A Tainted Beauty

by Sharon Kendrick

  Danielle made a minor adjustment to the wreath of white roses which sat on top of Lily’s piled up hair. ‘Oh, Lily,’ she said, her voice as briskly cheerful as it had been all morning. ‘All that will change with time. You’ve got to give yourself a chance. It’s just normal pre-marital nerves, that’s all.’

  Was it? Lily wondered. Her mother’s pearls gleamed softly at her neck and her heart was beating out a strange new rhythm as she gazed at herself in all her wedding finery. Did all brides feel this way? As if they were poised on a very high diving board but not quite sure how deep the water beneath them was? Probably not. But then, most brides knew their husband far more intimately than she knew Ciro.

  She had thought that once she’d agreed to marry him he would want to consummate their relationship, but that hadn’t been the case. He wanted to hold off until their wedding night. He told her he loved the fact that she’d refused him. That it made her different from every woman he’d ever known. He told her that he found it a challenge to wait—that his desire for her was building and building with every day that passed.

  The waiting game was almost over and tonight was the big night—when they would be joined together in the most fundamental way of all. But Lily wished this terrible sense of foreboding would leave her. The sense that something was slightly off kilter. Was it because she still hadn’t plucked up the courage to tell him about her relationship with Tom—even though Tom no longer mattered? She’d kept putting it off and putting it off, unwilling to cast any shadows over the sunny days leading up to the wedding. And now she’d left it so long, it was too late. The bride wasn’t even supposed to see her husband until she met him at the altar—so what was she supposed to do? Text him now and tell him she’d once been engaged to another man?

  ‘I don’t know if I can go through with it, Dani,’ she said hoarsely.

  ‘Of course you can.’ Danielle brushed down the skirt of her blush-pink bridesmaid dress and smiled. ‘Because in a church not far from here awaits the kind of man most women would kill to marry. Think about it this way. You’re in a beautiful city, staying in an amazing five-star hotel overlooking the bay—a hotel which happens to be owned by the man who will soon be your husband. You’re in Naples, for God’s sake—and about to marry one of its most famous residents! It’s normal for a bride to feel scared before she walks down the aisle—but you have more reason than most to do so.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Of course you do! You’re a foreigner here—and it’s going to take a while before you feel like you fit in. Just don’t expect too much.’

  Once more, Lily touched the pearls at her neck. ‘I don’t think his mother likes me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Lily recalled Leonora D’Angelo’s demeanour when Ciro had taken her round to be introduced. The way she had presented two cool cheeks to be kissed, before looking her up and down with narrow-eyed assessment. And Lily had felt like a galumphing giant in comparison to the perfectly groomed and elegant woman who sat dwarfed in an enormous chair.

  Everything in the dimly lit Neapolitan apartment had seemed so fragile and it had made her move carefully, almost exaggeratedly—as if afraid that a sudden move might knock over one of the priceless-looking antiques which adorned the room. And hadn’t there been a noticeable lack of affection between mother and son? Ciro’s cool attitude towards his mother seemed to have been more dutiful than loving. For a moment that had scared the hell out of Lily and she wasn’t sure why.

  ‘She seemed to disapprove of me,’ she said.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief!’ Danielle grinned. ‘No mother on the planet ever approves of her son’s bride—that’s a given! They’re always as jealous as hell until the requisite replacement boy-child makes an appearance. What did she say?’

  Lily stared down at her glittering sapphire and diamond engagement ring. She couldn’t blame the awkward atmosphere on the language barrier since Ciro’s mother spoke English as perfectly as her son. She had just felt wrong. As if her pale, English curves would never fit into the sleek and moneyed world which the D’Angelos inhabited.

  But if she was being honest, it was more than Leonora D’Angelo’s attitude which had given her cause for concern. His cousin Giuseppe, who was to be their best man, seemed to have reservations about her, too. Ciro had told her that the two men were very close—more like brothers than cousins. But over dinner, the handsome blue-eyed Giuseppe had seemed to be studying her intently—as if he was trying to work her out. Or had her pre-wedding nerves just imagined that?

