The Santangeli Marriage

by Sara Craven

  The circumstances…

  She had to admit it was pleasant having a scented bath drawn and waiting for her, but the size of the deep, wide tub she was lying in, together with the twin washbasins and another of those king-size walk-in showers, its glass panels etched with flowers, all served to remind her that this bathroom had been specifically designed for dual occupation.

  And that sharing this space with Renzo was yet another intimacy of marriage she would have to learn. And quickly.

  What was more, she reflected as she dried herself, it was a space that had too many mirrors for her taste, with far too many naked Marisas reflected in them.

  She gave the nearest image a fleeting glance, a hand straying to the curve of her breast as she remembered the other fingers that had touched it—the sensuous mouth that had brought the nipple to vibrant, aching life.

  Recalled too the brief force of his body inside her own all those months ago. The moment when she’d realised she did not want his possession of her, however curt and perfunctory, to stop.

  Acknowledged, without pride, that even the thought of it had caused her unfulfilled body to burn—to scald—with need ever since.

  Which had always been an excellent reason for not thinking of it, she thought wryly as she rubbed body lotion in her favourite scent into her skin and put on fresh underwear.

  But now, once again, as the events of the past half-hour had taught her, she had no choice. Because, as he’d proved in one succinct lesson, she could no longer pretend indifference to him.

  It was not simply a matter of keeping the strictly conditional promise she’d made him in London that morning. Not any more.

  No longer a granting of permission to take what he wanted, but no more.

  Nor a private but steely resolve that, no matter what he did, she would somehow maintain her stance of indifference. Hold herself aloof from any possibility of genuine intimacy between them.

  That was no longer possible.

  Because, for good or ill, she’d been brought here to live with him as his wife. And this time it was the whole package.

  Although nothing had fundamentally changed, she reminded herself painfully. Renzo might have proved beyond doubt that he could arouse her to the point of no return—but then, after their past encounters, his pride would demand no less.

  Our real marriage. Renzo’s own words, she thought. But without love they were meaningless. Nothing more than an invitation to sexual satisfaction.

  But it wasn’t just his lovemaking that would hold her in thrall to him. It was this enforced proximity of everyday living that was the actual danger to her heart, just as it always had been.

  Because she’d already undergone a crash course in the subject of Renzo Santangeli during her earlier time in this house, and she hadn’t forgotten a thing.

  Even before she’d discovered desire she’d learned to crave his company, judge his moods, bask in his kindness—and to feel only half-alive when he wasn’t there.

  The sound of his voice in the distance had always been enough to set her heart racing. But apart from that moment of supreme lunacy in the swimming pool, she’d always managed to hide all the myriad feelings she had for him. Even, for a long time, to pretend they did not exist.

  But now she had to share these admittedly spacious rooms with him, when, apart from sex, all he’d ever offered her was friendship.

  So she would have to be careful never to hint by word or gesture that she might want much more, because that could lead to another rejection. And that would be—unendurable.

  These are the circumstances, she told herself. And somehow I have to abide by them.

  And sighing, she walked back into her bedroom.

  She’d planned to wear her hair loose, as usual, but the waiting Rosalia was quite adamant about transforming it into a skilfully casual topknot, with a few soft strands to frame the face.

  It provided a distinct touch of elegance, she discovered when it was done, and Rosalia was smiling and nodding.

  And heaven knows, Marisa thought, as she applied a touch of soft pink to her mouth, I’m going to need all the help I can get this evening.

  She found herself wondering a little shyly if Renzo would like her new style, but when he came to escort her downstairs, himself resplendent in a dark grey suit, his pristine white shirt set off by a deep crimson tie, he made no comment, seeming lost in his own thoughts. Nor were they particularly happy ones, if the grim set of his mouth was to be believed.

  But what was wrong? Surely he couldn’t be annoyed because she’d failed to send Rosalia away earlier? He must know that her surrender had only been postponed, not denied.

