Page 31 of Marriage Made In Hate

The glow in her emerald eyes gave him his answer—she had been radiant all day. And he… He had been in a daze of disbelieving happiness all day. He dropped a soft kiss on her sweet lips, keeping his touch light with effort. Soon…oh, very soon…their wedding night would begin…

But not quite yet. Matteo was coming towards them. He was looking tired, but his happy contentment was visible.

‘My dear ones, the day has been long, and I know that my good Paolo is waiting in the wings for me, but before I let him claim me there is something I want to show you. I have had something delivered which I hope you will find room for. Let me show you…’

He ushered them out into the wide entrance hall, and Luca, still holding Bianca’s hand, walked with him towards the small dining room—the one Luca’s mother had had redecorated and that Bianca had thought so beautiful on her first visit to the palazzo .

It had been set aside to display their wedding presents, and the oval table was groaning with them, but clearly what Matteo had in his mind was not there.

An easel had been set up to one side of the table. What was on it was covered by a silk cloth. Luca and Bianca exchanged puzzled glances.

Matteo was smiling. ‘You will not have seen this,’ he told them, ‘for it always hung in Luisa’s bedroom, which was once my mother’s.

I have seldom gone in there since my dearest Luisa died, but now I have braved it.

’ He turned to Bianca. ‘I wanted to give you this.’ He gestured to the easel.

‘It is a portrait of my mother’s mother—and it belongs here, with you. ’

At his side, Luca felt Bianca tense. He knew why. And though he had agreed with her that Matteo’s illusions about her should not be shattered before their wedding, perhaps they had been wrong in that decision. Perhaps the truth would have been more honest. Sparing them moments like this.

Matteo was walking forward. Lifting the corner of the cloth over the painting. Removing it with a flourish.

As he did so, an audible gasp broke from Bianca. And from Luca too.

Matteo turned back to them. ‘You see?’ he asked.

‘You see why this portrait belongs here, with you, my dearest, dearest Bianca?’ His voice softened and his eyes went back to the portrait.

‘My nonna ,’ he said lovingly. ‘When I was a boy she often came to stay, and one of my earliest memories is of sitting in her room with my brother as my mother brushed out her long white hair, telling me she remembered it from when she was no older than I…when her hair was exactly as it is in this portrait.’

Luca could not speak, and nor could Bianca at his side. But she was stepping forward, her hand outstretched, her fingers brushing gently, so gently, over the portrait before her. It was a woman—a beautiful woman in her prime. Matteo’s grandmother…with her emerald eyes and her flaming Titian hair…

A choke came from her and she turned back, her eyes wide. Eyes that resembled Matteo’s grandmother’s not only in colour but in shape, as did the shape of her nose, the line of her jaw, the wave of her red, red hair…

‘ La rosa rossa— the red rose. That’s what my grandmother was called…

’ Matteo’s voice was fond. He came to Bianca, kissed her cheek.

‘Your great-grandmother,’ he said. ‘No one knows where her red hair came from—perhaps some Venetian ancestress painted by Titian? But now…’ he kissed her other cheek ‘…it descends to yet another generation.’

He stepped away, cast a last look at the portrait, and then looked at Bianca and Luca.

‘I shall leave you now, my dearest ones, and give myself over to the ministrations of Paolo. And I leave you to each other—for tonight and for all your lives. Be blessed in your love for each other, as my beloved Luisa and I were blessed.’ His voice changed, grew sad.

‘Be blessed as my poor brother and your dear mother had no chance to be. But you, Bianca,’ he said, and now Luca could hear not sadness in his godfather’s voice, but gladness, ‘my dearest niece, are their blessing. Be blessed for them…for their sakes and for your children’s sake.

And who knows?’ His voice lightened now, and he started to walk towards the door.

‘Amongst them may be another red, red rose…’

At the door he turned.

‘Goodnight, my dearest ones, goodnight.’

Then he was gone.

