The Impatient Groom
Page 12
She held out her hand to Rozzano, her eyes brimming with happiness.
‘I love you!’ he whispered, pulling her close.
‘I love you too,’ she breathed, staring blissfully into his blazing eyes.
‘Let’s stay here and make love,’ he urged, sliding his hand to her breast.
‘Let’s party and then make love,’ she suggested, adoring him, thrilled with his hunger. Ecstatic, she pulled away and made for the door. ‘I’m going—with or without you. Decide!’
With a muttered curse under his breath, he caught her up and held out his arm. When she tucked her hand in it, she discovered how tense he was. He wanted her to himself. That was very pleasing.
He fell silent during the short journey along the Grand Canal in their private gondola. They drifted along, the water gleaming like a sheet of black satin, reflecting the lamps and braziers burning on the walls of the buildings. Occasionally a waterbus would chug by, or an elegant motor launch, but otherwise the canal was peaceful.
In the quiet of the night, Rozzano’s hand stole into hers and she imagined they could be lovers from another age as the boat skimmed beneath the fabulous palaces, their huge beamed rooms illuminated by glittering chandeliers.
‘I’m in a fairy tale,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Once I was Cinderella and met a prince. I seem to have avoided the wicked ugly sisters!’
‘Watch out for the wolf.’
‘Wrong fairy tale, darling!’ she said with a giggle. She leaned back against the cushions, entranced by the beauty of the canal, and gripped his hand very tightly. ‘I can’t believe it, Rozzano,’ she confessed. ‘I could burst with happiness!’
‘Prefer it if you didn’t,’ he drawled. ‘Ruin my tux.’
‘We’re coming to the Rialto Bridge. Which is your house?’ she asked eagerly.
So far, he’d refused to show her the Barsini palace, saying they’d visit it when they had plenty of time and she could appreciate it properly.
‘The one with green and gold striped awnings.’
Her eyes sparkled as they drew nearer. It was, she knew, thirteenth-century and therefore smaller, with intimate rather than grand salons. Once it had boasted its own dock, where cargoes had unloaded from Africa and the Orient--gold and silver, brocades and silks, amber and carpets.
‘Next time we come here it will be our wedding day,’ he said quietly.
‘Surely not!’ she said in surprise, as the gondolier manoeuvred the boat to the jetty. ‘We’re bound to be visiting your brother before then!’
‘We won’t have time,’ he said shortly, waiting while a flunkey in velvet knee breeches carefully assisted her onto the jetty. ‘Millions of things to do, Sophia.’
They walked into a hall and Sophia’s first impression was that it shimmered, its ochre walls almost obliterated by gold tissue streamers and green satin ribbons. It was so packed, they could hardly move. Hundreds of people were chattering excitedly, their exotic Mediterranean colouring heightened by the glittering clothes and jewels of the women, and the sharp white tuxedos of the men.
Green and gold predominated in the stunning flower displays hanging from the coffered ceiling, the occasional frond trailing alarmingly close to a tiara or two. She inhaled the air, trying to remember some of her grandfather’s teaching.
‘Attar of roses—can you smell it? Jasmine. Patchouli...and...I think there’s a base note of sandalwood,’ she said to Rozzano, raising her voice above the noise.
‘Alberto will be proud of you! The beams are sandalwood. Warmth and moisture intensify the aroma,’ he replied, speaking with his mouth close to her ear.
They began to push through the packed bodies. Now she could hear the faint strains of a string quartet, playing eighteenth-century music. ‘It’s very lavish!’ she yelled.
Rozzano grunted. ‘Enrico doesn’t stint himself.’
He grasped her elbow tightly and she winced. ‘You’re hurting!’ she complained.
‘I’m sorry.’
She frowned. He looked pale. People were greeting him and staring at her. He acknowledged them briefly but forged on without making introductions, pushing her up a flight of stairs and into a slightly less crowded ballroom, which glowed warmly from the light of a crystal chandelier and hundreds of candle-sconces.
‘Rozzano! My dear brother!’ The two men embraced and Enrico turned to her. ‘So this is Sophia!’ He kissed her three times, holding her shoulders and gazing at her with the same intent stare as Rozzano’s. But his face—although handsome—was softer, less chiselled and his mouth a weaker version. ‘But I am amazed!’ Enrico murmured, turning her face this way and that. ‘She’s not like a horse at all!’
