The Impatient Groom
Frank coughed meaningfully but his eyes were smiling at her in a kindly way. Reluctantly she pushed back the memories of the blissful times she’d spent with the kiddies in her care.
‘Yes, I’m listening!’ She sat very calmly, her hands in her lap. ‘Go ahead.’
The solicitor fussily squared the sheaf of papers in front of him. ‘Let me see...Where to start?’
She sensed that the prince had become unnaturally still. Her glance flicked across to him again. He had a strong and hard profile, which suggested a ruthless determination.
In her judgement, he was ruthless with himself, too. The line of his hair at the nape of his neck was unnaturally neat, his collar too dazzling, the set of his tie so exact that it might have been glued in place after careful positioning with the aid of a set square and ruler.
Then she spotted that a small, wayward curl was flick ing around his ear in defiance of his attempted perfection. She felt a wicked pleasure at its mutiny. This man was so immaculately turned out, he might have been carved in marble—clothes and all!
He looked at her then. To her delight his mouth winened into a broad smile in response to hers. She was totally disarmed, as if he was awarding her a rare privilege.
She felt an almost irrepressible urge to tousle his hair. It would look marvellous streaming back from his face in the wind. She could see him now, on nearby Barley Hill, the sun highlighting that incredible bone structure.
‘Are you as impatient as I to know what strange quirk of fate should bring us together in this office?’ he asked her.
His mellow, cultured voice slid deliciously through her. She wallowed in the sensation while pretending to be considering his remark. It was a rarity having a prince turn her insides to treacle and she meant to enjoy every melting second.
‘Not impatient. I’m sure Frank will tell us in his own good time,’ she said good-naturedly. Anyone who’d sat through vicarage teas with long-winded parishioners knew the meaning of patience. ‘But it does seem extraordinary!’
‘My thoughts entirely.’
More than extraordinary, she decided. Improbable! They were from different planets. His clothes certainly were. They fitted his superb body so well that they must have been made for him. The neat line of his broad shoulders was a work of art in itself. More set squares and rulers, she supposed.
His carefully groomed hair and manicured nails suggested a man who had time to spend on himself—or he paid others to take care of his appearance for him. All that and a title too. Other than chalk and cheese, how different could you get?
Sophia leant towards him and whispered on impulse, ‘I think Frank’s got his files mixed up, to be honest.’
He smiled, his eyes softening in a way that made the breath catch in her throat. ‘That had crossed my mind.’
‘Won’t be long,’ Frank muttered, preoccupied with his papers. ‘Just looking for something...’
He looked excited. Sophia frowned. When ever did solicitors lose their cool? Frank’s tension communicated itself to her and a sudden attack of nerves made her fill the painful silence and blurt out to the prince, ‘Do you think I might be your long-lost sister?’
His eyes flickered over her from head to toe and a heat followed his leisurely appraisal, coursing down her body as if a blazing torch had blasted it.
‘I think that’s unlikely, don’t you?’ he murmured, staring at her ankles as if they alone proved she had no aristocratic bones in her body.
‘It was a joke,’ she mumbled, disconcerted by what was happening to her.
The dark chocolate eyes lifted to hers languidly. ‘I know.’
He stared harder, frowning, examining in detail her face and mouth. Then he drew in a harsh breath and jerked himself to the edge of his seat as if something amazing had suddenly occurred to him.
‘Mr Luscombe!’ he shot out abruptly, all princely charm vanishing with a startling suddenness. ‘You told me on the telephone that you had news concerning my father’s friend D’Antiga. Are we talking about his daughter?’
‘In a way,’ said Frank, flustered. ‘But—’
‘She’s dead, I presume.’
Frank frowned, obviously taken aback by the prince’s suddenly curt manner. ‘You’ve guessed right, but if I may—’
‘Was there a child?’
Frank shifted uncomfortably and looked as if he’d been put on the spot. ‘Please, let me break this as gently as I can—’
‘Break what?’ Sophia cried in sudden alarm. ‘Why do you have to be gentle? And what’s the connection between Prince Rozzano and me?’ she insisted, beginning to panic.
As she spoke, she remembered where she’d heard his name before. Some time ago, there had been a picture of him on the front page of every tabloid in the newsagent’s. It had been an image of utter grief. His harrowed face had roused pity in her, she recalled.
The memory of that photo haunted her but the reason remained elusive. What had it been? And did it have any bearing on why he was here?
