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‘I plan on showing them in the only way it’s possible to show such a thing: by the two of us making frequent appearances together in public and demonstrating by our behaviour how happy we are.’
He really meant it. Sofia felt sick inside. He really was cynical enough to stoop to such a charade.
‘You mean we’re to hold hands and gaze longingly into each other’s eyes, with perhaps the occasional passionate clinch thrown in just to make sure everyone’s getting the message?’
‘I see you get the general idea.’ Again the faint glimmer of an amused smile. ‘Though personally I would aim for a little more subtlety. Looks and glances. Sympathetic body language. That should be sufficient. No need to go over the top.’ Damiano paused and seemed deliberately to hold her gaze for a moment. ‘They can imagine that all the other stuff goes on in private.’
Sofia’s gaze nearly faltered, but she forced herself to keep it steady. Nothing went on in private. Nothing whatsoever. It was nearly eight months since they’d last slept together. Their sex life was totally a thing of the past.
She felt a crushing sense of loss. He was a wonderful, tender lover, the most accomplished, exciting lover a woman could ever have. It had been a hard thing to accept that he would never make love to her again. But she quashed these thoughts instantly. Things were better as they were. For surely there could be nothing in the world more demeaning than to be made love to by a man who didn’t love you and who had only just come from another woman’s bed. That had been her lot in the past, but it must never be so again.
She flashed him a cool look. ‘People could imagine whatever they liked. Fortunately, they’d be miles from the truth.’ Then, as he simply looked back at her with uncaring dark eyes, she added, ‘But that apart, your plan would never work. People aren’t that gullible and I’m not that good an actress. Nobody would be taken in for a minute.’
‘I’m afraid they’ve got to be.’ Damiano was sitting very still. ‘I’m afraid they’ve got to be completely taken in. And, besides, I’m sure you’re being unduly modest. I’m sure you can be a very good actress when you try.’
‘Not that good. Definitely not.’ Sofia shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid your plan would never succeed.’ She smiled. ‘You really would do better just to take out an ad in The Times.’
Damiano continued to watch her in silence for a moment. Then he said, his tone flat and dangerously quiet, ‘You seem to be under the illusion that this is some kind of proposition I’m putting forward. Something to be discussed and debated and agreed upon. Well, I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong.’ He leaned forward in his seat. ‘This is no proposition. I’ve already made the decision. This is something that’s going to happen.’
Sofia tensed. ‘You mean it’s an order?’
‘Yes, if you like, an order.’
‘And what if I don’t like?’
‘Then that would be unfortunate. But, whether you like or not, it’s not going to change a thing.’
So he was laying down the law again? Hot anger flared inside her. Sofia narrowed her eyes and pointed out in an icy tone, ‘You said you needed my cooperation, I seem to remember. Well, I’m afraid I have no intention of giving it. Issue all the orders you like. It’ll do no good, I promise you.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you, but your clever little plan, I’m afraid, is a nonstarter and there isn’t a single thing you can do about it.’
‘Isn’t there?’
‘No, there isn’t. You can’t force me to act. You can force me to go places with you, if that’s what you want, but there’s no way you can force me to look as though I’m enjoying it.’
As Sofia finished speaking, Damiano said nothing. A silence stretched between them, as taut as piano wire. And as she looked into his eyes, black and unreadable, cold fingers of anxiety touched the back of Sofia’s neck. Something was brewing inside that ruthless brain of his. She had no idea what it might be, but already she feared it.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low, his words measured. ‘You’d be surprised what I could force you to do if I put my mind to it.’ And he paused, just for an instant, to let the warning sink in. ‘But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ he continued. ‘And it needn’t if you listen carefully to what I’m about to say.’ He faced her squarely, and his tone as he began to speak again was as hard as a block of stone.
‘Rumours are circulating, rumours concerning our marriage, rumours I don’t like and that I intend to put a stop to. I will not allow the dignity of my country—nor the dignity of my position as Duke—to be compromised and subjected to damaging gossip. I’ve told you what I intend to do about it and I’ve told you I shall need your cooperation and, whether you like it or not, you will give your cooperation.’ As he paused, his eyes drove through her like bayonets. ‘And there’s really no more to be said on the subject.’
‘Oh, yes, I’m afraid there is.’ As Sofia glared back at him, her insides were churning with an anger and outrage that had momentarily eclipsed her earlier anxiety. ‘I’ve already told you I refuse to cooperate. And I mean it, I promise you. I’ll never agree.’
