The Bride's Awakening (12 page)

‘That doesn’t matter.’ Paola hugged her tightly for a moment before releasing her and stepping back. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? I can wait—’

‘No, I’d like a few moments alone.’ Ana smiled, straightening her spine, throwing her shoulders back. When she spoke, her voice came out firm. ‘Don’t worry about me, Paola. I’ll be fine.’ If she kept saying it, perhaps she would believe it.

When she was alone, Ana spared that gown one more accusing glance and then she moved around the room, pacing, anxiety taking the place of her earlier resolve. She told herself it hardly mattered that the gown was three sizes too big, yet no matter how many times she repeated the words, a desperate litany, she couldn’t believe it.

She felt that it did matter. She felt that Vittorio must secretly think she was plain and overweight and he couldn’t possibly desire her at all, unless fortified with a great deal of very good whisky. Each thought, each realization, was like a direct hit to her self-confidence, a dagger wound to her heart.

An hour passed in agonizing slowness. She wanted him to come; she didn’t want him to come. She wanted to confront him; she wanted to hide. She was annoyed with herself and her own absurd indecision. For ten years she’d been in control of things—of the winery, of her life, of her own emotions. Admittedly, it hadn’t been a very exciting life, but she’d been purposeful and determined and
happy
.

Now she felt completely lost, adrift in the bewildering sea of her emotions. It was a sensation she did not enjoy at all.

When a light knock sounded on the door, Ana was almost relieved. Anything at that point was better than waiting. She’d found a thick terry cloth dressing gown in the wardrobe and
she’d thrown it on, belting it tightly around her waist so she was covered nearly from her neck to her ankles.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded before she’d even laid eyes on him properly; too late, she realized she sounded rather shrewish.

‘I thought you’d appreciate a bit of time alone,’ Vittorio replied mildly.

Ana swallowed all the hurt and disappointment and nodded stiffly. ‘Yes, well. Thank you.’

‘Apparently I thought wrong?’ he asked, moving past her into the bedroom.

‘I just wondered where you were.’

Standing in the middle of the sumptuous bedroom, Vittorio looked utterly in his element. He’d removed his tie and jacket and the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone. His hair was a little rumpled, and Ana could see the shadow of stubble on his strong jaw. He looked unbearably sexy and suddenly, despite everything, she felt faint with longing. She sagged against the door.

Vittorio held up a bottle he was carrying. ‘I brought you a wedding present.’

‘Oh?’ Ana glanced at it. ‘Whisky,’ she said a bit flatly, and tried to smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘You did express a preference for it,’ Vittorio replied in that same mild voice that Ana wasn’t sure she liked. It was so damn unemotional, and here she was, feeling utterly fraught.

‘Actually,’ she told him, ‘I lied.’ She enjoyed the look of surprise on his face, his jaw slackening for a second. ‘I don’t really like whisky. That is, I haven’t tried it very much.’

‘Really.’

‘Really.’ Ana strode across the room and plucked the bottle from Vittorio’s hand. ‘I only said that because I could see how intent you were on manufacturing some kind of businesslike atmosphere, and it seemed like a bottle of whisky would help that.’

‘Or we could have just had coffee,’ Vittorio replied with the flicker of a smile.

‘Coffee over billiards?’ Ana arched an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think so. Anyway, since you brought it, why don’t we have a glass now?’

‘I thought you said you didn’t like it.’

‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ Ana gave him a wicked little smile. ‘I’ve developed a taste for it, after all.’

Vittorio paused; Ana could see he was trying to gauge her mood, to decide what was the best—the most efficient and effective—thing to do now. Well, she was tired of that kind of attitude. Just like the last time they’d drunk whisky together, she felt reckless and defiant and even a little dangerous; it was not a pleasant feeling but it made her feel
alive
. She raised the bottle. ‘Are there any glasses around?’

‘I’m sure I can find some,’ Vittorio murmured and moved past her to the en suite bathroom. He returned with two water tumblers and handed them over. ‘No ice, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s all right. I’ve found I prefer it straight.’

‘As do I,’ he murmured. He was standing close to her so his breath tickled her ear, making her want to shiver. She just barely suppressed the urge and unscrewed the bottle, pouring two rather large whiskies. She handed Vittorio one of the glasses.