  ‘So are you saying you want me to go and talk to Ciro?’ Danielle’s voice broke into her worried thoughts and Lily watched as her friend walked over to the window and stared out at the blue sweep of the bay. ‘In front of the two hundred assembled guests who will be filing into the church, even as we speak—and somehow explain to him that you’ve changed your mind about marrying him?’

  For a few seconds, Lily allowed herself to play out the scene in her head—imagining the uproar and embarrassment as all the guests turned to one another in horrified question. And that was when she started laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. What was she like? Wasn’t this what she’d secretly been dreaming about, almost from the first time she’d seen him? When her heart had tumbled into a place she hadn’t been expecting—and she had connected with him in a way which had taken her completely by surprise? Wasn’t this the end-product of weeks of frustration and years of yearning—that soon she would have someone to love? Someone who seemed to need all the love she could give him—because she thought she detected a great core of loneliness at the very heart of Ciro D’Angelo. The man who seemed to have everything except for the one thing that money couldn’t buy.

  ‘No, I haven’t changed my mind, Dani. And you’re right. It’s just stupid nerves which made me forget just how lucky I am.’ She stood up and the layers of white tulle fell to the ground in a soft whisper. ‘Come on, let’s go—because I’m not sure whether it’s the done thing in Italy for the bride to be late and I have a very nervous brother next door, who has been railroaded into giving me away!’

  Lily was much too nervous and excited to take much notice of the bustling streets during the short drive to the church and she listened to Jonny and Danielle’s excited comments with only half an ear. But as the car drew up outside the small church she felt a strange sense of approaching destiny.

  There was a sudden hush as she stood in the arched doorway of the small church, dimly aware of the overpowering scent of flowers and the sudden swell of organ music. For a moment she was aware of the enormity of the step she was about to take, before reassuring herself that was perfectly normal, too. Because it was important. One of the most important days of her life.

  Smoothing down her veil, she looped her arm through Jonny’s and began the slow walk down the aisle, aware of the collective turning of heads as she passed the people who were mostly strangers to her. But there was only one person in her line of vision. One person who dominated it all. Who had dominated her life from the minute he’d walked into it on a sunny English day.

  Toweringly dark and impossibly gorgeous—there seemed almost an edge to him today. It was as if the impeccably formal clothes had distanced him and made him into someone different—someone she didn’t really know. He was at home here, Lily thought suddenly. At home among all these sleek and sophisticated people, while she was the pale Englishwoman who knew nobody. Her heart missed a beat and for a moment she felt as if she couldn’t go through with it, her step faltering slightly as her white shoe stepped into a pool of rainbow light which poured down from the stained glass window. She saw Jonny glance at her, his gaze concerned.

  And then the man waiting at the altar slowly turned his head and Lily’s heart fired into life again, crashing against her ribcage so hard that she wondered if the movement was visible beneath her delicate dress.

  This is Ciro, she thought—and felt a soft, creeping pleasure as she walked towards him, looking up to
meet the dark blaze of his eyes as she finally reached him. The man she had grown to admire and to respect. Who had somehow got back her mother’s pearls and sternly told her that it would be a crime if her talented brother didn’t achieve his potential. The man who had done so many loving things to get her here today. Her darling Ciro.

  ‘Okay?’ he mouthed at her, and she nodded, sliding her hand into the waiting warmth of his.

  The service was conducted in both languages and Lily managed to repeat her vows without stumbling—though her finger was trembling as Ciro slid the golden ring onto it. And then the priest was pronouncing them man and wife and the congregation had started clapping and he put his face close to hers, a smile nudging at the edges of his lips.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he murmured.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘More than beautiful. Like a flower. Soft and pure and white—like the Lily you were named after.’

  ‘Oh, Ciro,’ she whispered.