It was as though she had not spoken. Damiano rose to his feet, as though signalling that their discussion was over. But before he turned away he glanced down at her and told her, ‘You shall have your first opportunity to show what a fine actress you can be on Thursday evening at the opera. And then, after that, you will have an even more public opportunity when you accompany me on my trip to London next week.’
‘You’re fooling yourself, you know,’ Sofia returned, trembling with anger.
‘I know you weren’t scheduled to join me on the London trip, but the arrangements have been revised and you’ll be joining me, after all.’ Again, it was as though she had not spoken. Pushing his hands into his trouser pockets, Damiano started to turn away, informing her almost casually over his shoulder, ‘Oh, by the way, don’t worry about cancelling your other engagements. That has already been taken care of.’
‘Meaning?’ she queried through clenched teeth.
‘Meaning, quite simply, that your previous appointments have already been cancelled. Including, of course, the Pasquales’ dinner on Thursday evening.’
‘What? Surely you’re joking? How dare you do this to me?’ As he began to head for the door, ignoring her protest, Sofia sprang from her chair and launched herself after him. Blindly, she grabbed at his arm. ‘Who do you think you are,’ she demanded, ‘treating me in this high-handed fashion?’
Damiano turned to look at her, eyes harsh and unrepentant. ‘Who I think I am is your husband and who I think you are is my wife. And it’s high time that’s what we started behaving like in public.’
‘Newer! I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you salvage your precious dignity! I don’t give a damn about your reputation and I’m not going to cooperate!’
‘Oh, yes, you are.’
‘And how do you suppose you can make me? You can’t make me, you know! There isn’t a thing you can do!’
‘I think you’re wrong about that.’ As she still clung to his sleeve, Damiano fixed her with a look as harsh as an Arctic winter. ‘In fact, you’ve probably never been more wrong about anything in your life.’
‘You’re the one who’s wrong!’ But her defiance was half-hearted. That look in his eyes was making her heart freeze and suddenly Sofia was seriously frightened. ‘You’re bluffing,’ she accused, praying she might be right.
Damiano shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid I’m not.’
‘Why, what would you do?’
‘I don’t think you really want to find that out.’ He frowned. ‘Be sensible. Just do as I say. Believe me, that’s the best solution by far.’
But still Sofia refused. ‘I won’t cooperate. No matter what!’
‘Oh, yes, you will.’
‘And how will you make me?’ She continued to clutch at his sleeve. ‘Go on! What will you do?’
Damiano took a deep breath. ‘OK. Since you insist.’ And he fixed her anxious face with eyes as black as Hades. ‘It’s really very simple... If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll be barred from seeing our son until you come to your senses.’
So, finally she had her answer. Sofia’s heart stopped dead in her chest. ‘You couldn’t do that,’ she protested feebly, scarcely able to get the words out.
‘You think not?’
‘But you wouldn’t.’ Her cheeks were bloodless, transparent. ‘Even you,’ she stammered, feeling sick and suddenly faint, ‘wouldn’t do a monstrous thing like that.’
‘Oh, yes, I would.’ There was not a shred of mercy in his eyes. ‘And, if you don’t believe me, go ahead and put me to the test.’
‘You monster!’
A sudden burst of anger exploded inside her. Barely knowing what she was doing, Sofia took a swing at him, aiming to punch his shoulder with her fist. But he was already shaking her off and, as she swung, she lost her balance and went staggering backwards across the carpet, catching the corner of the coffee-table a sharp blow with her leg. As she landed like a rag doll in her chair, there was a sickening crash as the blue and gold tea service went shattering to the floor.
In her state of shock, Sofia barely noticed the disaster at her feet. ‘You monster!’ she shouted again. ‘Tell me you wouldn’t do that!’
But there was no reply. Damiano had already left the room.
Damiano had not intended that the meeting would end up that way. On the contrary, he had set the whole thing up most carefully, deliberately choosing the Rose Room for its relaxed, cosy atmosphere and ordering tea in the hope of keeping the mood civilised, but still things had degenerated into the usual shambles. It just wasn’t possible to have a civilised encounter with Sofia any more.
After he’d left the Rose Room, so mad that he hadn’t even heard the crash of toppled china, he had stormed down the corridor to his private quarters, flung open the door, startling poor Emilio, his valet, and demanded, ‘Look out my riding gear and tell Kurt to prepare Sirdar. There’s been a change of plan. I’m going for a ride.’