Sophia giggled. ‘I should hope not!’
‘You described her badly,’ Enrico reproached his brother. ‘She’s lovely. How you could say her voice sounded like the neigh of an old mate—?’
‘OK, Enrico,’ Rozzano drawled. His eyes were like slits, belying the bland expression on his face. ‘Enough joking—’
‘Joking? It’s what you said!’ his brother protested. Turning indignantly to Sophia, he explained. ‘I rang him when I saw a rather indistinct picture of you in the newspaper here. He said that there was nothing between you and, besides, you—’
‘Looked like a horse.’ She had managed to recover her equilibrium, but inside she was quaking. Was that really Rozzano’s opinion? ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured sweetly, desperate to put space between herself and Rozzano. ‘I’m going to graze.’
‘Sophia—!’
Too choked to answer, she ignored his ground-out plea and slipped through the crowd, ending up in another room entirely. Immediately she was pounced on by a group of beautiful women who looked as though they might be models.
‘You must be Sophia D’Antiga! How lovely, darling!’ The speaker—dainty and bean-thin, with wonderful bone structure—gave Sophia the triple kiss and stared at her in slightly drunken surprise. ’You look better than I expected! Rozzano told Enrico you were—‘
‘Like a horse,’ she said drily, feeling like one in contrast to this diminutive vision. ‘I know. He doesn’t think much of me, does he? Does the whole of Venice know his opinion?’
The woman laughed prettily, and sent heavy wine fumes in Sophia’s direction. ‘Only family! I am Letizia, Enrico’s wife. How rude Zano has been about you! We were prepared for the very worst! Perhaps you are on the large side, but not quite as unattractive and awkward as Zano said! Why, he said your clothes were appalling and your manners worse! He led us to believe that you might turn up in a home-made dress and department-store shoes! Isn’t he a scream?’
‘Hysterical,’ she agreed, wondering grimly what Zano really thought of her. She didn’t like Letizia much. Beneath that friendly manner was a sly determination to cut the new contessa down to size. ‘I could go back and get my home-made dress and chain-store shoes if you like,’ she offered innocently.
‘You...have such things?’ Letizia gaped. ‘That’s terrible! You must throw them away immediately! Darling, we must do the shops together,’ she continued in her nasal drawl. ‘Pop into Cartier’s, do the Boulevard St-Germain—I need underwear, darling, and it’s the only place to go—nip over to London for lunch at San Lorenzo’s—their amaretto creams are divine—‘
‘I’m awfully busy,’ Sophia broke in hastily. ‘Trying to understand the family finances for a start and—’
‘Good heavens!’ Letizia exclaimed in horror. ‘You can’t deprive Zano of his baby! He adores playing the stockmarket. It’s his passion! He’s had the freedom of the D’Antiga power for some years now. What would he do without it? Let him continue. Men provide, women decorate—and spend the money. And I’m the girl to help you do that!’ she chirruped, flinging up her arms theatrically and dazzling everyone with an impromptu firework display from the emeralds and diamonds around her wrists.
‘At the moment,’ Sophia said firmly, ‘I’m arranging a huge party and that’s taking up all my spare time—’
‘I know, darling; entertaining does cut into one’s personal freedom. I’m so busy this week that I’ve no idea when I’ll have time to exfoliate! Here,’ she said, grabbing a canapé from a liveried footman and staggering a little as she did so, ‘have one of these. And,’ she whispered under her breath, her eyes ogling the footman’s broad back, ‘isn’t that man to die for?’
‘Hunky,’ Sophia agreed, looking at the canapé dubiously. ‘What is this?’
‘Foie gras, of course! Only the best. Eat it up and it’ll give us an excuse to drag him back—’
‘I can’t eat it!’ Sophia cried in outrage. ‘I don’t believe in force-feeding geese till their livers balloon up!’