  Perhaps he, too, was simply dreading tonight’s dinner party.

  Her premonition that this could be a seriously tricky occasion was reinforced into bleak certainty when she entered the salotto at his side and met Teresa Barzati’s inimical gaze, directed at her from a high-backed chair at the side of the fireplace.

  Impenetrably dark eyes swept her from head to foot, taking in every inch of the chainstore clothing, and the thin mouth pursed itself in open disapproval.

  But what did it matter if she was inappropriately dressed when it came in the wake of so many other flaws? Marisa asked herself resignedly.

  The signora herself clearly didn’t do informal. Her own dress was black silk, its sombre magnificence relieved only by the matching emerald bracelets that adorned each bony wrist.

  They were undoubtedly beautiful, and probably priceless, but Marisa found their brilliance oddly barbaric, and totally at odds with the general severity of the older woman’s appearance.

  ‘So you have decided to come back, Marisa,’ was Nonna Teresa’s eventual greeting, accompanied by a faint sniff. ‘I suppose we must be gratified that you have at last remembered where your duty lies. And hope that you do not forget again.’

  There was an appalled silence. As Marisa gasped, her face reddening with mingled indignation and embarrassment, Renzo’s hand closed over hers.

  He said softly, ‘But my grandmother forgot to say, Maria Lisa, how delighted she is to see you again.’ He looked at the older woman. ‘Is that not so, Nonna?’

  There was a pause, then Signora Barzati gave an abrupt jerk of the head that might have been interpreted as a nod.

  Guillermo came surging forward at this juncture, offering Marisa an aperitivo and telling her pointedly how pretty she looked.

  She was grateful, but hardly reassured, as she took a seat on one of the long sofas beside Ottavia Alesconi, chic in amethyst linen.

  She’d hardly expected a full-frontal attack, she thought shakily. But clearly Renzo knew that his grandmother would be unable to resist some biting remark, and had been prepared for it.

  Well, she’d done her worst, and now it was over, so perhaps they could all relax. Perhaps…

  Yet when Emilio, her father-in-law’s stately major-domo, eventually announced dinner, and although the food was delicious, as always, the atmosphere in the dining room was far from celebratory.

  On the contrary, everyone seemed on edge still. Apart, that was, from Signora Barzati, who had commandeered the hostess’s chair at the foot of the table—to Guillermo’s open but silent annoyance—and was conducting a series of majestic monologues on the political situation, the iniquities of the taxation structure, plus the continued and unnecessary influx of foreign residents.

  And no prizes for guessing who falls into that category, Marisa thought, trying to feel amused but not succeeding. She glanced across at Renzo, seated opposite, and realised he was already watching her, his mouth still unsmiling, but the golden eyes heavy with hunger. And something more. Something altogether less easy to define, she thought, as swift, shy heat invaded her face.

  She would almost have said he was anxious—uncertain. But that was absurd, she told herself. After all, only a few hours before she’d betrayed herself utterly in his arms. And now she had nowhere left to hide. No more excuses to deny him the compl
ete physical response he would soon demand from her.

  When dinner ended, they were about to move back to the salotto for coffee, but Guillermo, who was looking tired, made his apologies and announced his intention to retire.

  ‘Forgive me, my child.’ He kissed Marisa on the forehead. ‘We will talk together tomorrow.’ He turned to Renzo. ‘A word with you, my son? I promise I will not detain you too long from your wife’s company.’

  ‘My dear Guillermo.’ Signora Barzati’s tone was acid. ‘You are joking, of course. After the events of the past year, that can hardly be an issue.’

  ‘Basta!’ He gave her a look of hauteur. ‘I believed we had agreed to leave the past alone and look only to the future. I ask you, my dear mother-in-law, to remember that.’

  She shrugged and turned away, walking into the salotto ahead of Marisa and Signora Alesconi, and resuming the seat she had occupied before the meal.