Kurt was the Duke’s senior stable lad, Sirdar his favourite bay stallion, and as Emilio hurried off to do his master’s bidding he knew without being told that the meeting with the Duchess had not gone well. For whenever he was upset or angry this was the Duke’s favourite therapy—a hard ride through the acres that surrounded the royal palace. It was his way of exorcising the demons in his head. And demons there were aplenty. As he strode through to his private bathroom—all tiled in black and gold with a huge sunken bath—impatiently tearing off his shirt as he went, Damiano was almost exploding with seething anger. Damn Sofia! Why did she have to make things so difficult? Why couldn’t she just do as he told her and be done with it?
He turned on the cold tap over the huge washbasin and stuck his head under it for a minute. Then he straightened and shook his head, splashing the mirror with a rain of water, grabbed a towel from the rail and gave his hair a quick rub. As though the situation weren’t bad enough without Sofia making it worse!
As he turned away from the washbasin and tossed the towel aside, Damiano didn’t even so much as glance at his reflection in the mirror, as most men with his looks and physique undoubtedly would have done. For he had the most glorious face—it wasn’t just Sofia who thought that—and the tanned, exquisitely muscled body of an athlete. But the way he looked was something Damiano had never paid much attention to—which of course simply had the effect of making him even more impossibly attractive.
His unconcern grew out of the fact that he tended to have his mind on higher things, namely the duties and responsibilities that went with his position as reigning duke. Responsibilities to his people. Duties to his crown. For what drove Damiano was his absolute conviction that his principal role in life was to serve his country and honour the name of Montecrespi. All else in his life took second place to that.
He strode through to his dressing room where Emilio had already laid out his riding gear—creamcoloured breeches, burgundy jacket and high leather boots polished as bright as conkers—and, pulling off his trousers, began quickly to get dressed.
These rumours about divorce had upset him deeply. Never in all the years of his family’s rule of San Rinaldo had a royal Montecrespi been divorced. Of course, divorce happened all over. It was a fact of modern life. And it would never have occurred to Damiano to impose his views on others. But divorce was out of the question for him and Sofia. And the rumours were pernicious. They simply had to be stopped.
As he emerged from the dressing room, Emilio was waiting to inform him, ‘I’ve spoken with Kurt, Your Grace. He’s preparing Sirdar for you now.’
‘Thanks, Emilio.’ Damiano smiled at him. Emilio, who had been with him for over twelve years, was as much a valued friend as a valet. ‘If anyone phones for me, tell them I’ll be back in about an hour.’
On swift strides now he headed down to the stables. As he had explained to Sofia, he needed her cooperation, and it had been his fondest hope that she would offer it freely, though he might have known, of course, that to hope for that was madness. He cursed beneath his breath, recalling the bitter finale of their meeting. And now look what her hard-headedness had forced him into!
The last thing Damiano had wanted was to be pushed into making threats, especially threats that involved Alessandro. For, in spite of all her faults, Sofia was a wonderful mother—the best mother a man could ever wish for his son. And he esteemed her for that, deeply and sincerely, and he felt profoundly uneasy about the threat he had made. He’d been praying with all his heart that it would not come to that.
But now that the deed was done, would he stand by his threat? he wondered. Would he really be prepared to deprive Sofia of her son and little Alessandro of the mother he so adored? In the end, if it came to it, would he actually be capable of behaving like the monster Sofia had accused him of being?
Over the next hour, as he pounded across woodland and through thicket, Damiano continued to ask himself these questions. And when, once more calm, he finally arrived back at the stables and slid from Sirdar’s steaming back he knew the answer.
As a strictly temporary measure he would carry out his threat. Very reluctantly perhaps, but he would force himself to do it. Desperate situations, after all, called for desperate measures and it would be a short, sharp shock guaranteed to bring Sofia to her senses. But, with any luck, such drastic steps would not be necessary. The threat alone would be enough to persuade her to cooperate.
So, it’s up to you, Sofia, he thought as he headed back to the palace. Do the wise thing and capitulate if you don’t want a ‘monster’ on your hands.
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER Damiano had gone and a maid had come to clear up the mess—which fortunately wasn’t as bad as it had sounded, for only one cup had been broken, though most of the tea had spilled over the carpet—Sofia walked unsteadily over to the window and stood staring unseeingly down into the garden, struggling desperately to calm herself. Surely this was about as low as things could possibly go?
