Once again she and Jon had dinner with the Fioris, and Beatrice was too tired to protest when Lucia reminded her that she would be calUng for her again in the morning.
CHAPTER NINE
^THERE'S something different about you/
Jon frowned as Beatrice tied the bow tie of the dinner-suit she had buUied him into buying.
Tonight they were dining formally with the Fioris at a dinner party given to introduce Jon to their friends.
*It*s my hair/ she told him self-consciously. Even now she was not used to the shock of her new appearance.
Lucia's stylist had cut her hair to shoulder length in a blunt bob that showed off its colour and curl. He had blown it softly into a style that seemed to make her eyes look enormous and her cheekbones very high. It was the sort of style she had seen in fashion magazines and had never thought suitable for herself.
'I like it. And your eyes look different as well.'
The beautician at the salon had shown her several new ways of applying her make-up, so that it looked both natural and effective.
Tonight she was wearing the peach evening two-piece, and every time she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror she was bemused by her own reflection. She looked so different, so... so sophisticated and attractive, she decided on a sudden spurt of defiance. Under Lucia's tutelage she was learning to believe that a woman did not have to be tall and reed-slender to be physically attractive, and as she
and Jon went downstairs to the foyer, the admiring looks she received confirmed that Lucia had been right.
One man walking past her even leaned towards her to murmur caressingly, 'Bella. .. bella ...' and she had to blink away the sudden film of tears blinding her as she tried to fight down the memory of Elliott calling her 'Bella Bea'. Only he had not meant it, had he?
The other guests at the dinner party were all Italian and all connected with the operatic world, but Beatrice found herself far from bored. For a start her dinner partner was a very romantic-looking young tenor, who scarcely took his eyes off her all through the meal; very heady stuff for a young woman used to thinking of herself as unattractive to the male sex, and Riccardo was certainly just as handsome as any of the male actors that Lucilla brought home.
She had enough experience of her parents* dinner parties to be discreetly flattering when necessary, judging that operatic egos were probably no less in need of the odd adulatory massage than thespian ones.
After dinner she learned from Jon that progress on the new opera was going well, and that he and Carlo found themselves in excellent accord, and all in all by the end of the evening Beatrice felt as though she had come a long way from the woman who had stood in her bedroom and wept over her brother's unthinking reinforcement of her own view that she lacked any of the feminine assets necessary to keep EUiott by her side.
She wasn't completely deluding herself, though, she reflected as she and Jon were driven back to their hotel by Carlo. She might, through Lucia's kindness, have come to appreciate her own worth as a woman, but that did not alter the way she felt about Elliott—nor his lack of feeUngs for her. As always when she thought about him she felt a deep ache begin inside her.
They had reached the hotel. Beatrice suppressed a yawn as Carlo helped her out of the car. It was almost two o'clock in the morning. What time would that make it at home? she wondered muzzily.
Tomorrow she really ought to telephone them and check that Henrietta was coping. Still, at least they would not be worrying about her; they knew from her note where she was and with whom. She. struggled to suppress another yawn, and blushed guiltily as she saw Carlo watching her in amusement.
'Vm sorry, but I'm just not used to late nights,' she apologised.
*A situation which I suspect will be remedied before your visit is over,' Carlo teased.
He had not been blind to the attentions his young tenor had been paying Beatrice during dinner. *Ric-cardo asked me where you were staying,' he told her.
*Carlo, I've just had a thought about the second act,' Jon interrupted. 'Do you have time to discuss it with me now?'
*But of course. I shall come up to your suite with you.'
Beatrice left the two men outside the door to Jon's suite. Her own bedroom was only a few yards
down the corridor, but she hked the way that Carlo waited until she was safely inside before following Jon. There was no doubt about it, Italian men knew how to make a woman feel cherished.
Dreamily she removed her make-up and then brushed her hair, admiring the way it immediately curved back into its new style.
She had a leisurely bath, soaking in the rose-scented water and then patting herself dry with the luxuriously thick towels supplied by the hotel, before putting on the new nightdress that Lucia had secretly added to her Hngerie purchases as a surprise present.
The nightdress was made in fine silk crepe-de-chine in the softest apple green. Delicate straps supported the bodice which modestly just covered the upper curves of her breasts, but at the back it dipped right down to the base of her spine before falling to the floor. There was a bias-cut jacket that went with it, which also dipped to a point at the back, just low enough to cover the flesh exposed by the nightdress.
She had just finished moisturising her face when she heard a knock on her bedroom door. Frowning, she went to answer it.
'It is only me. Carlo,* she heard the Italian call softly to her through the door. * Jon has some notes he would like you to type up for him first thing in the morning, on the amendments to the second act. May I come in?'
Beatrice opened and door and let him in.
There was nothing remotely sexual or intimidating about the smile Carlo gave her; indeed she might have been fully clothed for all the attention
L
he paid to her silk-clad body, and once again she applauded the Italian male for his subtle ability to convey so much with just a single look. Carlo's look to her said that she was a very attractive young woman, whom he, a happily married older man, saw as adopted niece or goddaughter.