‘Cento anni di salute e felicità,’
he said with a wry twist to his mouth; it was the traditional wedding toast. A hundred years of health and happiness.

Ana nodded jerkily, and they drank at the same time.

In the aftermath of the alcohol her eyes burned and watered. She just barely kept herself from choking.

‘All right?’ Vittorio asked, putting his glass aside, and Ana smiled defiantly.

‘Never better.’

For a second, his expression flickered. ‘Ana—’

‘Thank you for the gown, by the way. It’s gorgeous.’

‘Gown?’ Vittorio repeated a bit warily and Ana smiled, the curve of her mouth forced and overbright.

‘This.’ She reached for the box with its rather large scrap of silk. ‘Am I meant to wear it tonight? Because I’m afraid it’s a bit too big.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I’m not actually as large as you think I am, I suppose.’

Vittorio took the gown without speaking, shook it out and gazed at it with a rather clinical eye. ‘I see. It is a beautiful gown, Ana, but I’m afraid I didn’t give it to you. I’ve learned my lesson with you where clothes are concerned.’

Now Ana’s jaw slackened, the wind leaking right out of her self-righteous sails. ‘You didn’t send it?’

‘No. But I can guess who did.’

‘Who?’

‘My mother. To send you a gown several sizes too big—this is the kind of thing she would do. Her little attempt to wound. It stings,
si
?’ His eyes hardened. ‘Trust me, I know.’

Suddenly the gown didn’t matter at all. ‘Vittorio—what has happened between you and your mother? And your brother too? Why are you all so—so terrible to one another? So cold.’

Vittorio was silent for a moment, before he shook his head. ‘It is past, Ana, past and forgotten. There is nothing you need to know.’

‘But it isn’t really forgotten, is it? I can tell by the way you talk about it, even now—’

‘It’s late—’ he cut her off ‘—and you need your sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Disappointment opened up inside her, a vast looming pit. She wanted to ask him to stay, but she knew she wouldn’t. Couldn’t begin their marriage this way, with her begging for him, for his touch. Yet why was he leaving? Was this his so-called sensitivity or merely his indifference? ‘All right,’ she whispered, her voice catching on the words.

He reached out with one hand and touched her cheek, his
thumb finding that secret place where a tear had once sparkled. Ana closed her eyes and nearly swayed where she stood. ‘It will be all right,
rondinella
,’ he murmured. ‘I know this is hard now—awkward too, for both of us, but it will be all right.’

Ana swallowed and nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She didn’t open her eyes for a moment and, when she did, Vittorio had already gone.

Alone in the hallway, Vittorio cursed under his breath. Of course his mother would seek to discredit him with Ana from the first moment of their marriage. Of course she would find ways to weaken the tenuous link he’d forged with his bride. And, if Constantia stayed here, she would continue to poison Ana’s mind and pare away her self-confidence.

Yet he knew he would not ask his mother to leave. He’d never asked her to leave. He’d been the one to leave, all those years ago; he’d felt like an interloper in his own home, unwanted and undesired, and it had been easier simply to walk away.

Vittorio thought of the disappointment he’d seen in Ana’s eyes. She’d wanted him to stay; she’d even wanted him to make love to her. And he’d wanted it, too; his body even now stirred to lust. Yet he’d balked, like a shy virgin! The thought almost made him laugh in exasperation at his own reticience. All too easily he could imagine taking her in his arms, unwrapping her from that thick, bulky robe like a parcel from its paper.

Yet she wasn’t merely a parcel, a thing, this wife of his, and it was this uncomfortable new knowledge that kept him from staying. From consummating their marriage, for surely that was all it would be. A consummation, a soulless act, and he was—suddenly, stupidly too—afraid of hurting her.

Vittorio cursed aloud. Now was not the time to develop some kind of stupid sensitivity. He stopped, almost turned around, even if just to prove a point to himself. Then he remembered the way Ana’s grey eyes, so wide and luminous and somehow soft,
had darkened with disappointment when he’d said he was leaving, how her breath had shortened when he’d touched her cheek and, furious with himself, at a loss for what he should do now, he kept on walking.

T
HE
next few days were some of the most depressing Ana had ever known, simply by reason of their utter sameness. Except for the fact that she drove back to Castle Cazlevara every night after work, Ana would not know she was married. Her days had not changed at all; after an impersonal breakfast with Vittorio, she left for the winery offices, spent the day there and returned to the castle for another impersonal and often silent meal.

