The Italian Count's Defiant Bride

by Catherine George

  Alicia sat forward, suddenly tense.

  ‘First I need to make it clear that I would do anything to keep Eira and Huw from being hurt. So, to show you why, I’ll start with what happened when my mother died,’ began Bron. ‘Mother had never even been ill, like my father. So it was a huge shock when I was told that she’d suffered a major heart attack and all attempts to resuscitate her had failed.’

  Alicia’s heart contracted. ‘And there you were, all alone and only eighteen years old!’

  ‘Except for Eira and Huw.’ Bron sighed. ‘Mother died just before Christmas, which made it all the worse. When I got back to college afterwards, I was still grieving. A maths lecturer found me in tears in the library while I was doing some research, and when I explained why he took me to his study for a glass of sherry, and mopped me up when I burst into tears again. He was young, and new to the faculty, and hadn’t a clue what to do with me, poor man, so he gave me another sherry—bad move. I’d never drunk the stuff before, so the second glass sent me haywire. When he gave me a kindly hug, my response was so uninhibited—Well, I don’t have to draw pictures, do I?’

  Alicia shook her head. ‘So what happened afterwards?’

  Bron smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t know who was more appalled—him or me. He apologised profusely, but I assured him it was as much my fault as his and ran home, thanking my lucky stars that he wasn’t one of my tutors. He got married a few weeks later, about which time it finally dawned on me that I was pregnant. So you can understand that there was no way I could ruin the man’s life—not to mention his bride’s—with my happy news.’

  ‘Oh, Bron!’ Alicia went down on her knees beside her mother and clasped her hands. ‘Did you tell anybody at all?’

  ‘Only George, when he asked me to marry him,’ Bron took in a deep, unsteady breath. ‘To my relief he agreed that I did the right thing. But he’s always maintained that you deserve the truth.’

  Alicia managed a shaky smile. ‘At least you’ve put one of my fears to rest—I’m not the result of an attack or something.’

  ‘God! Is that what you thought? I’m sorry, darling.’ Bron shuddered. ‘To go on with my tale of woe, I was all for moving out because I was pregnant, but neither Eira nor Huw would hear of it. They were just marvellous. They never badgered me to name the father, and supported my decision to keep my baby. It was even their idea that Eira act as child minder for you so I could carry on at university.’ She paused, her hands tightening on Alicia’s. ‘I owe both of them so much that I’d do anything in my power not to hurt them, or Gareth either. I’m very fond of him. Which means we’ve got to clear this business up so that his pride is salvaged and his parents never know about it.’

  Alicia shivered. ‘That’s why I got on to you straight away for help.’

  ‘In my opinion, the best way to nip the problem in the bud is to acquire a lover asap,’ said Bron, surprising her daughter not a little. ‘What about this Jason you’ve been seeing?’

  ‘No good—he’s history. But, before we get into all that, tell me something I’ve always wanted to know—do I look like my biological father?’

  ‘Nothing at all! He had dark hair and blue eyes.’ Bron smiled shakily. ‘I was so delighted when my little copper top arrived. Your eyes are dark like mine, but otherwise you follow my grandmother, freckles, dimples and all. So in grateful tribute to her genes, I named you for her.’

  ‘Thank you, Great-grandma!’ Alicia jumped up and went off to make more coffee. ‘So, back to the Gareth problem. I don’t happen to have a handy lover hanging about.’

  ‘You have a husband.’

  Alicia spun round to glare at her parent. ‘Don’t go there, Mother.’

  Bron shrugged. ‘I’m just saying that it might do some good if Gareth thought you were back with Francesco.’

  ‘Not for Francesco, though.’ Alicia chuckled evilly. ‘Gareth promised to rearrange his pretty face.’

  Bron smiled. ‘I’m sure Francesco would handle himself well enough if it ever came to that. He was a rugby player too, remember.’

  ‘How could I ever forget?’

  ‘Do you still have his action photograph?’

  ‘No,’ lied Alicia. Not even to her mother would she admit that she hadn’t been able to throw it away.