‘Sophia, my dear.’
‘Yes? Oh. Sorry.’ Her wavering attention was caught by the solicitor’s kindly tones. That increased her anxiety. He was about to tell her something unnerving. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked, her face pale with apprehension.
‘It’s now eleven months since your father died.’
‘Yes, Frank, I know—’
‘For the prince’s benefit, I need to say this.’ Frank turned to the prince to explain further. ‘He suffered from multiple sclerosis. Sophia was his full-time carer for the last six years.’
The prince looked grave, his eyes remaining on hers for several seconds as if he found the information interesting. That’s a long time.’
She looked from Frank to Rozzano, afraid of the reason for their concern. ‘Please get on with it!’ she begged, her lips dry and stiff.
Frank sat back in his chair with a smug expression. ‘Probate of your father’s will is now complete, Sophia,’ he said, excitement threading through every word. ‘It was unusually complicated.’ Frank cleared his throat. ‘Sophia...he kept a secret. Your mother’s secret. She made him promise never to reveal it to you. Being a man of integrity, he kept his word. But just before his death he asked me to put you in the picture when I judged that you were ready. He thought you should know the secret because he loved you and wanted you to be given the chance to—’
The prince made her jump by exclaiming sharply in Italian. As if unable to contain himself, he sprang to his feet and began to pace up and down, his beautifully cut jacket flaring open to reveal a pale gold silk waistcoat hugging his lithe figure.
Totally unnerved by Rozzano’s reaction, Sophia turned back to Frank in desperation.
‘The chance to what?’ she asked plaintively, dismayed at the small, betraying shake in every word.
Rozzano spun around, an undercurrent of excitement spilling into his voice and sparking his dark eyes so that they flashed brilliantly. ‘Can’t you see she’s desperate to know, beneath that very English restraint?’ he said in fast, harsh tones. ‘I know who she is. She’s Violetta’s daughter, isn’t she? Violetta D’Antiga!’
‘Spot on!’ cried Frank, as pleased as punch.
Sophia’s apprehension evaporated in a flash. They were both way off the mark! She relaxed back in her seat in relief.
‘Well! You got my nerves hopping for nothing! Mother’s name was Violet Chaitonl’ She realised that Frank must be so overworked, he was losing his grip! ‘You definitely need a good secretary, Frank, to sort your files,’ she chided. ‘I knew there was a mix-up!’
And then, to her amazement, the prince was kneeling at her feet, his hands taking hers. Their eyes met, hers huge and uncomprehending, his fierce and bright.
She found herself trembling at his nearness. But that wasn’t surprising. He was a dish. An immensely compelling man. Any woman alive would have wilted after glimpsing the raw, driving energy that he kept locked up behind that urbane exterior.
It was scary. And she found it shockingly exciting in a disturbing, sexual way. That, she thought wryly, was the trouble with living a cloistered, sheltered existence. You didn’t often come across men oozing effortless sexual desire in villages boasting one post office and a duck pond.
‘There’s no mistake. We are linked,’ he said simply.
Linked. For a brief moment, Sophia’s breath seemed to have left her body. Electricity seemed to be surging between them as if there was, indeed, a vital connection. And then she grinned shakily because it was so unbelievable—both the connection and the two-way electricity!
What a fool she was! Vicar’s daughter meets Sex On Legs. She was bound to be overwhelmed! She chuckled.
‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘An Italian prince in head-totoe Armani—’
‘Gianfianco Ferre,’ he corrected her in surprise, as if any fool could have identified the style of his elegant suit.
‘OK, Ferre—how am I to know?’ she said mildly. ‘Anyway, you’re telling me that a prince, and an impoverished vicar’s daughter in hand-me-downs are linked?’ she finished in mock astonishment, her eyes alive with inner laughter.
‘A vicar,’ he mused, his black-lashed gaze taking in every feature of her face. ‘That explains a good deal.’
‘Well, explain it to me!’ she suggested, quickly concealing a small tremor of her lower lip.
Her face was tingling where his breath had whispered across it. It felt as if he’d caressed it with his hand...or his mouth. Her eyes became soft and filmy with the lingering sensation.
Again that dazzling, blinding smile. Again the tightness in her chest.
‘Another time,’ he said with great gentleness. ‘Believe me, our lives are connected. That’s why we are both here. Brace yourself for a shock. It is good news—something life-changing.’