‘How terribly bourgeois!’ Letizia looked down her nose at Sophia. ‘Personally I never touch the stuff, but then I take care of my figure.’ She cast an expert eye over Sophia’s more generous curves. ‘Take my advice, darling. If you want your pick of the men here, lose some weight. In the wrong clothes, you could look like a tart. Look!’ she screeched suddenly. ‘Zano’s on the prowl for a wife! Poor darling, he’s been searching for someone like Nicoletta for ages. I think he’s found her! Lucky Arabella!’
Sophia followed Letizia’s gaze. A slim wand of a woman had draped herself all over him, as if, Sophia thought waspishly, she couldn’t manage to stand on her own.
‘Why is Rozzano trying to find a wife?’ she asked, fighting a surge of jealousy.
‘He needs an heir, darling. That’s the only reason these aristocratic males marry,’ Letizia said bitterly, knocking back a huge goblet of wine. ‘They can have any woman they want, so they play around till they realise they must produce children for the sake of the family.’
‘Is that what Rozzano’s been doing? Playing the field?’ Sophia asked quietly. And jealousy coiled in her stomach. Of course he would have had relationships. He was too passionate to hold his drive in check. Her eyes flickered with pain.
‘Who knows? He’s too secretive. But Arabella’s ideal for a wife. English, but she’s terribly rich and blueblooded. Family goes back to the Middle Ages.’
‘I imagine everyone’s family must,’ Sophia observed drily.
Her observation was lost on Letizia. ‘She’s my best friend. She’s been renting a palazzo ever since she came to the Carnival and fell in love with Venice. I’d better warn her.’
Sophia stiffened. ‘About what?’
‘Marriage to a Venetian noble. They hate losing their freedom. In a fit of temper and duty they marry and then keep mistresses to amuse them. Wives are baby machines, Sophia,’ she added with telling venom. ‘Take my advice. Marry a poor man. He’ll be after your money, but at least he won’t expect a child a year after your marriage, or run after every pretty woman who crosses his path!’
Sophia sensed Letizia was talking of her own marriage. Although she didn’t like the woman, she pitied her for feeling so unloved.
‘Rozzano doesn’t seem the way you describe...’ she began hesitantly.
Letizia sniffed elegantly. ‘Oh, but he is! He’ll marry for power and wealth as they all do. These places cost a fortune to run. One thing is certain: he’ll never love another woman. Nicoletta was his great passion. Poor Enrico was petrified when she died.’
Sophia frowned, trying to follow the woman’s ramblings. ‘Enrico? Why?’
‘We thought Zano might commit suicide. Think of the shame on the family name!’ Letizia cried in horror.
‘It would have been awful for you to cope with the shame,’ Sophia acknowledged, without even a hint of the contempt she felt for Rozzano’s sister-in-law.
‘Well, that’s Zano for you. Selfish like all men. No, he’ll many someone suitable, get a handful of children and then sneak away for sex elsewhere. They get used to variety and hate giving it up. Why should they, when so many women are willing to oblige?’
Why indeed. The colours in the room swam before Sophia’s eyes, the laughter, gossip and music merging in one mind-numbing noise. Letizia continued sounding off and swaying, but Sophia paid no attention.
Dimly she saw Rozzano enter the room. Arabella was still brilliantly impersonating a shawl over his arm and shoulder and snuggling up with cosy familiarity. It upset her that he seemed perfectly at home with these shallow people. He was a little distant, perhaps, but urbane and courteous.
Sophia watched him, her eyes wounded. Letizia had been so certain of his motives and intentions—and she must know him well. Again the importance of the family had come to the fore. Rozzano did want children—as quickly as possible. Was she to be a baby machine too, then abandoned when boredom set in?
Nausea rose, vile and uncontrollable, to her throat, and she muttered an excuse, hurrying to the powder room which had been pointed out to her when they’d arrived. It was very grand, with gold taps, buckets of ice containing champagne and mineral water, and enormous foxtail lilies everywhere, their sickly perfume making her feel worse.
She sipped some water till the nausea subsided then took several deep breaths and fought for calm again. Rozzano must have joked about her looking like a horse. It was the kind of thing one brother might say to another. She steadied herself. He’d said he loved her.
But then he would, wouldn’t he?
Her lips pressed hard together. He did care; it was there in his eyes for her to see. And he couldn’t have faked his desire, or his lovemaking...
Unless he’d been desperate. And he was a man, for whom sex could be divorced from love.