  ‘Talking of Francesco, let me drive you to the airport on Tuesday,’ offered Bron.

  ‘That’s sweet of you, but no need. The air ticket came with a note saying a car will pick me up on Tuesday.’

  ‘Goodness! Francesco’s obviously determined to make sure you get to Montedaluca.’

  Alicia smiled sardonically. ‘Of course he is. Until I sign whatever legal papers are necessary, he can’t get on with a divorce and marry again.’

  Bron looked thoughtful. ‘Is that what he wants?’

  ‘He hasn’t said it in so many words, but it must be what he has in mind.’

  ‘And, after the divorce, will you think about marrying again, darling?’

  Alicia shrugged. ‘Who knows? Right now I like my life just the way it is.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  FRANCESCO paced the entrance hall at Galileo Galilei airport in Pisa, cursing himself for arriving so early. It would be a long, fraught wait before he knew whether Alicia had actually boarded the plane in the UK. Ignoring the constant ebb and flow of passengers around him, he thought, as he had done almost constantly since, of Alicia in their last meeting at her apartment. In her stark black, self-contained and sophisticated, she had looked so different from the shy, appealing girl he had fallen in love with in Florence. There had been no sign of her enchanting dimples, nor the freckles she had once hated so much.

  Once he had finally ceased bombarding Bronwen Cross with demands to see his wife, his da Luca pride had ordered him to forget Alicia, to put her out of his mind and his life. And in minor ways he had succeeded. There were many beautiful women in Tuscany, and, with the safety net of an estranged wife to protect him from any possibility of commitment, he had allowed more than one of them to soothe the pride scarred by his bride’s desertion.

  But life had taken a sudden, different turn with the death of his mother. This had not only brought him grief, but the surprise of the legacy left to her daughter-in-law. The ticket for the Italy v Wales match had arrived soon afterwards, with an invitation to lunch with some old rugby friends in Cardiff before the match, and he had taken this as a sign that fate was urging him to contact Alicia. And when he had come face to face with her he had been stunned by the change in her, amazed that a woman so desirable had no man in her life urging her to get a divorce. His jaw tightened. From that first moment the mere thought of other men in her life had enraged him. At the party he had exerted much self-control to hide his objection to the male attention Alicia had attracted in that seductive little dress.

  Francesco checked the arrivals board again, and swore when he saw that the plane was delayed. He began his restless pacing again, thinking back to the halcyon days in Florence, when he had fallen deeper in love by the day with the shy young woman who for him had been the epitome of innocence and purity. His mother had long been urging him to marry, and in contrast to the more mature charms of the women he’d known at the time an innocent, virgin bride had strongly appealed to the primitive instincts concealed by the polished façade Francesco da Luca presented to the world.

  His eyes softened. Alicia had been the quintessential virgin bride. The picture of her was as clear in his mind now as it had been when she walked down the aisle of the cattedrale on the arm of proud Huw Davies. In a slim column of satin, with the creamy tint of the roses she carried, the fiery gleam of her hair hidden by a froth of veil, Alicia had looked as pure and pale as one of the lilies wreathing the altar rail. Her ice-cold hand had trembled in his as she made her responses in a breathless little voice. She had been so obviously overwhelmed by the long nuptial-mass, and the even longer wedding feast that followed at the Castello, that he had allowed his exhausted bride to sleep in peace in hi
s bed that night with no more than a kiss.

  How nobly restrained he had been, he thought savagely. He had forced himself to wait for their true consummation until they reached the bridal suite of the hotel in Paris chosen for their honeymoon. As soon as they were alone, even though it was only late afternoon, he had seized his little bride so passionately she had been as eager as he to celebrate their marriage there and then. Francesco clenched his teeth at the memory of his anticipation when Alicia so sweetly coaxed him to wait a little while she got ready for him in their bedroom. He had resolved to take his time, to be gentle, slow, lead her step by step to the joy to be found between a man and a woman. But when she finally opened the door he had stared at her in horror.

