Page 24 of Marriage Made In Hate

There had been nothing she could say to that—any more than she could say something to her uncle. All she could do now, as she descended the stairs, Luca a pace behind her, was remain supremely conscious of his presence, of her helpless response to him.

She walked into the saloni , where Matteo was awaiting them.

The furniture had been pushed back, to provide more room for guests to mingle, but Matteo’s chair was in its customary place by the marble fireplace.

He got to his feet as she walked in, just ahead of Luca.

His face broke into a smile of the warmest welcome and delight.

He came to her, taking both her hands in his, his eyes glowing as they beheld her. ‘Oh, my dear—how beautiful you look! I knew that gown was perfect for you!’ He turned to Luca. ‘Do you not agree, my boy? Our treasured Bianca could not look more exquisite! She is radiant with beauty!’

‘She is indeed. Without question.’

Luca’s voice had a note in it she could not recognise. Nor did she wish too. All she could wish was that this evening was over. The ordeal would be agonising.

Giuseppe appeared in the open doorway to the saloni and made the announcement that their guests were starting to arrive.

Matteo’s face lit up again. He patted Bianca’s hands, slipping his from them. ‘And now,’ he said, delight in his voice, ‘the evening begins!’

* * *

Luca’s eyes were on Bianca. She was in another man’s arms. It happened to be Pietro’s father, and Pietro himself was standing beside Luca, grinning as he watched them dance out on the softly lit terrace.

‘He may be pushing sixty, and he may still love my mother like she was twenty, but I’ve got to admit he’s bowled over by your Bianca! And who wouldn’t be? She is, to use the vernacular, an absolute total knockout!’

Pietro cast a sly look at Luca, who was still looking at Bianca, dancing sedately with Pietro’s father, smiling at him courteously and engaging him in whatever chitchat they were exchanging.

‘So, how did you Bianca get together? She told me she only came out to Italy quite recently, when she learned of her uncle’s diagnosis.

’ He shook his head. ‘Bad business, that, Luca—life can be totally bloody sometimes.’ Then his voice lifted again.

‘But maybe if it’s catalysed you and Bianca getting serious… ?’

‘Something like that,’ Luca said tersely.

He was giving, by implication, the impression that he and Bianca went back a while, but because she was based in the UK their relationship had not shown up on his friends’ radar.

That was all he was prepared to say, and though he knew Pietro and everyone else in his circle wanted to know more, he was not going to oblige.

His friends could think what they liked. Whatever they came up with, it would not be the truth.

The band at the far end of the terrace was keeping to old-fashioned melodies and the number was ending. Pietro’s father was bringing Bianca back to Luca and Pietro.

‘I have indulged myself sufficiently,’ he informed Luca, relinquishing Bianca with a flourish. ‘Your fidenzata is beyond delightful, and has borne with me bravely, but I know there is only one man in whose arms she wishes to be!’

He took his son’s arm. ‘Come, Pietro, leave the lovebirds to each other.’

He drew him away, heading back to his wife, who was talking to Matteo.

For a moment Luca didn’t move, and nor did Bianca.

‘I’ll go and see how my uncle is doing,’ she said. Her voice was abrupt. ‘I don’t want him getting too tired.’

Luca stayed her. ‘Matteo is fine—Pietro’s mamma has been keeping an eye on him.’

He reached for Bianca’s hand. All evening she had haunted him, tormented him. From the moment he had set eyes on her in her bedroom, in that gown, only one impulse had filled him. And now everything that he had felt as he drove away from the villa two weeks ago was overwhelming him.

Six years ago he had set Bianca aside.

No more.

Certainty filled him. Desire… A desire he would not deny, nor suppress, nor walk away from.

And nor will she.

He knew that—knew it with every fibre of his being. All evening he had been conscious of it…conscious of how she was conscious of him . Trying not to be—and failing. She was as aware of him as if she were a compass needle seeking north. His north.

Oh, she might have deliberately kept a space between them as she’d stood beside him, with Matteo on her other side, as they’d received his godfather’s guests in the saloni , not wanting his sleeve to brush her arm, or any smile to be exchanged with him, and barely addressed him except when social necessity demanded it as they’d conversed in niceties with Matteo’s invited friends.

But it had been in vain. The very air between them was charged…

And here it was again, as he took her hand…took her into his arms…into the dance.

They had danced once already this evening.

Matteo had insisted they open the dancing, having made a speech—brief, but emotional—telling his good friends how blessed her was that his dear godson and his dearest niece were to be married.

He had implied that he’d always known of her existence, corroborating, even if unintentionally, Luca’s similar implication about himself and Bianca.

Then Matteo had urged them on to the dance floor and they had complied, even though Bianca had been stiff as a board.

They’d kept their dance as short as possible, and the moment other couples joined them Bianca had loosed herself, left the dance floor.

But now he would not permit that. He would ignore, deliberately, the stiffening in her body as he walked her into the strains of the slow, seductive waltz that the band had struck up, with other couples doing the same.

‘This isn’t necessary, Luca,’ she gritted, gazing fixedly over his shoulder, which she was barely touching with her hand. ‘We’ve already done our duty dance.’