These are Jon's notes,' he told her, producing several sheets of scribbled paper. *I believe you have a portable typewriter with you?'
*Yes. I know Jon's appointment with you tomorrow isn't until eleven, so I shall have them ready for him in plenty of time.'
Beatrice was just about to make a comment on how great a fraud she felt in accompanying Jon, when she was silenced by a determined rap on her bedroom door.
Her first thought that it must be Jon was speedily despatched when she heard the unmistakable and decidedly harsh sound of Elliott's voice calling to her through the door.
'I know you're in there, Beatrice. Open this door!'
She was frozen to the spot, unable to comprehend that Elliott was actually outside, that he had actually followed her out here to Florence. Joy warred with apprehension, her face clearly betraying her thoughts as Carlo watched her in sympathetic understanding, inwardly reflecting that he was glad that he was no longer so young and vulnerable. All his energies were absorbed by running the opera company, and he was glad to be able to relax in the knowledge that Lucia was the loving and understanding partner that she was.
*I think you'd better let him in/ he said softly, ^because if you don't I suspect he will find his own method of entry.'
The thought of having to explain to the hotel how her door-lock came to be forced was enough to galvanise Beatrice into action.
A pretty flush warmed her skin as she hurried over and unlocked the door.
Elliott pushed past her and stormed in, leaving her to close the door behind him as he turned to face her. He looked hot and tired, she noticed, his suit jacket rumpled, and his skin bearing the telltale signs of exhaustion.
*Now perhaps you'd be kind enough to tell me just what the hell's going on.'
Whatever his reason for coming to find her, it wasn't love, Beatrice decided, flinching away from his anger, watching his eyes darken and the betraying white Une of temper harden round his m
outh.
'I thought that you at least had some sense,' Elliott went on, *but no, it seems that you're as idiotic as the rest of your precious family!'
He was bellowing at her as though she had gone deaf, Beatrice realised furiously, her own anger rising to meet his. Did he honestly think he could seduce her, walk away from her, and then turn up here shouting in anger at her, without even telling her what it was she was supposed to have done wrong?
^Elliott...'
'No wonder you ran away! You just couldn't wait to tell them, could you? It was a pity you weren't there to see the results of your duplicity. One of
these days Benedict is going to make a good actor; at the moment he appears to relish some of his roles a little too much. I never thought you were a coward, Beatrice. All you had to do was tell me you didn't want to see me again. There was really no need to go to the theatrical lengths of running away and getting your brother to tell me.'
Beatrice was completely at sea. She couldn't comprehend what Elliott was saying to her, but that didn't seem to matter. What did matter was that he had stormed into her bedroom and was berating her as though he hated the very sight of her.
As though in confirmation of her thoughts he advanced on her with gritted teeth and said furiously, 'I'd Hke to take hold of you and...' '
The effect on Elliott of the gentle sound of Carlo's discreet cough might have been quite entertaining in other circumstances. He stopped speaking and stared across at him as he stepped out of the shadows, his eyes going from Beatrice's nightdress-clad body to Carlo's calm smile and then narrowing.
For no reason at all Beatrice had a vivid mental image of the blonde clinging so possessively to his arm as he left Heathrow, and, on a sudden spurt of inventiveness, worthy of any Bellaire, she ran to Carlo's side, tucking her arm through his and clinging to him in a way that she hoped left no doubt in Elliott's mind that she had replaced him.
If he could discard her so quickly for another woman—well, she could do the same!
Carlo, always the impeccable gentleman, played up to her as calmly as though the whole thing had been rehearsed, and without giving either her or
Elliott an opportunity to speak said firmly, 'Signore, you are upsetting a very beautiful lady, and that I fear I cannot allow. Permit me to send for the manager to escort you to your room, since you are clearly mistaken in thinking yourself welcome in this one/ He turned to Beatrice, squeezing her arm gently. 'Now, cara, do not upset yourself. You know I hate to see those pretty eyes marred by tears. Come, you get into bed. I shall deal with... this gentleman.'
Beatrice dared one brief look at Elliott, then closed her eyes, wishing she had not. He was a man in the grip of a violent rage. She could see him almost visibly grinding his teeth, his face suffused with a dark tide of colour that threatened imminent loss of self-control, but he was also too intelligent not to understand what Carlo was saying, and so, with a curt, This isn't going to be the end of this,' he turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.
For nearly a whole minute Beatrice couldn't speak, and then when she tried to she was shaking so much that her teeth chattered. Carlo discreetly led her over to a chair and pushed her gently into it.
'That, I take it, is the reason my wife is so concerned about you?' he asked mildly, and as she looked at him Beatrice realised exactly what she had done and she stared at him in appalled embarrassment.
Trying to find the words to apologise and explain was impossible, but fortunately Carlo seemed to need no explanation.
L
* I see it is true what they say about your colour of hair, signorinay' he said with a charming smile-'However, I must also confess that there was a great degree of provocation. A man who cannot see when a woman is deeply in love with him deserves to be-Ueve that he has been replaced in her affections, no?* he chuckled, and added thoughtfully, 'However, I must warn you that he did not strike me as a man who will take such a blow with fortitude, and I doubt that he will be deceived for very long.'
