzo was totally failing to live up to everyone’s expectations?

  She’d braced herself for another silent interlude, but Renzo was quietly civil, showing her the charming terrace where most of their meals would be taken, and explaining how the rocky local terrain had obliged the large gardens to be built on descending levels, connected by steps and pathways, with a swimming pool and a sunbathing area constructed at the very bottom.

  ‘My godfather says the climb keeps him healthy,’ Renzo said, adding with faint amusement, ‘His wife has always claimed it is all part of a plot to kill her. But it does not, however, stop her using the pool every day.’

  She looked over the balustrade down into the green depths. ‘Do you have the same plan, perhaps?’ It seemed worth carrying on the mild joke.

  ‘Why, no,’ Renzo drawled, his glance travelling over her. ‘You, mia bella, I intend to keep very much alive.’

  I suppose I led with my chin there, thought Marisa, crossly aware she was blushing a little. And if he’s going to say things like that, I’d much rather he was silent again.

  No one ate early in Italy, and she was used to that, but by the time dinner was eventually served the strain of the day was beginning to tell on her.

  She was ruefully aware that she had not done justice to the excellence of Evangelina’s cooking, especially the sea bream which had formed the main course, and her lack of appetite was not lost on her companion.

  ‘You are not hungry? Or is there something you would prefer?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she denied hurriedly. ‘The fish is wonderful. I’m just very tired—and I think I’m getting a headache,’ she added for good measure. ‘Perhaps you’d apologise to Evangelina for me—and excuse me.’

  ‘Of course.’ He rose politely to his feet. ‘Buona notte, mia cara.’

  She walked sedately to the door, trying hard not to appear as if she was running away, but knowing he wouldn’t be fooled for a minute. But at least he’d let her go, and what conversation there’d been during the meal had been on general topics, avoiding the personal.

  In her bedroom, she saw that the bed had been turned down on both sides, and that one of her trousseau nightgowns, a mere wisp of white crêpe de Chine, had been prettily arranged on the coverlet.

  More scene-setting, she thought. But the day’s drama was thankfully over.

  She had a warm, scented bath, and then changed into the nightgown that Daniella had left for her because there was little to choose between any of them. In fact all her trousseau, she thought, had been chosen with Renzo’s tastes in mind rather than hers.

  Not that she knew his tastes—or wanted to—she amended quickly, but this diaphanous cobweb of a thing, with its narrow ribbon steps, would probably be considered to have general masculine appeal.

  She climbed into the bed and sank back against the pillows, where the scent of lavender still lingered, aware of an odd sense of melancholy that she could neither dismiss or explain.

  Sleep’s what I need, she told herself. Things will seem better in the morning. They always do.

  She was just turning on her side when an unexpected sound caught her attention, and she shot upright again, staring towards the dressing room as its door opened and Renzo came in.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded huskily.

  ‘An odd question, mia bella, to put to your husband when he visits your bedroom on your wedding night.’

  She sat rigidly against the pillows, watching him approach. He was wearing a black silk robe, but his bare chest, with its dark shadowing of hair, and his bare legs suggested that there was nothing beneath it.

  She lifted her chin. ‘I—I said I was tired. I thought you accepted that.’

  ‘Also that you had a headache.’ He nodded. ‘And by now you have probably thought of a dozen other methods to keep me at a distance. I suggest you save them for the future. You will not, however, need them tonight,’ he added, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

  It was a wide bed, and there was a more than respectable space between them, but in spite of that Marisa still felt that he was too close for comfort. She wanted to move away a little, but knew that he would notice and draw his own conclusions. And she did not wish him to think she was in any way nervous, she thought defensively.

  As for what he was wearing—well, she’d seen him in far less in the past, when she’d been swimming or sunbathing in his company, but that, somehow, was a very different matter.

  She marshalled her defences. ‘You still haven’t said why you’re here.’

  He said, ‘I have come to bid you goodnight.’