CHAPTER TWO
SOPHIA gulped and sat back in her seat, her mind reeling. She didn’t want her life changed. Not drastically, anyway. A job, a man to love and even one child instead of four would do very nicely.
Rozzano’s grasp on her hands reassured her. She could feel his strength pouring into her body. Searching the two men’s faces, she saw compassion and joy in their expressions. It wouldn’t be anything bad, she decided, or they’d be offering her brandy and sympathy and pushing smelling salts under her nose.
‘I’m braced,’ she said with resignation. ‘So tell me.’
The solicitor gestured for Rozzano to continue. The prince studied her with close attention as if he was reading every line of her face. But his expression remained inscrutable. She realised this was a shrewd man, who saw much and revealed little.
‘Your mother died when you were...?’
‘Two.’ Was this relevant? she wondered. But he seemed to be waiting for her to continue, so she decided to humour him. ‘She was walking in the village with me in my buggy when a lorry got out of control and...’
She drew her brows together sharply, the slaty depths of her eyes reflecting her emotions. Her father had been inconsolable. She remembered his endless sobbing which had filled the house for days, the hushed parishioners who’d cared for her and her own confusion when her father kept holding her too tightly, making her cry too.
‘Poor Father,’ she said gently. ‘He loved her so much.’
There was a silence in the room. She was glad that Rozzano didn’t offer any platitudes or sympathy for people he’d never known.
The warmth of his strong hands seemed to increase. Sophia felt her gaze drawn back to his. ‘Tell me about her.’
‘I don’t remember much,’ she confessed. ‘I just have an overall impression of hugs and kisses and laughter... Oh, she always smelt wonderful; she had these fabulous bottles of perfume—’ She stopped to recover her normal speaking voice.
‘Ah. Perfume.’ Rozzano’s brilliant eyes seemed to be having a hypnotic effect on her.
Sophia drew herself upright, banishing the strange feeling that her body ran with a warm and heavy fluid. Ludicrous. There were definitely bones in there somewhere.
‘There are several photos of her in the house of course,’ she finished abruptly.
‘Would you describe her for me?’ the prince asked softly.
She hoped they’d get to the point soon. Her nerves were shredding with every second.
‘Tall, slender, long, silky raven hair, merry eyes. And very, very beautiful in a kind of delicate, ethereal way,’ she replied, her expression growing wistful.
If only she’d known her mother! She’d lain awake for hours some nights, imagining what it must be like to be one of the other girls in the village, borrowing their mother’s make-up, going on shopping trips to town together, coming home from school to the smell of freshly baked cakes...
‘Sophia?’ prompted the prince. ‘Drifting again?’
She nodded and gave him an apologetic look but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘I was indulging in wishful thinking. She sounded adorable. Father talked about her a lot. It seemed,’ she mused, ‘that he felt she’d needed protecting, that she was fragile and vulnerable. Look, I have a picture of her in my bag.’
Rozzano released her hands and she fumbled for the dog-eared and faded snapshot, which had been lovingly examined a thousand times over the years. He took it, nodded and passed it to Frank.
‘Violetta D’Antiga, without any shadow of doubt.’ Rozzano raised an elegant hand to stop the denial on her lips. ’I’ve seen a painting of her, Sophia. There’s no doubt. D‘Antiga was her name before she married.’ He paused. ‘Your mother originally came from Venice.’
Sophia stared wide-eyed with amazement, her heart thumping as she took this in. So this was the mystery! ‘Truly?’ she asked shakily.
‘Truly,’ came Frank’s confirmation. ‘There’s ample proof I can show you.’
For a while she sat there, trying to absorb the news, persuaded only by the certainty in Frank’s voice. ‘I had...no idea,’ she said weakly.
She stared at the prince, who seemed delighted, and she found herself hesitantly smiling too. Then he rose and went to stand by the window. It was as if he knew she needed time to take in what he’d said.
‘I’m half-Italian,’ she said into the silence.
She heard the clink of cups as the men busied themselves with their coffee. Half-Italian. Images from films and travel programmes came into her head. Sunshine, coffee at little tables in exquisite squares beneath striped awnings, excitable chatter, hands gesticulating theatrically... Rich red wine, loving families and passionate emotions.
Yes. Yes! Slowly several things began to click into place and as she chewed the news over she began to understand what made her tick at last.