  She had let her curls loose in a wild aureole, and painted her face so thickly with cosmetics she was almost unrecognisable as his shy little Alicia. The vulgar black garment she wore barely covered her breasts, and ended only just below the apex of her thighs, the transparent chiffon showing all too plainly that she had even reddened her nipples. For a moment he had been speechless at the sight of his bride decked out like a whore—then, when the words came tumbling out at last in a harsh torrent of displeasure, his command of English had failed him in places. But by the stricken look on Alicia’s face she had understood every word, most of all the snarled puttana. With the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight he could see now that in his disgust and rampant sexual frustration he had been unforgivably cruel as he ordered his sobbing bride to scrub herself clean. He had stormed out of the room and down to the bar to wait until he’d calmed down. But, though remorse had soon replaced his anger, when he returned to their suite Alicia had vanished. She had taken none of the new luggage, and, instead of a note, as a graphic farewell message her wedding ring lay on the heap of tawdry black chiffon, along with the heirloom da Luca betrothal ring handed over by his mother.

  Dio, how frantic he had been! Francesco felt an icy shiver even now as he remembered his frenzied appeals to the hotel manager, who had eventually learned that a young girl with a back pack had been seen entering a car outside the portico of the hotel. Francesco’s phone had rung soon afterwards, but his relief at hearing Alicia’s voice had been so intense he’d barely understood what the cold little voice was saying until it was too late.

  ‘I’ve taken my disgusting self out of your sight and your life forever. Goodbye.’

  ‘Alicia—’ But she had switched off her phone. He had immediately rung Bronwen Cross, praying she was already back in Blake Street after the flight home that morning, but his relief was short-lived when she answered. She had already heard briefly from Alicia, and refused to say another word until her daughter arrived home to say exactly why she’d run away. His incensed mother-in-law relented enough to promise a phone call as soon as Alicia got back, and early next morning, after a night of sleepless misery, Francesco received the call as promised. Alicia, her mother informed him with fierce hostility, was safe at home but in a state of deep distress.

  ‘I don’t know what unspeakable thing you did to make her run away, Francesco, because she won’t tell me. But on one subject she was very explicit—she refuses to see or speak to you again. Ever.’

  Francesco came back to the present with a jolt when he saw Alicia’s flight appear on the monitor. He waited with mounting impatience until he spotted a bright head among the stream of disembarking passengers from the UK, and let out the breath he’d been unaware he was holding. She was here! But Alicia, casual in jeans and linen jacket, was not alone.

  ‘No, really, thank you just the same,’ Francesco heard her say to the man with her. ‘Please give me my bag. I can manage now.’

  He strode forward to claim her with a kiss on each cheek. ‘Com’ esta, carissima? You had a good flight?’

  ‘Francesco!’ She smiled at him in such relief her dimples came into play, and just seeing them again evoked such a visceral rush of response he wanted to seize her in his arms and kiss her senseless. ‘Will you relieve this kind gentleman of my luggage?’ she asked.

  ‘With pleasure.’ He took the bag the man held out and smiled graciously. ‘Mille grazie; how kind of you to assist my wife.’

  The man backed away, crestfallen. ‘No problem—only too glad to help.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Alicia sweetly. ‘Goodbye.’

  The greetings were over, and they were in the car speeding along the express route to Florence before Francesco spoke his mind.

  ‘So, Alicia, you came.’

  ‘I said I would.’

  ‘You look most charming, but a little tired. Have you been working hard?’

  ‘No more than usual.’

  ‘While you are here you must rest.’

  ‘I won’t be staying long enough for that,’ she said quickly. Though now she was actually here in the sunshine of Tuscany her urgency to leave it right away was fading fast.

  ‘I will try to change your mind,’ said Francesco, in a tone which won him a suspicious look.

  ‘Could I ask a favour, Francesco?’ she said, surprising him.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Could we make a stop somewhere on the way to Montedaluca so I can change my clothes and tidy myself up?’ She smiled wryly. ‘In the circumstances, I’d rather not arrive in jeans.’

  ‘Even though you look so delightful in them?’

  She turned away, her face warm. ‘Even so.’