  He smiled. Her face was upturned, her lips trembling with eagerness, but the kiss he grazed over her lips was breathtakingly short and deliberately so. They still had a wedding breakfast and reception to get through before they could be alone as man and wife. And he had waited much too long for this to want to do anything but savour her at his leisure. ‘Come on, let us go and meet our guests,’ he said.

  The reception and the first night of their honeymoon were being held at the Il Baia hotel which had the added pressure of everyone falling over themselves to please Ciro. Lily had wondered if he wouldn’t rather spend his wedding night anonymously, rather than in a place where everyone knew him—but he had shaken his head.

  ‘It means we can slip away from the reception without making a fuss,’ he’d murmured. ‘And it wouldn’t be a very good advertisement for the hotel if the boss spent his wedding night in a rival establishment, now would it?’

  Lily supposed it wouldn’t, and by early evening, she couldn’t have cared less where they were going—she just couldn’t wait to get there. Her face ached from all the photo-taking, she’d shaken a million hands during the line-up and she’d barely managed to get close to a morsel of food, let alone eat any of it. She tried not to be overwhelmed by the vast amount of Ciro’s friends, compared to the small clutch of people she’d flown out from Chadwick Green. And she tried not to feel insecure when she looked at all the beautiful women who chattered so vivaciously, expressively swirling their hands around as they talked.

  At least Jonny seemed to be enjoying himself with a group of Ciro’s younger cousins, while Danielle was certainly getting plenty of offers to dance. And Fiona Weston was eating some sort of dessert called sfogliatella, and trying very hard to find the recipe for it.

  By nine o’clock, when Lily was in serious danger of flagging, Ciro put his arm around her waist.

  ‘I think it’s about time I took you to my bed at last,’ he murmured. ‘How does that idea appeal to you, Signora D’Angelo?’

  She leaned her head against his broad shoulder, thrilling to the possessive note in his voice and to the sound of her brand-new title. She was Ciro’s wife, she thought ecstatically and all her uncertainties melted away. For the first time in a long time she would have someone to lean on. Someone who would be watching out for her as she would be watching out for him. Someone whom she could love and support in turn. Her partner, in every sense of the term. ‘Oh, yes, please,’ she whispered.

  ‘Then let’s slip away—without any fuss.’

  A glass elevator zoomed them up to the honeymoon suite, which was situated at the very top of the beautiful building. As they stepped inside Lily became aware of a large salon with elegant sofas, lavish displays of flowers and a bucket containing champagne which had been placed there for the newlyweds. Terracotta tiles led outside to a flower-filled terrace and beyond that was a breathtaking view of the bay, under the ever-watchful eye of Mount Vesuvius.

  ‘It’s exactly like looking at a picture from a travel brochure,’ she exclaimed as she stared at the dramatic outline of the famous volcanic mountain.

  But the views and the luxury were forgotten the moment her husband took her into his arms, his lips brushing lightly against hers, and Lily could feel his incredible restraint as he pulled her close to his aroused body.

  ‘I feel I’ve waited for ever for this night,’ he said unsteadily.

  ‘Me, too.’ She put her arms around his neck. ‘And now it’s here.’

  ‘And now it’s here,’ he repeated. ‘Are you nervous?’

  She thought about his experience. About what he might expect of her. And once again she felt a brief pang of unease as she wondered whether she should have told him. But how could she come out and say it, especially now? ‘A little,’ she answered truthfully.

  ‘Some nerves are perfectly natural, but I will show you that there is nothing to be scared of.’ His smile was reassuring as he gestured towards the ice-bucket. ‘Would you like a glass of champagne?’

  Aware of an increasing feeling of trepidation, Lily shook her head, carefully removing the wreath of roses and the veil which was still pinned tightly to her head. She hung the veil over the back of a chair and looked at him. Was it madness to find herself thinking that she just wanted to get this bit over with? As if this was a necessary hurdle to clear—so that afterwards they could relax properly and just enjoy the rest of the honeymoon and their life together?

  ‘Can we just go to bed, Ciro?’ she blurted out. ‘Please.’

