His Reluctant Bride - Sara Craven Mills & Boon M&B

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said.

      Polly paused, drawing a deep breath. She had never imagined occupying such a room, she thought dazedly. It was vast and very old, its ceiling beamed, and the walls decorated with exquisite frescos.

      It was dominated by one enormous canopied bed, with crimson brocade curtains and a magnificent bedspread in the same colour, quilted in gold thread, but little other furniture.

      ‘That door is to the bathroom.’ The contessa pointed a manicured hand. ‘I think you will find all you need.’ And the sooner the better, her tone of voice seemed to indicate. ‘The other leads to the dressing room, where your clothes have been unpacked for you.’ She paused. ‘Would you like some tea to be brought to you?’

      ‘That would be kind.’ Polly hesitated. ‘If it’s not too much trouble—as you have all these other guests, I mean.’

      ‘How can it be a difficulty?’ The thin lips wore a vinegary smile. ‘After all, cara Paola, you are the mistress of the house now, and your wish is our command.’ She indicated a thick golden rope. ‘Pull the bell, if you wish for the services of a maid to help you dress. Or perhaps your husband will prefer to assist you himself—as this is your luna di miele.’

      ‘I can manage,’ Polly said quietly, conscious of the faint sneer in the older woman’s voice, and the swift pang of alarm that her words engendered. ‘But I would like to make sure my son is all right, and I don’t know where the nursery is.’

      ‘I will instruct Dorotea to take you to him later.’ She looked Polly up and down with faint disdain. ‘Now, I recommend that you do as Alessandro suggests, and take some rest. After all, this will be your wedding night, officially at least,’ she added, with another silvery laugh, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

      Left to herself, Polly walked over to the long windows and opened the shutters. She knelt on the embrasure, lifting her face to the heavy golden warmth of the late afternoon.

      If the contessa had deliberately plotted to present her at her worst, she could not have done a better job, she thought bitterly. But there was no way the older woman could have known how badly Charlie would react to the long journey from the airport.

      I wish I could stay here, she thought, because I think I’ve already got ‘null points’ from the jury downstairs.

      Instead, she had to put on one of the evening dresses Teresa had made her buy, and play her unwanted role as marchesa with whatever style and grace she could summon. And undo, if possible, that first unfortunate impression.

      And talking of Teresa … Polly fetched her shoulder bag, and retrieved the parcel it contained. As she undid the ribbons, the tissue parted to reveal a cascade of the finest black lace.

      Polly’s eyes widened as she examined it. It was a nightgown, she realised, low-necked, split to the thigh on one side, and almost transparent. Provocation at its most exquisite. An expensive, daring tease.

      Any girl who wore it would feel irresistibly sexy. And any man who saw it couldn’t fail to be aroused.

      It seemed clear that Teresa had sensed the tensions in her relationship with Sandro, and decided the honeymoon could need a kick-start.

      As Sandro said, you’re shrewd, Polly addressed her friend silently, bundling the delicate fabric back into its wrappings, and wondering where she could hide it. But this time you’ve misread the situation badly.

      She left the package on the bed for the time being, and went to investigate the bathroom. The room itself probably dated from the Renaissance, she thought, but the plumbing was strictly twenty-first century, and luxurious in the extreme.

      The walls were tiled in shades of blue, interspersed with mother-of-pearl, which gave the impression that the room was under shimmering water.

      There was a deep sunken bath, and a capacious shower cubicle in the shape of a hexagon, with a pretty gilded roof.

      Thankfully Polly slipped out of her clothes, and stepped behind its glass panels. There was a corner shelf holding toiletries, and she chose some scented foam, lathering her body sensuously. The jet was powerful, but reviving, and she twisted and turned under it, feeling some of the tensions of the day seeping away.

      She dried herself slowly, her body refreshed and glowing, then took another bath sheet from the pile and wound it round herself, sarong-style, securing it just above her breasts.

      If only her tea was waiting, she thought, opening the bathroom door, then, however briefly, life might be perfect.

      She walked into the bedroom, and stopped dead, lips parted in shock, and her heart beating an alarmed tattoo.

      Because Sandro was there, stretched out across the bed, his coat and tie discarded, and his shirt unbuttoned to the waist.

      ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said softly, his eyes lingering on her bare shoulders in undisguised appreciation. ‘You look wonderful, and smell delicious,’ he went on. ‘And now there is this.’ He held up the black nightgown with a soft whistle. ‘Perhaps marriage may have its compensations after all.’

      And as she watched, transfixed, he lifted himself lithely off the bed, and began to walk towards her, the black lace draped over his arm.

      POLLY took a step backwards. She said hoarsely, ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I want to take a shower,’ he said. ‘I decided you would probably not wish me to join you, so—I waited.’

      She took a breath. ‘How—considerate.’ Her voice stung. ‘Perhaps you’d be even kinder and go to your own room, and use your own shower. I’d like my privacy.’

      ‘So would I, cara, but we are both to be disappointed. Thanks to Zia Antonia, all the rooms in the palazzo are occupied by other people and will remain so for tomorrow—the day after—who knows?’ He paused. ‘Also you are under a misapprehension. This is my room—and my shower.’

      He paused to allow her to digest that, his mouth twisting in sardonic amusement at her shocked expression.

      ‘The accommodation intended for you is currently taken by my aunt Vittoria, a pious widow with a hearing problem,’ he went on. ‘She does not like to share either. Also, she snores, which, as you know, I do not.’

      He smiled at her. ‘But she is certainly leaving tomorrow, so you will only have one night to endure in my company,’ he added lightly.

      She stared at him, her hands nervously adjusting the towel. ‘You really imagine I’m actually going to sleep here—with you?’ Her voice rose stormily. ‘You must be mad. I can’t—I won’t …’

      ‘You will certainly spend the night with me,’ he interrupted, a harsh note in his voice. ‘I cannot predict whether or not you will sleep. That is not my concern.’

      ‘Then what does concern you?’ She glared at him. ‘Certainly not keeping your word.’

      He flung exasperated hands at the ceiling. ‘Dio—you think I planned this? That I have deliberately filled my house with a pack of gossiping relatives, including my cousin Emilio, may he rot in hell,’ he added with real bite, ‘just so that I can trick you into bed with me?’

      He gave her a scornful look. ‘You overestimate your charms, bella mia. You will stay here tonight, without fuss or further argument, for the sake of appearances, because it is our wedding night, and because we have no choice in the matter.

      ‘But let me attempt to allay your obvious fears,’ he went on cuttingly. Clasping her wrist, he strode back to the bed, with Polly stumbling after him, tripping on the edge of her towel. He dragged back the satin coverlet, dislodging the huge lace-trimmed pillows to reveal a substantial bolster. ‘That,’ he said, pointing contemptuously,

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