It had seemed that her emotions had always been at odds with her loving, but almost Victorian, upbringing. It had been so very hard for her to please her beloved father and not to dance along the street for joy, not to fling her arms around people and touch them so much, not to gesticulate wildly or laugh and sing and shout with glee whenever she felt happy and glad to be alive...
But this exuberance had been part of her nature. A delighted grin widened her generous mouth.
‘Venice!’ she said softly. A deep happiness shone in her eyes and she couldn’t keep the joy from showing in every line of her animated face. ‘Venice!’ she whispered with fervent rapture, thinking of the blue lagoon, the islands, the wonderful medieval city built on water...
‘You’re...pleased?’
Rozzano was leaning casually against the windowsill, but the tautness of his folded arms and the rigidity of his shoulders told a different story. So did the deep throb of his voice. It seemed that her answer was important to him and she found this utterly fascinating.
There was more to come; she knew it. Things they hadn’t told her yet. She soberly masked her nervous excitement, forced her hands to relax and replied quite calmly.
‘I’m thrilled,’ she said in all truth.
‘What do you know about Venice?’
Sophia’s eyes instantly reflected her dreams. There was a book of the city at home with wonderful photographs... She gave a little laugh, realising now why her father had shown it to her with such care.
‘Father stayed there as a young man when he was training for the church and researching St Mark, for his thesis.’ Her face became wreathed in smiles. ‘I suppose that’s where he met Mother!’ she declared sentimentally, imagining the two of them being serenaded in a gondola at midnight, floating silently along the dark canals...
‘Sophia? Come back to us?’
The prince’s soft and humour-laden murmur brought her back to the present with a jolt. ‘I was thinking what a romantic city it must be for lovers,’ she explained a little bashfully, adoring the thought of her parents in such a setting. How wonderful it must have been!
‘You know it? You’ve been there?’ he asked with interest.
‘Oh, no! But Father talked about it and I feel I know it. We’d look at a travel book of the city together and he’d tell me about the palazzos, St Mark’s Square, the churches crammed full of paintings by famous artists... I feel I know it. I have the map of the island in my head, how the Grand Canal curves like a backward ’S‘ bend, where the Rialto Bridge is... And it’s so beautiful. To me, Venice looks as if it’s the backdrop in a medieval fairy tale.’
‘It was, once. And I agree. It’s the most beautiful city in the world,’ Rozzano murmured. ‘Venetians feel sorry for anyone not born there!’
‘Now what tells me that you’re Venetian yourself?’ she asked drily. His eyes twinkled at her. Fascinated to learn about her mother’s birthplace, she added, ‘Have your family lived there long?’
‘About seven hundred years,’ he replied without any hint of arrogance.
‘Seven...!’ Open-mouthed in amazement, she gave up trying to imagine what it must be like to trace your ancestors so far back and decided to tease him. ‘Dear, dear. And still stuck in Venice!’ she chided. ‘Not the kind of people to go off and colonise the world, then!’
He threw back his head and laughed in delight before coming forward to take her hands in his. Extraordinary! He kept touching her. Why?
Staring into her startled eyes, he kissed the fingers of both hands. ‘When you find a jewel, you don’t swap it for paste.’
She lowered her lashes, frowning. The touch of his lips had been warm and soft and she’d wished... Ashamed by her waywardness, she did her best to keep her fingers limp and unresponsive beneath his and searched for the threads of the conversation, bending her mind to getting the loose ends tied up.
‘I still don’t understand why you’re here,’ she said, suddenly crisp and efficient ‘And why didn’t Father tell me who my mother was? Being Italian isn’t a crime. It doesn’t make sense.’
The hands holding hers tightened a fraction. ‘I imagine he was protecting her.’
Sophia stiffened at the gravity in Rozzano’s voice. She’d been right. There was more. Something she wouldn’t like. ‘Why?’ she asked, feeling the fear clutch at her heart and squeeze it hard.
He was watching her like a hawk. ‘She had run away.’
Her eyes widened in shock. ‘From what?’
‘Marriage.’
Absently his thumbs stroked her long fingers and she had to work hard to keep her breathing steady. ‘Go on,’ she mumbled.
‘There had been an understanding that she would marry a family friend when she reached eighteen. She’d been virtually betrothed since childhood. I understand, however, that she was very independent and emotional. For most of her teenage years she fought against a loveless marriage.’
‘So would I!’ Sophia declared fervently, feeling appalled at the family pressure her beleaguered mother must have endured.