  His momentary surprise was eclipsed by an intense feeling of satisfaction. Shyness and eagerness—could there be a more perfect combination? ‘Oh, Lily,’ he murmured. ‘My beautiful, innocent bride—for whom I have waited as I have waited for no other woman.’ Ignoring her small squeal of protest, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, his arms sinking into the massed layers of her tulle skirt before setting her down on the cool, marble floor.

  ‘I want you to do something for me,’ he said as he slid the zip of her dress down in one fluid movement and it sank to the ground like a fresh fall of snow.

  ‘Anything,’ she whispered. She stepped out from the circle of the discarded gown so that she stood before him in just her white lacy bra, her thong panties, a pair of lace-topped stockings and matching suspender belt. The high white silk wedding shoes made her much taller than usual and they made her stand differently, too, so that the jut of her hips seemed to be on display, and she saw his eyes darken.

  ‘Let down your hair,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘My hair?’

  ‘You realise that I’ve never seen your hair loose before?’ he questioned unevenly. ‘And somehow it seems symbolic that it should be tonight when you set it free.’

  His dark eyes were blazing with wonder… as if all this was very new for him and of course, it was. And Lily realised just what it was that made marriage so special and profound. He had never done this before and neither had she. Made love to her spouse—which happened to be a very old-fashioned word, but in that moment she felt old-fashioned. And that was how Ciro liked her to be, wasn’t it?

  Lifting her hand to the intricate topknot, she pulled out the first pin and dropped it onto an adjacent table as the first shiny strand tumbled down. Ciro sucked in a breath as the second pin was removed, and then a third—and as each one liberated another thick lock it was accompanied by the tinny whisper of each falling pin.

  His throat was bone-dry by the time she’d finished and his groin was threatening to explode. She looked like a goddess, he thought. Like a creature who represented the fields and the harvest—with that glorious corn-coloured spill of hair.

  ‘Promise me something?’ he questioned.

  Her eyes met his and she tilted him a smile. ‘You know where I stand on promises, Ciro.’

  ‘Ah, but this is one you can easily keep, dolcezza mia. Promise me that you’ll never cut your hair.’

  For a moment, she hesitated. He made it sound as if her long, cascading hair was what defined her—and something
about that made her feel faintly uneasy. Yet the look of appraisal which was making his dark eyes gleam like jet quickly had her nodding her head in agreement. ‘Okay, I promise,’ she said softly.

  ‘Mille grazie,’ he murmured as he pulled her close, framing her face in his hands before lowering his mouth to hers.

  He kissed her until she moaned. Until he felt her weaken in his arms and then he picked her up and carried her over to the bed, laying her down on its centre, before removing her shoes and dropping them to the floor. For a moment he thought of leaving her wearing her provocative underwear. If it had been anyone other than Lily, he would have done just that. But she was not one in a long line of lovers who always tried to outperform themselves in order to please him. He did not need the titillation of seeing her curvaceous body encased in scanty pieces of silk and lace—he wanted to see her naked. To feel her naked. As close as it was possible for a man and woman to be. Because this was his wife. His wife.

  Wriggling his hand behind her back, he unclipped her bra, a shuddered sigh escaping from his lips as her lush breasts were freed of their lacy confinement. Dipping his head, he started to suckle her and a shaft of pleasure shot through him as he circled his tongue around each pert nipple. Hooking his fingers into her panties, he slid them down over her thighs—unable to resist the brief brush of his thumb against her clitoris, smiling at the squeal of pleasure she gave in response.

  ‘Ciro,’ she breathed, her fingers scrabbling wildly at his shoulders.

  Her fervour pleased him almost as much as her body, but he realised that, although she was now naked, he was still fully dressed and so he backed away from the bed.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he instructed as he saw her mouth begin to form a circle of objection. ‘I need to get rid of these damned clothes.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good,’ he said, unbuttoning his shirt with fingers which were shaking like a drunk’s.