Vittorio seemed to have retreated into himself; they hardly talked, and the little gifts he’d showered her with before their marriage had stopped completely. Ana couldn’t tell if Vittorio was simply satisfied now he’d married her, or if he actually regretted the deed. As far as periods of adjustment went, theirs was an utter failure. There was no adjusting; there was only enduring.

Ana saw Constantia and Bernardo on occasion; they were currently residing at the castle, although they seemed to avoid both her and Vittorio. Bernardo ate out, and Constantia took her meals in her rooms. It was, Ana reflected, an unhappy household, shrouded in its own misery.

After three days of this, Ana could take it no longer. She found Vittorio at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper and drinking his espresso. He barely glanced up when she entered.

‘You’d think,’ Ana said, hearing the acid in her own voice, ‘that we’d been married three decades rather than three days.’

She saw Vittorio’s fingers tense and then he lowered the newspaper. ‘What do you mean, Ana?’ he asked in that careful, mild voice he seemed to save just for her. It was so neutral, so
irritating
, for it made Ana feel as if he was dealing with a child or a puppy that needed training.

‘I mean,’ she retorted, as Giulia, the morning maid, came bustling forth with her own latte, ‘that for the last three days—the only three days we’ve been married—you have been ignoring me. Are you regretting your decision, Vittorio? Because of course you know we can still get the marriage annulled.’

The only change in Vittorio’s expression was a tightening of his lips and a flaring of his nostrils. ‘I have no wish to annul this marriage.’

‘You have no wish to act as if you were married, either.’

Vittorio folded his paper and dropped it on the table. He picked up his tiny cup of espresso and took a sip, studying Ana from over its rim. ‘I wanted to give you time,’ he finally said quietly. ‘I thought…to rush into things might be difficult.’

‘To feel like I don’t belong—that we’re not even married—is difficult too,’ Ana countered. His words had comforted her, given her hope, but she wasn’t about to give up any ground quite yet.

Vittorio nodded slowly. ‘Very well. I was drawing up the guest list for the party I mentioned earlier. I thought we could have it on Friday, in two days’ time. If you have anyone you’d like to add to the list, just tell me, or email me the particulars.’ He paused before adding only a bit acerbically, ‘Perhaps when we announce to the world we are married, you will feel it yourself.’

Or, Ana thought a bit savagely as Vittorio rose and took his leave, perhaps she would feel married when Vittorio treated her like a wife, a proper wife, a wife in every sense of the word as he’d told her he would.

Alone in the dining room, she drummed her fingers on the burnished mahogany table top and moodily sipped her latte. All around her the castle was quiet; even though Giulia was undoubtedly hovering just outside the door, Ana could hear nothing. She felt very alone.

I didn’t think it would be like this.

Annoyed with herself, Ana pushed the traitorous thought aside and rose from the table. The dining room, like many other rooms in the castle, had been refurbished some time in the last century and now possessed long elegant windows overlooking the terraced gardens that led down to the drained moat. Under a fragile blue sky, it was austerely beautiful, yet it hardly felt like home. And she still couldn’t see or hear another living soul.

Without even realizing she was doing it, Ana brushed at the corner of her eye and her fingertip came away damp. She was crying. She never cried, not since her mother had died. Even during those miserable years at boarding school, that first seeming rejection of her father and, later, Roberto’s worse rejection, she’d always choked her sorrow down and soldiered on so it remained a hot lump in her chest, pushing it further and further down until she couldn’t feel it at all. Almost.

Now she felt it deeply, all the sorrow and anger and fear, rising up in a red tide of emotion she didn’t have the time or energy to deal with.

She’d accepted that Vittorio didn’t love her. She’d been prepared that he might not desire her the way she desired him. She hadn’t counted on the fact that he’d actually avoid her.

How was this meant to make her life easier?

‘Has Vittorio left you alone?’

Ana whirled around at the sound of her mother-in-law’s clipped voice. The ageing beauty stood framed in the doorway of the dining room, poised as ever to make an entrance. Ana forced a small smile. She really didn’t feel like dealing with Constantia just now.

‘He went to work, and I’m off in a moment too,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful even as she attempted some kind of regretful look that she wouldn’t be able to spend breakfast with her mother-in-law. ‘We’re both very busy.’