For a long, long moment neither Luca nor Bianca could speak. Then Bianca turned to the portrait again. Still saying nothing.

So Luca spoke for her. ‘You can ask for a DNA test, if you want, but it cannot tell you more than this.’ He looked at her. ‘She’s you,’ he said simply.

Wonder was filling Bianca’s face—wonder and hope.

‘Do you really, really think so?’

Hope was in her voice too, and in her eyes.

He took her hands, held them closely. ‘What I think, beloved of my heart, is that Matteo has given you a gift he does not know the price of—a gift we shall treasure and pass on to our children, whether they be redheads or not!’

She gave a smothered cry. ‘I am so glad! So incredibly, gratefully glad! Perhaps my aunt believed what she told me? I want to think that of her—that she did not speak only out of malice. But if this is true…’ she glanced back at the portrait ‘…if this really is my great-grandmother, then I am truly Matteo’s niece and he’s my uncle…

’ Her expression changed. ‘But I won’t probe any further.

Let it be as it is. It’s enough…quite enough. ’

Gratitude was in her voice, and Luca blessed her for what she had avowed.

‘I think that’s wise,’ he said. ‘Let’s let it be.’

He dropped a kiss as light as a feather on her lips. Then he drew back, not relinquishing her hands.

‘Speaking of children, however…’

His voice changed and he could hear the husk in it. He knew why it was there.

‘I think… I really, really think, beloved of my heart, that as it is our wedding day, and we have now made our vows, consumed our lavish wedding breakfast and bade farewell to all our guests, the hour grows late. We are quite, quite alone, and it is time…’ he dropped another kiss on her lips, not so light this time ‘…that you performed your first duty as the new Viscontessa.’

His eyes glinted wickedly.

‘It is time for you to present your lordly husband with an heir. The begetting of which…’ he kissed her again, not featherlight at all now, but sensuously and oh-so-arousingly ‘…requires that we retire to the bridal chamber and proceed, with due decorum, taking our time over it quite exquisitely, to remove this most beautiful wedding dress and my increasingly constricting monkey suit solely and exclusively for the purpose of partaking in connubial bliss—an exercise that I fully envisage will take all the night long.’ He kissed her again for good measure.

‘It will be dawn, beloved of my heart, before we sleep…’

He drew her towards the door. Her long skirts rustled as she came with him, brushing the marble floor. She glanced up at him, his bride, his wife, his viscontessa , the love of his life, the purpose of his being, his heart of hearts, and her emerald eyes were aflame with green fire.

‘Sounds good to me,’ she said. Her voice was wicked with anticipation and agreement. ‘I can’t wait!’

No more could he.

They were in perfect accord, sharing a single mind, as he crushed her hand in his and her free hand scooped up her suddenly cumbersome skirts.

Their heels ringing on the marble floor, they all but ran along the hallway and up the soaring staircase into the waiting bridal chamber, where the tester bed was strewn with red rose petals and the air was perfumed with vast bouquets.

There was chilled champagne in a huge silver bowl filled with ice, crystal glasses beside it on an inlaid bouillotte table.

And there were dishes of canapés, petits-fours, sun-ripe figs and peaches and truffled chocolates to ward off night starvation, together with a pot of coffee on another table nearby, keeping warm on a hot plate.

Almond and pistachio biscotti were set beside the porcelain cups, and in pride of place, on a silver gilt stand, was a miniature wedding cake—an exact replica of the towering construction that had graced their lavish wedding breakfast earlier.

They ignored it all. Only one priority consumed them, and one priority alone. For the bridegroom to claim his bride and the bride her groom. A husband for a wife…a wife for a husband. A visconte for his viscontessa …a viscontessa for her visconte.

This very night, this very hour, they would begin their married life—and it would last for all their lives and for so much longer.

For Luca knew, as he took his viscontessa , his wife, his beloved and his bride into his enfolding arms, that for a love like theirs only eternity would do.