  ‘Va bene. Because I have a suggestion to make.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Il notaio who is handling the will is not available until Thursday, therefore we can make this stop you desire in Florence and stay the night there before we travel on to Montedaluca.’ He slanted a wary look at her. ‘The apartment has two bedrooms.’

  Instead of the instant refusal he expected, Alicia surprised him by giving the suggestion some thought.

  ‘Couldn’t the lawyer make it any earlier?’ she asked after a while. Bedrooms aside, she found she was not at all averse to seeing Florence again if it meant putting off the visit to Montedaluca a bit longer.

  ‘Unfortunately for you he cannot, Alicia. But for me this is good fortune, yes?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it?’ She eyed his profile narrowly. ‘I noticed you referred to me as your wife back there.’

  ‘It most efficiently relieved you of your companion.’ He shot a gleaming look at her. ‘Or did you not desire that?’

  ‘Of course I did. The man sat by me on the plane and talked to me all the way, even suggested meeting in Florence for a meal. I couldn’t get rid of him.’

  ‘Why not tell him your husband was meeting you at the airport?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t think of you as my husband, Francesco. Besides, you could have been sending a driver to pick me up, as you did in Cardiff. Thank you for that, by the way,’ she added.

  ‘It was my pleasure. But, Alicia, surely you knew I would come to meet you myself?’ He touched a hand to hers.

  Since Francesco was a fast driver, and she disliked travelling on motorways of any kind, British or Italian, Alicia begged him to keep both hands on the wheel and leave any further conversation until they arrived.

  ‘Scusi. I had forgotten you are a nervous traveller!’

  ‘Only as a passenger these days—I’m perfectly happy when I’m in the driving seat.’

  Francesco did as she asked, and said no more for the remainder of the journey, while Alicia wondered if she was mad to even consider staying in Florence overnight with Francesco. But she wanted to. It was useless trying to delude herself that she felt nothing for him. From the moment of seeing him again at the Millennium Stadium, it had been obvious that whatever had attracted her in the first place was not only still alive and well but was something she had never found in any other man. And probably never would. Fool, she told herself angrily. Get a life, Alicia Cross. One without the spectre of Francesco da Luca hanging over it. But first, said a sly little voice in her mind, she might as well take advantage of this unex
pected interlude.

  She was deeply thankful when they arrived in the cool, raftered apartment at last, and the moment Francesco ushered her inside she made straight for the window in the main room to look down on the thronged Piazza dei Signoria.

  ‘Perseus is still there,’ Francesco assured her. ‘Come, I will take your suitcase to your room. After you unpack would you like tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ She followed him into a bedroom and halted, frowning. ‘This is obviously yours, Francesco. Can’t I just use the other room rather than put you out?’

  ‘No. Here you have your own bathroom, also the better view.’ He moved closer and touched a strand of escaping hair. ‘And you like views, Alicia, no?’

  ‘Yes.’ She tensed, very much aware that they were alone in Francesco’s bedroom, and he was looking at her with those long-lashed eyes that were such an improbable colour she had wondered at first if he wore tinted lenses. They had once made her heart hammer in her chest. And infuriatingly still did. This was a mistake. She should have insisted they go straight to Montedaluca. ‘Tea sounds wonderful,’ she said brightly. ‘But could I have a shower first?’

  ‘Of course. You may have whatever you wish, Alicia,’ he assured her, and left her alone with the view.

  There was not much to unpack for an overnight stay, but it took longer than it should have when Alicia found her clothes had to share space with some of Francesco’s in a big armoire that, unlike the modern furniture in the living room, was a carved, antique piece of great beauty. In the bathroom it felt even more intimate to arrange her toilet articles alongside the Aqua di Parma items Francesco had always used. It was that same subtle, familiar fragrance that had struck her dumb in the taxi to her flat after the party.

  She stripped off her T-shirt and jeans, wound a towel round her hair and showered quickly, then dried off at top speed and put on the fresh clothes she’d taken with her into the bathroom rather than help herself to Francesco’s towelling robe or, worse, venture out into the bedroom wearing only a towel. She made a few swift repairs, then joined Francesco in the living room, expecting to find a tea tray ready for her.