  ‘You did that downstairs.’

  ‘But I believe that there are things that remain to be said between us.’

  He paused. ‘We have not begun well, you and I, and these difficulties between us should be settled at once.’

  ‘What—what do you mean?’

  He traced the gold thread on the coverlet with a fingertip. ‘Earlier today you implied that I had been less than ardent in my wooing of you. But if I stayed aloof it was only because I believed it was what you wanted.’

  ‘And so it was,’ she said. ‘I said so.’

  ‘Yet if that is true,’ he said softly, ‘why mention the matter at all?’

  She said defiantly, ‘I was simply letting you know what a hypocritical farce I find this entire arrangement. And that I won’t play games in public just to satisfy some convention.’

  ‘How principled,’ he said, and shifted his position, moving deliberately closer to her. ‘But we are no longer in public now, mia cara. We are in total privacy. So there is no one else to see or care what I ask from you.’

  She swallowed. ‘You—promised that you—wouldn’t ask.’ Her voice was thin. ‘So I’d really like you to go—please.’

  ‘In a moment,’ he said. ‘When I have what I came for.’

  ‘I—I don’t understand.’

  ‘It is quite simple,’ he said. ‘I wish to kiss you goodnight, Maria Lisa. To take from your lovely mouth what you denied me this morning—nothing more.’

  She stared at him. ‘You said you’d wait…’

  ‘And I will.’ He leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. ‘But I think—don’t you?—that when you come to me as my wife it will be easier for both of us if you have become even a little accustomed to my touch, and learned not to dread being in my arms.’

  ‘What are you saying, signore?’ Her voice sounded very young and breathless. ‘That I’m going to find your kisses so irresistible that I’ll want more and more of them? That eventually I’ll want you?’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s not going to happen. Because you can dress up what you’ve done any way you like, but the fact is you bought me. Anything you do to me will be little more than legalised rape.’

  There was a terrible silence, then Renzo said, too quietly, too evenly, ‘You will never use such a word to me again, Maria Lisa. Do you understand? I told you I would not force myself on you and I meant it. But you would be unwise to try my patience twice in twenty-four hours.’

  She threw back her head. ‘Your loss of temper doesn’t seem much to set against the ruin of my life, Signor Santangeli. Whatever—I have no intention of kissing you. So please leave. Now.’

  ‘And I think not.’ Renzo took her by the shoulders, pulling her towards him, his purpose
evident in his set face.

  ‘Let me go.’ She began to struggle against the strength of the hands that held her, scared now, but still determined. ‘I won’t do this—I won’t.’

  She pushed against his chest, fists clenched, her face averted.

  ‘Mia cara, this is silly.’ He spoke more gently, but there was a note in his voice that was almost amusement. ‘Such a fuss about so little. One kiss and I’ll go, I swear it.’

  ‘You’ll go to hell.’ As she tried to wrench herself free one of the ribbon straps on her nightgown suddenly snapped, and the flimsy bodice slipped down, baring one rounded rose-tipped breast.

  She froze in horror, and realised that Renzo too was very still, his dark face changing with a new and disturbing intensity as he looked at her. His hand slid slowly down from her shoulder to a more intimate objective, cupping her breast in lean fingers that shook a little. He brushed her nipple softly with the ball of his thumb, and as it hardened beneath his touch she felt sensation scorch through her like a naked flame against her flesh. Frightening her in a way she had never known before.

  ‘No.’ Her voice cracked wildly on the word. ‘Don’t touch me. Oh, God, you bastard.’

  She flailed out wildly with her fists, and felt the jolt as one of them slammed into his face.

  He gave a gasp of pain and reared back away from her, his hand going up to his eye. Then there was another silence.

  She thought, the breath catching in her throat, Oh, God, what have I done? And, even worse, what is he going to do?

  She tried to speak, to say his name—anything. To tell him she hadn’t meant to hit him—or at least not as hard.