Pale and shaking, she gripped the edge of the basin. He loves me, she told herself. He loves me.
Although I look like a horse and don’t have a size eight figure like Arabella. Even though we’ve only just met. Even though he adores the D‘Antiga house and would obviously hate to move back into the Barsini palace.
Who was she trying to kid?
She stared at her white face in the rococo mirror. her dark eyes and the slash of cerise lipstick a stark contrast to the alabaster of her skin. She wasn’t beautiful. More like a fool. A sow’s ear in a silk purse.
Anger flowed, hot and souring in her stomach. She wanted to be loved for herself. And for no other reason.
She tidied herself up, smiled with brittle sharpness at her reflection and sallied forth to spend the evening chatting to the least unpleasant of Enrico’s friends: Russian aristocrats in tiaras and velvets, counts and princes in exquisite silk tuxedos and English gentry in their pearls and cameos.
Aristocrats were actually in the minority. Most of Enrico’s guests seemed to be minor celebrities, models and footballers—people who appeared on the front pages of tabloids and in gossip columns. And the atmosphere was heavy with spiteful gossip, with intrigue and open flirtations being the norm.
The champagne flowed, the music swirled, and her head ached and screamed for solitude. But that was the one thing she didn’t want because she’d be forced to think about her future. So she stuck it out, even when the sight of various couples avidly exploring one another’s bodies made her turn away in disgust.
If this was the kind of behaviour Rozzano condoned, they’d find it impossible to live together. Her misery deepened as the party became more raucous and alcohol released the guests from any remaining inhibitions.
Sometimes she saw Rozzano’s head above the throng. But he studiously ignored her—and she him. Much of the time Arabella seemed to be at his side, and Sophia wondered uncharitably if Rozzano enjoyed being eyed as if he were a god made mortal.
Why not? a nasty little voice said inside her head. Men loved to be flattered. Arabella was certainly doing that, with her doe eyes and submissive body language. Sophia scowled.
‘Dance, Sophia?’
When she turned, she almost collided with Enrico’s muscular chest. Something about him made her want to recoil, but she knew it would be bad manners to refuse.
‘Thank you,’ she said politely.
There was a commotion behind her and suddenly Rozzano’s hand was on her shoulder.
Sophia’s eyes narrowed at his blatant untruths. Now why was he trying to stop her from spending time with his brother?
‘She’ll be all right with me,’ Enrico murmured, his eyes glittering hungrily.
‘She’s up early for her Italian lesson,’ Rozzano insisted, steel lacing his silken voice.
That was news to her. ‘Am I?’ she asked, frowning, toying with the idea of quizzing Enrico while they danced.
‘You’re learning the parts of the body. Head, nose, arms...’
She glared, reading the message in his half-veiled eyes. He intended to give her a hands-on lesson!
‘I can teach her more interesting words than that.’ Enrico’s gaze was significantly glued to her bosom. He slipped his arm around Sophia’s waist and pressed his hip hard against hers.
Suddenly she became horribly aware of his sexual interest in her. His scent was overpowering, his pheromones even more so.
‘I’m afraid Rozzano is right. I’d better go,’ she said quickly, glad of an excuse to escape. Her hand went to her mouth in mock dismay. ‘Heavens! I think I’m going to throw up any moment!’
Enrico jumped away in alarm and in grim satisfaction she slipped through the crowd with Rozzano hard on her heels, grateful to be leaving the party at last.
‘Well done. Thought we’d never get away,’ he said with satisfaction.
‘Really? Why did you turn up just when Enrico asked me to dance?’ she asked coolly when they emerged from the watergate and walked to the waiting gondola.
‘I wanted to get you away from him,’ he replied easily. ‘He flirts when he’s had a glass or two of wine.’
Or a bucket of it, she thought uncharitably. ‘So you were jealous.’
‘I suppose so. Do you find him attractive?’
What should she say? That she found most of the people there not to her taste—but Enrico actually made her skin crawl?
‘I could tease you and pretend that I do,’ she said after a while. ‘But that would be a lie. I didn’t want to dance with him. To be honest, I didn’t enjoy myself much,’ she added quietly, omitting to explain that the revelation about Rozzano would have ruined even a wonderful evening.