‘Of course you are.’ Constantia glided into the room, followed by Giulia, who brought a separate tray of espresso and rolls. The Dowager Countess clearly deserved special service. ‘Tell me, Anamaria,’ Constantia asked as she sat down and neatly broke a roll in half, ‘how is marriage suiting you?’ She glanced up, her eyes narrowed only slightly, so Ana couldn’t tell if her mother-in-law knew just what kind of marriage she and Vittorio had, or if she genuinely wanted to know the answer to that thorny question. Constantia never gave anything away.

Ana’s mouth widened into a bright false smile. ‘Wonderfully.’

Constantia nodded thoughtfully and nibbled a piece of her roll. ‘Vittorio is so much like his father. A hard man to be married to.’

In a flash Ana remembered her own father’s assessment of Arturo Cazlevara:
Arturo was a good man too, but he was hard. Without mercy.

She glanced at Constantia, now composedly sipping her espresso, with genuine curiosity. ‘What do you mean?’

Constantia shrugged one shoulder. ‘Surely you know what I mean? Vittorio isn’t…affectionate. Emotional.’ She paused, and when she spoke her voice sounded almost ragged. ‘He will never love you.’

Something sharp lanced through Ana; she didn’t know whether it was fear or pain. Perhaps both. She turned back to the window. ‘I don’t expect him to love me,’ she said quietly.

‘You may have convinced yourself of that once, my dear,’ Constantia said. ‘But can you continue to do so? For years?’

There was too much knowledge, too much sorrowful experience in the older woman’s voice for Ana not to ask. ‘Is that what happened to you?’ Ana turned around; for a moment Constantia
looked vulnerable, and her fingers shook a little bit as she replaced her cup in its saucer.

‘Yes, it is. I loved Arturo Cazlevara from the time I was a little girl. We were neighbours, you know, just like Vittorio and you are—were. Everyone approved of the marriage, everyone thought it was a great match. Arturo never said he didn’t love me, of course. And on the surface he was considerate, kind. Just like Vittorio,
si
? Yet here—’ Constantia lightly touched her breastbone ‘—here, I knew.’

Tua cuore
. Sudden tears stung Ana’s eyes and she blinked them away. She was
not
going to cry. ‘Consideration and kindness,’ she said after a moment, ‘count for much.’

Constantia laughed once, the sound sharp with cynicism. ‘Oh, you think so? Because I happen to believe those agreeable sentiments make you feel like a puppy that has been patted on the head and told to go and lie down and stop bothering anyone anymore. Not a nice feeling all these years, you know? To feel like a dog.’ She paused, and something hardened in both her face and voice. ‘You would be amazed to know the things you can be driven to, the things you do even though you hate them—hate yourself—when you feel like that.’ She drained her espresso and rose from the table, giving Ana one last cool smile. The haughty set of her shoulders and the arrogant tilt of her chin made Ana think Constantia regretted her moment of honesty. ‘Perhaps it is different for you, Ana.’

‘It
is
different,’ Ana replied with sudden force. ‘I don’t love Vittorio either.’

Constantia’s smile was pitying. ‘Don’t you?’ she said, and walked from the room.

Constantia’s words echoed through Ana’s mind all morning as she tried to focus on work. She couldn’t. She argued endlessly with herself, trying to convince herself that she didn’t love Vittorio, she didn’t love the way his eyes gleamed when he was
amused, the way they softened when he spoke quietly, the broad set of his shoulders, the feel of his lips—

Of course, those were all physical attributes. You couldn’t love someone based on how they
looked
. Yet Ana knew there was more to Vittorio than his dark good looks. When she was in his presence, she felt alive. Amazed. As if anything could happen, good or bad, and the good would be wonderful and even the bad would be all right because she still would be with him. She wanted to know more about him, not just to feel his body against hers, but his heart against hers also. She wanted to see him smile, just for her. To have him whisper something just meant for her.

She wanted him to love her. She wanted to love him.

She wanted love.