She bit her lip. I hate him, she told herself. And at that thought a wretched sadness twisted at her heart. Once, she would have been incapable of even thinking such a thing. Once, she had been filled with the sheer joy of loving him and with the conviction that she would love him until the day she died.
Even now she could remember when she had first fallen in love with him. She had been ten years old, spending a summer holiday at the royal palace, the fabulous rosy-stoned Palazzo Verde which stood high on a promontory overlooking the sea and had been the home of the ruling Montecrespis for centuries. And she’d been sitting in one of the courtyards waiting for Caterina—Damiano’s younger sister, who was two years older than herself—when suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Damiano had appeared.
He’d been dressed in his riding gear—cream breeches and burgundy jacket—his high polished boots making a sharp clack-clack sound as he strode across the cobbled courtyard. He’d been about to walk past her, for she was half-hidden in a corner, but then, at the last minute, he’d spotted her and paused.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘And who are you?’
Sofia looked up at him and felt her heart turn over in her chest. Surely she must be dreaming? This had to be some fairy-tale prince? For she had never seen a more dashingly arresting sight in her life. He had the most wonderful face, long-lashed eyes as black as treacle and the most glorious head of hair, which in those days he wore a little longer and was as black and glossy as washed coal. And he was smiling at her with a warm smile that was turning her flesh to jelly.
She finally found her voice. ‘I’m Sofia,’ she said.
‘Sofia? Now which Sofia is that?’ He frowned a little. ‘I don’t think I know you.’
‘Sofia Riccione.’ Her tongue felt like cardboard. ‘My mother’s a friend of your mother, the Duchess, and I’m a friend of Caterina’s. I—’
‘Oh, that Sofia!’ He smiled more broadly, understanding, and Sofia caught a glimpse of perfect strong white teeth. ‘I’ve heard all about you from my sister. You’re the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Romano.’
Sofia nodded, wondering if she dared ask him who he was, though she had already guessed that he was probably Caterina’s elder brother. She’d already met Leone, her other brother, who was younger. But, even as she was wondering, he held out his hand to her.
‘Pleased to meet you, Sofia,’ he told her. ‘I’m Damiano. No doubt we’ll be bumping into one another from time to time.’
And they did, though not nearly as often as Sofia would have liked. Still, even just a glimpse of him was enough to make her day sublime—and to bring a blush to her cheeks, as, to her dismay, Caterina noticed.
‘You’re in love with my brother!’ she accused, shrieking with laughter. ‘You’re in love with Damiano! I’m going to tell him!’
Sofia nearly died. ‘Oh, no, don’t!’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t, Caterina! I’m not in love with him, I swear!’
‘Yes, you are!’ Caterina’s blue eyes were sparking with devilment. ‘I know the signs. I saw you blushing!’ Then she took pity on the distraught expression on poor Sofia’s face, for she would sooner have died than have her secret made public. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing,’ she promised solemnly. ‘And, anyway, I don’t blame you. Damiano’s terribly handsome. Both my brothers are, but especially Damiano. And one day, you know, he’s going to be the Duke.’ She laughed a teasing laugh. ‘How would you like to be his duchess?’
Quite frankly, Sofia thought that that would be the most wonderful thing imaginable. Not the duchess bit particularly. She didn’t care about that. But to be Damiano’s wife. That was what she dreamed of. And as the years went by and she returned again and again as a guest at the sumptuous Palazzo Verde it became a dream that established itself deep within her. Though it was just a make-believe dream, not one she ever believed might really come true. Damiano was way out of her reach and she knew that.
For a start, he was so much older. Fourteen years divided them. He was so sophisticated, smart, worldly and wise and she, by comparison, knew nothing at all. In his eyes all she was was an immature child.
On one particular occasion when she was about thirteen years old she was having lunch with the Duke and Duchess and her own parents and Damiano—Caterina, for some reason, wasn’t present—and the conversation became terribly obscure and adult, with words like ‘deflation’ and ‘equities’ being bandied about, and she didn’t have a clue what on earth they were talking about. She didn’t care either. She was perfectly happy just to sit there secretly feasting her eyes on Damiano. On those wonderful jet-dark eyes, on the way his mouth curled at the corners, on the glossy black hair that flopped down over his forehead. She kept wishing she could reach across the table and touch it, and she would shiver at the thought of its cool silkiness against her fingers.