He ignored the tension in her voice. He knew the reason for it. He only slid his arm around her slender waist, resting his hand at her back. He could feel the warmth of her body through silk of her gown. His other hand tightened a fraction on hers.

‘We have to put on a show, Bianca,’ he said, sotto voce .

His voice was husky, and he knew the reason for that too. Knew, too, with a self-mockery that was wry, but mordant, that even though he wanted to draw her tight against him, to do so would be…unwise.

Instead, he gave himself to the lilting music—a familiar Italian favourite—letting his hold on her relax, his hand splay over the arch of her spine like a caress.

He felt a fine subliminal tremor go through her, as if she was using the last of her strength to resist him. To resist what was happening.

And then…

He felt her resistance fade.

He felt her hand fold over his shoulder, and she drew back her head so that her eyes were looking into his. Looking—and melting…

He saw it happen…felt it happen. His eyes held hers, and hers held his, at the still point between them as they moved in the dance, impelled by the music, slowly, ineluctably, the familiar, seductive, hypnotic rhythm of the music weaving about them.

It was drawing them closer to each other, their gazes entwined.

He felt his breath quicken, his body quicken…

And still they danced…

* * *

The world was disappearing. She knew it was. It was fading away, blending into the night, unseen, unnoticed, uncared about. Dissolving into an insubstantial mist.

For now there was only one reality.

Being in his arms again…

Luca’s arms…

Yes, he was holding her in the formal embrace of this slow, lilting waltz, and yet it was as intimate, as close, as intense, as if they were in the privacy of their own company.

It was strange, and yet it was so familiar—as if she had danced with him like this a thousand times. But she never had. Not like this.

Being in his arms, feeling his hand splayed against her spine, warm and firm through the thin silk of her gown, feeling his other hand close around hers, her body brushing his, his brushing hers…

And gazing, gazing, gazing into his eyes…

His eyes were holding hers and it was impossible to look away…impossible…

Faintness drummed through her, and yet she had never felt so vividly, never seen the world in sharper focus. Because the world was being in Luca’s arms…nothing but that…

Dimly, she was aware that the music had stopped, that she and Luca had stopped, that all the other couples had stopped too.

They were moving apart, moving away, and with a sudden start she knew she must move too.

She let her hand fall from his shoulder, slid her other hand from his. Felt his resistance to her withdrawal.

Heard him say her name. Soft and low…a breath…nothing more.

‘Bianca…?’

Her expression flickered and she broke her eyes away from him. She had to. She must not go on just standing here like this, his hand still around her waist, gazing at him. She felt breathless, trembling.

His hand dropped away, as if with an effort, and he stepped apart from her. She saw him frown, as if confused, taken aback.

She took a breath—a steadying one. ‘I… I must get a drink,’ she managed to get out.

He didn’t stop her, and she headed back into the dining room. One of the household staff was manning the drinks table and she hurried up to him, gulping down the glass of water he poured for her.

Oh, dear God, what had just happened?

But she knew—oh, she knew.

How could she deny it?

Impossible to do so.

Her heart rate was still elevated, and now she could feel that her cheeks were flushed, her breathing ragged. She needed to get control of herself. Needed to put that catastrophic five minutes out of her head—completely out of her head.

Replacing her empty glass with a murmured thank-you, she turned and made her way out to the terrace again. She didn’t want to. All she wanted to do was bolt upstairs, gain the sanctuary of her bedroom, lock and bolt the door.

Not against Luca—against herself…

Against her greatest weakness. The weakness she could not defeat.

Wanting him again…

* * *

Luca was going through the motions. The band had packed up and gone, and Matteo’s guests were leaving.

It was not that long after midnight, but by general tacit agreement none of his friends wanted their host to tire.

Luca could see Giuseppe hovering, and Paolo behind him, as he and Bianca stood beside Matteo in the hall, thanking everyone and bidding them goodnight.

It seemed to take for ever for the last guests to leave, and Luca understood their reluctance, knowing it might be the last time they saw Matteo.

Their farewells were sympathetic, their smiles warm and their wishes warmer—for Luca and Bianca as well.

She was receiving them with difficulty, Luca could tell, but he knew it would be presumed by Matteo’s guests as sadness at her uncle’s illness.

At last the doors were closed. Paolo was stepping forward, and Matteo was turning to Luca and Bianca, embracing them both, emotions heightened. He was looking exhausted, but content.

‘I shall yield to the anxious looks Paolo is trying not to show,’ he said, lowering a goodnight kiss on Bianca’s cheek. ‘My dear, dear children—how happy you have made me!’ He turned to Giuseppe. ‘And you, faithful friend that you are—thank you! For making all this happen!’

Luca, still standing beside Bianca, watched Paolo help Matteo upstairs, one step at a time. Then he spoke to Giuseppe, thanking him in turn.

He heard Bianca’s voice echo his thanks and urge that he and his staff should enjoy the surplus buffet, the remaining wines and champagnes, and go off duty, their rest well earned. Bestowing a small smile on him, she bade him goodnight, following in her uncle’s wake.

Luca strolled into the dining room to fetch a half-finished bottle of champagne in its cooler, and two unused glasses.

There would be a celebration of his own to make…a celebration to share.