‘No!’ The word burst out of her, bounced around the walls of her empty room. ‘No,’ she said again, a whisper, a plea. She couldn’t want love. She couldn’t, because Vittorio would never give it. She thought of Constantia, her face a map of the disappointments life had given her. Ana didn’t know all the history between Constantia and Vittorio, or Constantia and her own husband, but she knew—it was plain to see—that the woman was bitter, angry, and perhaps even in despair. She didn’t want that. Yet, if she wanted Vittorio’s love—which she was still trying to convince herself she didn’t—it seemed like only a matter of time until she was like Constantia, unfulfilled and unhappy, pacing the rooms of Castle Cazlevara and cursing other people’s joy.

That afternoon Ana left work early—a rare occurrence—and drove to the Mestre train station that crossed the lagoon into Venice. As she rode over the Ponte della Libertà—the Bridge of Liberty—Ana wondered what she was doing…and why. Why had she summoned all her courage and rung the boutique Vittorio had taken her to before their marriage, why had she made an appointment with the pencil-thin Feliciana to be fitted for several outfits, including a gown for the party on Friday night?

Ana told herself it was because she needed some new clothes, now that she was the Countess. Part of her arrangement with Vittorio was that she would dress appropriately to her station, as he’d said. Naturally, it made sense to visit the boutique he’d chosen above all others for this purpose.

Yet, no matter how many times Ana told herself this—mustering all her logic, her common sense—her heart told her otherwise. She was doing this—dressing this way—because she wanted Vittorio to see her differently. She wanted him to see her as a wife, and not just any wife, but a wife he could love.

The thought terrified her.

‘Contessa Cazlevara!’ Feliciana started forward the minute Ana entered the narrow confines of the upscale boutique. Ana smiled and allowed herself to be air-kissed, even though she felt awkward and cloddish and, well,
huge
in this place. Feliciana had to be a good eight inches shorter than her, at the very least.

‘I’ve put some things aside for you,’ Feliciana said, leading her to a private salon in the back of the boutique, ‘that I think will suit you very well.’

‘Really?’ Ana couldn’t keep the scepticism from her voice. Feliciana had only glimpsed her once before; how on earth could she know what suited her? And a little mocking voice asked, how could
anything
suit her?

Ana commanded that voice to be silent. Yet other voices rose to take its place: the locker room taunts of the girls at boarding school, the boys who had ignored or teased her, the helpless sigh of the matron who had shaken her head and said, ‘At least you’re strong.’ And then, most damning of all, Roberto’s utter rejection.
How could I?

Over the years she’d avoided places like this, dresses like these, for a reason. And now, standing in the centre of a brightly lit, mirrored dressing room while Feliciana bustled over with an armful of frocks, she felt horribly exposed and vulnerable.

‘Now, first I thought, a gown for the party,
si
?’ Feliciana smiled. ‘Most important.’

‘Yes, I suppose,’ Ana murmured, looking dubiously at a white lace gown she’d glimpsed on her last visit to the boutique. It now hung over Feliciana’s arm, exquisite and fragile.

‘A formal occasion, is it not? I thought we’d try this.’ Feliciana held up the gown.

Ana shook her head. ‘I don’t think…’

‘You’ll see,’ Feliciana said firmly. She gestured to Ana’s trouser suit with a tiny grimace of distaste. ‘Now, you hide yourself in these clothes, as if you are ashamed.’

Ana flushed. ‘I’m just not—’

‘But you
are
,’ Feliciana interjected. She smiled, laying a hand on Ana’s arm. ‘It is not my job to make women look awkward or ugly,
si
? I know what I am doing. Right now, you walk with your shoulders stooped, your head bowed as if you are trying not to be tall.’

‘I don’t—’ Ana protested.

‘You are tall,’ Feliciana said firmly. ‘With a beautiful full figure. And don’t you know many women long to be so tall? You are strikingly beautiful, but I know you don’t think you are.’ She let go of Ana’s shoulders and gestured to the lace confection of a dress. ‘In this, you will see.’ She smiled again, softly. ‘Trust me.’

So Ana did. She took the dress and let Feliciana take her trouser suit, slipping into the lacy sheath with some foreboding and also a building excitement. The dress fitted like a second skin, hugging her hips, the dip of her waist and the swell of her breasts. Its plunging neckline was made respectable by the handmade Burano lace edging it, and the material ended in a frothy swirl around her ankles. Ana sucked her stomach in as Feliciana did up the hidden zipper in the back, but there was no need as the dress fitted perfectly. They
did
make gowns like this in her size.