But then the Duke, Damiano’s father, who was the kindest of men and would never have knowingly embarrassed her, suddenly said, ‘But we’re boring poor Sofia with all our silly chatter. Poor thing’s been sitting there as quiet as a mouse for hours.’ He smiled kindly across at her. ‘Let’s talk about something different. Come on, Sofia, tell us who your favourite pop star is these days.’
Sofia turned the same colour as the raspberry sorbet she’d been eating. She stared back at the Duke, feeling humiliated to her very core. What kind of idiot must she look, capable only of conversing about pop stars? What a hopeless impression she must be making on Damiano.
And then Damiano spoke. ‘She used to be very keen on The Police—at least so Caterina was telling me.’ He smiled across at her, a smile in which Sofia could see only condescension, and asked, ‘Do you still like them or have you moved on to someone else?’
‘I—I don’t know...’
Sofia could feel all eyes on her. And, suddenly drowning in embarrassment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Her brain was functioning with all the clarity of a lump of sago.
‘I—’ she began again. But there was nothing to come out. And that was when something snapped inside her and she ended up making the situation a hundred times worse. She sprang from the table with a muttered, ‘Excuse me!’ and went flying from the dining room in helpless tears.
Later, she apologised to the Duke and Duchess, who told her not to be silly, that she had obviously just been tired, and the incident was never mentioned again. But it continued to haunt Sofia for years and years afterwards. What an idiot she’d made of herself in front of Damiano!
Her lingering embarrassment, in fact, was so enormous that in the years that followed, when she began to see less and less of Damiano—partly because he just never seemed to be around when she visited the palace and partly because her visits had grown more seldom anyway since her friendship with Caterina had waned a little—she told herself that it was simply a blessing in disguise. It would save her doing something else that would make her an even bigger fool in his eyes! Besides, didn’t they say that out of sight was out of mind? And it really was time she gave up her foolish fantasies.
But that was not the way it worked out. She saw him fairly seldom and then usually at some banquet, wedding or reception where she almost never had a chance to speak to him personally, but for all that he remained a permanent presence in her mind. And an even more tenacious one in her heart. For she simply loved him more with each year that passed.
There were times when these feelings seemed bound to bring her grief. Like those times when she would see him at some dinner with a girlfriend—and there were no shortage of these coming and going over the years, though Damiano had never been a playboy like his younger brother Leone. And then there was the time—perhaps the worse time of all—shortly after his thirtieth birthday, when Rino, the San Rinaldo capital, was rife with rumours that he was about to get engaged to an Austrian princess.
Sofia held her breath and prayed. And her prayers were answered. There was no engagement, the Austrian princess vanished from the scene and eventually the rumours died.
Over the years Sofia had never been conscious of saving herself for Damiano, but perhaps without realising it that was in fact what she had done. For she had never had a real boyfriend, never even been kissed. Sexually, she really had been totally inexperienced when, four and a half years ago, tragedy had struck and Damiano had suddenly found himself in need of a wife.
At just fifty-nine years old, his father was killed when the helicopter he was travelling in crashed into a mountain. And within the month, years before he’d expected to succeed, Damiano was being crowned in Rino Cathedral. He was a popular successor but one vital thing as missing. He was unmarried with no heir and that had to be put right.
At the time it was common knowledge that he’d been seeing a lot of Lady Fiona, the glamourously beautiful daughter of a local count, and that he’d actually been doing a great deal more than just seeing her—that he and the lovely Fiona were madly in love and for the past eighteen months had been having a passionate affair. Would Fiona be the one to become his duchess? people were asking. And again Sofia held her breath and prayed. Though she was being foolish, she told herself. Even if he didn’t marry Lady Fiona, he would still marry someone else. He would never marry her.
But then the strangest thing happened. A couple of months later she was invited with her parents to a private dinner at the palace. And at the end of it Damiano, who had been most attentive to her all evening—so attentive that she had scarcely managed to eat a bite—took her out onto the terrace and there, beneath the moonlight, told her, ‘I think it would be really nice if we could get to know each other better. What do you say, Sofia? How would you feel about that?’
Sofia was almost as tongue-tied as on that previous occasion. She blushed to her hair roots. ‘I’d like that,’ she answered. And she stared hard at the. ground, not daring to meet his eyes.