  There was an awkward silence, rendered even more difficult when the coffee was brought in and the tray placed almost pointedly on a table beside Marisa. A move the signora observed with raised eyebrows and tightly compressed lips.

  Then the door closed behind Emilio, and the three women were left alone.

  By some miracle Marisa managed to pour coffee from the heavy pot without spillage or any other accident, and once they were all served Ottavia Alesconi immediately embarked on a flow of light, almost nervous chat, talking of a book she had just read, the coming opera season at Verona, and a new young designer who had taken Milan’s fashion world by storm.

  ‘Perhaps we should engage his services for Marisa,’ said Nonna Teresa coldly, when the younger woman paused. ‘She is clearly in need of someone’s guidance. Someone to explain to her that Santangeli wives do not dress like penniless schoolgirls.’

  Ottavia Alesconi bit her lip. ‘I think Signora Santangeli looks charming,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Charming?’ The older woman gave a grating laugh. ‘She will need much more than charm if she is to sustain Lorenzo’s interest long enough for him to render her incinta.’

  ‘Signora Barzati,’ Ottavia protested, casting a shocked glance at Marisa’s burning face. ‘That is hardly a topic for discussion amongst us.’

  ‘Because it is a matter that should be kept within the family?’ The signora moved her hands and her bracelets glinted in the lamp-light like the eyes of malevolent cats. ‘But surely we can have no secrets from you, my dear Signora Alesconi? Now that my son-in-law has apparently installed you here in my late daughter’s place. And while I cannot be expected to approve of such a situation,’ she added silkily, ‘at least you are a widow, with no husband in the background to create a scandal—unlike Lorenzo’s present mistress.’

  It was suddenly difficult to breathe. Marisa found that the lamplit room seemed to have receded suddenly to some immense distance. She put her coffee cup back on the table with extreme care, as if it might dissolve at her touch.

  The only reality was the cold, scornful voice, speaking with perfect clarity as it flayed the skin from her bones.

  ‘No doubt Doria Venucci’s beauty, and other attributes, have convinced my grandson that their affair is worth the risk.’ Her smile was pure acid. ‘Small wonder, too, cara Marisa, that he has been in no hurry to recall you from England. It is only his pressing need for an heir that has restored you to us at all—as I am sure you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marisa said, in a voice she did not recognise. ‘I—know.’

  ‘But what I must ask myself,’ Nonna Teresa went on softly, ‘is if it is likely that a girl already more trouble than she is worth can prevent Lorenzo from pursuing this disgraceful liaison which could be the ruin of us all. For myself, I think not.’

  Ottavia Alesconi was on her feet. ‘Signora Barzati,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘I—I must protest.’

  ‘You do not agree with me, Signora Alesconi?’ The older woman sounded mildly interested. ‘You are, of course, very much a woman of the world. Perhaps you can use your…experience in pleasing men to give Marisa some tips—advise her on ways to ensure that Lorenzo does his duty and spends his nights in her bed, where he belongs.

  ‘Something she has signally failed to accomplish so far,’ she added with contempt. ‘And I hold out little hope for the future.’

  ‘This is unpardonable, signora.’ Ottavia Alesconi’s voice was ice. ‘I overlook your insults to me—they are no more than I expected. But to turn your venom on an innocent girl—and at such a time—is beyond forgiveness.’

  ‘Venom?’ Nonna Teresa repeated. ‘But you misunderstand, signora. I merely wish her to be under no illusion about the task ahead of her. To appreciate that once she is no longer a novelty for Lorenzo he will quickly become bored and look for other entertainment. If she is prepared for his—diversions, surely she is less likely to be hurt.’

  ‘You are the one who does not understand, signora.’

  She was dying inside, but somehow Marisa got to her feet and faced her adversary, her head high.