Beatrice couldn't speak for her mortification. It must be something about the Italian air that was affecting her like this. She had never in'her whole life done anything so out of character, and all she could do was to blame her Bellaire genes and mentally thank her lucky stars that Carlo was so understanding.
It took her a long, long time to get to sleep. She typed up Jon's notes to restore a sense of calm and then, once she had overcome her own shock and shame, she started to recall what Elliott had said to her.
Of course Ben would have told him that she didn't want to see him again simply to protect her, but why should that make him so angry? She would have thought it would have been the ideal get-out for him, a discreet ending to an interlude that should never have begun.. .would never have begun if she hadn't been so fooUsh as to fall in love with him.
Perhaps he was angry because Ben had spiked his guns and denied him the pleasure of parading her folly in front of them all. But no, that was too theatrical and out of character for Elliott. The mere
fact that he knew of her vulnerability would be sufficient for him. He was not a man who cared about the opinions or views of others, and certainly not the opinions or views of the Bellaire clan. So why was he so furious?
She hoped she would never have to know. Once he realised she had another lover, surely he would return home, absolved from his responsibility for her. Surely once he realised there was someone else in her hfe, he would be reheved that there were to be no emotional repercussions from their brief affair...
As a consequence of her anguished thoughts she overslept, and was woken from a hauntingly emotional dream, in which Elliott was begging her to forgive him, by Jon calling to her through her bedroom door.
She leapt out of bed feeUng thoroughly disorientated, relieved that she had decided to type up his notes before going to bed, and calling to him that she would be ready in ten minutes.
When she eventually joined him he seemed rather tense and on edge, and it seemed that while she overslept there had been a change of plan.
*I am meeting Carlo at a villa he owns near the coast,' he told her. 'It is very secluded, and he says that we can discuss my alterations to the score there without being interrupted. He is sending a car and a driver to take us there. He will be here in half an hour.' He chewed on his bottom Up and added awkwardly, *Oh, and you'd better pack a few things.'
He saw her start of surprise and informed her, *We may have to stay a couple of days, depending on how the alterations go. He had changed his mind
about my amendments to the second act. He doesn't like them, and there will be a considerable amount of work to do on them/
Beatrice blinked. It seemed that an awful lot had been going on while she was sleeping, but she was too used to the vagaries of the artistic temperament to comment, and it also struck her that Lucia's hand might be behind this move to get her away from Florence. Tucked away in the Fioris' villa, there would be little chance of Elliott catching up with her. Not that she felt he would try to after last night's debacle. Even now she felt her skin flame with embarrassment when she remembered what she had done. How could she? Why on earth hadn't she simply faced up to Elliott and told him quietly that she knew that he had deceived her? Why all the histrionics? Deep down inside she knew why... pride. She hadn't wanted him to know that she had beUeved in him, that he had hurt her...
Her suspicion that Lucia had had a hand in events was reinforced when a maid appeared and announced that she had come to pack a case for her. Jon had ordered her some breakfast in his suite, and she went with him, having made sure that the maid knew to pack her portable typewriter.
Jon's tension was something she could understand in view of Carlo's change of heart about the second act of the opera, so she set herself the task of calming him down and reassuring him as she drank her coffee and ate fresh fruit and a croissant
At eleven o'clock the telephone rang to announce that their car had arrived.
Jon carried
their cases downstairs, handed them over to the uniformed chauffeur, then climbed into the back of the car with her.
The journey was a long one, almost two hours, the countryside they passed through mainly agricultural and empty of habitation.
At last Beatrice saw the ghmmer of water in the distance and realised that they must be nearing their destination.
The villa was long and low and surrounded by well tended vines, although there was no one inside when the car stopped outside it. The chauffeur got out and removed their cases; Jon and Beatrice followed.
It was hotter here than in Florence, and Beatrice was glad to get inside. Her high heels rang loudly on the terrazzo tiles of the hallway as she followed the chauffeur up the stairs.
He stopped outside one of the bedroom doors and then pushed it open, gesturing to Beatrice to precede him.
She was in a pleasantly sized bedroom with a view over the back of the villa and the distant sea. She could smell herbs and dried lavender, and in the furnishing of the room she recognised Lucia's clever hand.
Here there was none of the expensive elegance of the Florence villa. Bare floorboards gleamed under a patina of wax, built up over many generations. Cool muslin draperies floated at the open window. The furniture was cherrywood and very traditional: the large bed had a polished wooden frame with head and tail boards and was matched by a soUd wardrobe and a large chest of drawers with a mirror.
A rocking-chair with a quilted cover in the same pastel cottons as the comforter on the bed moved gently in the same breeze that wafted the curtains.
This was a room that was redolent of the rich pageantry of life, Beatrice reflected. Generations had been born and had died in this room; she knew it without knowing why she had the knowledge. Joy and pain mingled with the elusive fragrance of lavender, tears and laughter.
The chauffeur had gone, presumably to take Jon's case to his room. In the distance she heard a car coming down the narrow track that led to the villa and knew it must be Carlo. Jon had already told her that Carlo had an appointment which prevented him from traveUing with them.
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