‘Ye-e-s.’
A faint frown drew Rozzano’s brows together as if her remark was not to his liking. Abruptly he dropped her hands and began to stroll around the room again, picking up objects absently and putting them down. Sophia and Frank followed his every move and she realised just how dominant the prince was, how he had taken over the situation to make it run at his pace, his discretion.
He was used to taking charge, to being obeyed. Sophia found that both attractive and challenging. Wryly she recognised that she wanted him to know that she wasn’t to be ordered around, however mild and compliant she might seem to an outsider. She was her mother’s daughter. If anyone pushed her too far, she’d dig her heels in. And it was time she showed that she was the equal of any prince.
‘So she married my father for love and defied her materialistic family. Quite right, too. I admire her strength of will No one should be pushed into an arranged marriage against his or her wishes!’
He gave a very Italian shrug of his tailored shoulders. ‘A dynastic marriage is not unusual in my experience. Often an aristocrat’s child may grow up with an understanding that he or she will marry someone from a suitable family.’
She wrinkled her nose in disapproval and wondered about Rozzano’s wife—because he’d surely be married. He wore a signet ring on the third finger of his left hand, one with diamond shoulders and entwined initials. Would his marriage have been arranged?
She imagined the awkwardness of his wedding night, facing a bride he didn’t love. And she blushed when her thoughts took her further as she imagined his broad shoulders and muscular torso naked...
‘Barbaric!’ she declared with more force than she’d intended. But she felt annoyed that her body was hot with shocking thoughts of gold-skinned nudity... She swallowed. She must stick to the point. ‘OK. So what’s your connection with her?’ she asked, trying to equate this aristocrat and his unnerving pedigree with her own ordinary family.
There was a long pause. Sophia thought she would break the habit of a lifetime and scream. Her lips parted in breathless panic.
‘For heaven’s sake tell mel’ she urged, her voice throbbing with low and intense passion.
Rozzano’s liquid eyes seemed unnaturally intent on hers, as if he could see the havoc in her mind. ‘Your mother, Violetta, was the daughter of my father’s great friend Alberto D’Antiga. She was to be my father’s bride. But she jilted him.’
She wondered curiously if Rozzano felt insulted on behalf of his father. He gave no hint of it. On the contrary, she thought, her skin prickling with sensation, he was leaning elegantly against Frank’s desk and looking her up and down as if he was giving marks out of ten for every inch she possessed. And the muscles in her body grew tense in response as she battled to stop herself melting into the chair.
He’d be used to that kind of response, she thought crossly, and made sure that he suspected nothing. With a scowl, she said flatly, ‘That doesn’t explain why you’re here.’
The dark eyes became veiled and she wondered if she’d been imagining his appraisal. ‘I look after Alberto D’Antiga’s affairs. We have old family connections and he is ill and alone in the world,’ Rozzano said, a surprising tenderness creeping into his voice. ’Your grandfather is growing weaker every day, Sophia. He will be delighted to know he has a granddaughter.’
‘Hmm. This is the man who drove my mother away from the home she loved!’ Sophia reminded him vigorously.
‘You feel nothing for an old and sick man who is your blood relation?’ Rozzano’s reproachful glance was putting her to shame.
She heaved a sigh and came off her high horse. ‘Of course I do. What’s past is past. I’m sorry he’s not well. And yes, I’d like to contact him. He’s the only family I have now.’ Efficiently she whipped a pen and small notebook from her handbag. ‘Can you let me have his address?’
‘Certainly. Il Conte D’Antiga; that’s D apostrophe, capital A...’
‘Il Conte...’ She looked up to see if the prince was teasing her but he appeared to be perfectly serious.
‘His palazzo is called Ca’ D‘Antiga,’ he drawled. ‘Capital C—’
‘Just a minute!’ Shock widened her smoke-dark eyes. ‘A...count? In a palace? You’re having me on, aren’t you?’ she said with a nervous laugh.
‘No. He is, as you say, a count.’ He saw her disbelief and added quietly, ‘There are many palazzi in Venice. A few hundred. And there are many minor nobles. We still keep our titles, even after Napoleon abolished them. Sophia, I would not lie about this. What would be my motive? Think about it Surely you don’t imagine that D’Antiga would have been so anxious about his daughter’s marriage if he were a butcher or a gondolier, or perhaps an ice-cream seller?’