  ‘You speak as if this was a love-match. As if Renzo and I—care for each other. But we do not, as everyone must be aware. You pointed out yourself that he married me only so that he could have a child—an heir.’ She lifted her chin. ‘It is a strictly limited commitment that suits us both perfectly. Therefore I do not need illusions, Signora Barzati. Nor do I expect fidelity. The fact that Renzo has other women does not matter to me. Why should it, when I don’t love him?

  ‘And once Renzo has his son, he is at liberty to choose any bed in the world—just so long as it isn’t mine.’

  She turned to the door and saw him standing there, silent and motionless, his face that of a stranger, carved from stone. The golden eyes blank with disbelief.

  She had no idea how long he’d been in the doorway. How much he’d heard. But it had surely been enough.

  A slow knife turned inside her, and she could have screamed with the pain of it. Could have stormed and wept and begged him to pretend—to lie that there was no one else. That for this one brief time he would be hers alone.

  But she could not embarrass him—or herself—in such a way. Could not betray her inner agony.

  Instead, keeping her voice cool and level, she said, ‘Perhaps you would confirm for your grandmother, signore, the practicalities of our arrangement, and assure her that her kind advice, however well meant, is quite unnecessary?’

  She added quietly, ‘Forgive me if I do not stay, but it has been a long and tiring day. I would therefore prefer not to be disturbed—under the circumstances. I am sure you understand.’

  And she went past him, her bright tearless eyes staring into space. Back to the lonely rooms and the empty bed waiting for her upstairs.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MARISA had not known it was possible to hurt so much and feel so empty at the same time. As if she’d been hollowed out and left to bleed.

  She’d claimed tiredness, but she turned back at her bedroom door, knowing that she couldn’t yet lie down on the bed where only a few hours ago she’d been held in Renzo’s arms, her whole body alive and eager with the promise of joy.

  But that was the illusion, she thought, shivering. Imagining even for a moment that she could exist on sex alone. Or his offer of friendship. That she could somehow make them enough when she wanted so much more. When she wanted—everything.

  And now, in a few corrosive, malignant minutes, the impossibility of that had been spelled out to her in terms that left no room for hope.

  That told her she was worse than a fool to think that Renzo’s lovemaking could be prompted by anything but expediency. That he’d decided having her warm and responsive in his bed would simply make his task easier. And then, his duty accomplished, he would return to the glamorous forbidden mistress who’d kept him in Rome all this time, his marriage sidelined once again—for her sake.

  So, for a while, she thought with pain, she didn’t want to go back to that room—that bed. She needed quite badly to be…somewhere e
lse.

  Slowly, her arms wrapped round her body, she went along to the room at the end of the passage. On her previous visit it had been turned into another salotto—their own private sitting room. With a television, and a sophisticated sound system for Renzo’s music collection and an alcove for dining.

  Now it was long finished, the walls painted a restful colour between pale gold and apricot, and the shuttered windows that gave access to the loggia overlooking the garden hung with curtains in plain bleached linen.

  The same fabric had been used to upholster the large, thickly cushioned sofa in front of the fireplace, and after lighting one of the tall lamps Marisa curled herself into one capacious corner, feeling the quiet comfort of the place close round her and wishing it could absorb her completely. That she could just…vanish, and never be seen again.

  Never have to face anyone or try to deal with the wasteland her life had become.

  Now, too late, she could understand the strange atmosphere she’d sensed in the house. It had been the uneasy calm before the storm. Because they must all have feared that Teresa Barzati had come there only to cause trouble.

  I was the only one who didn’t realise, she thought.

  And while Zio Guillermo’s reproof to the signora had provided a momentary respite, it had failed to silence her in the real mischief she planned to make. But then nothing could have done that.

  Zia Maria, she thought bleakly, remembering her godmother’s laughing eyes and the warm, comforting arms. Always there for her. How could all that gentleness possibly have been born from such hating and bitterness? From a hostility that had chilled her from the first?

  Not that she’d been the only target tonight, she reminded herself. Ottavia Alesconi had also suffered from the signora’s malice. But in the scale of things Ottavia had got off lightly.