The Bride's Awakening (9 page)

Her heart leaped and she shook her head. ‘Be serious.’

‘I am.’

‘Only because I tick the right boxes.’

‘I have a lot of boxes.’

‘Just when did you decide I was such a suitable candidate?’ Ana asked. She looked up to see Vittorio tilt his head and narrow his eyes; it was a look she was becoming used to. It meant he was thinking carefully about what to say…and what he thought she wanted to hear.

‘Does it matter?’

‘I’m curious.’

He gave a tiny shrug. ‘I’ve already told you, I first read about you in the in-flight magazine. It was a short article, but it piqued my interest.’

‘Enough to dig into my background?’ Ana guessed, and Vittorio’s mouth tightened. He gestured to the waiter to take their plates, and the man scurried forward.

‘I don’t particularly like your tone or your choice of words,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ve been honest from the beginning.’

‘That’s true.’ Yet, for some reason, his honesty hurt all the more. ‘It’s just so…cold-blooded.’

‘Funny,’ Vittorio said, taking a sip of wine, ‘I thought you said you weren’t a romantic.’

‘I’m not,’ Ana said quickly. She wondered whether she was lying. Had she actually been waiting for her knight in shining armour all this time? Was she really such a lovelorn fool?

No. She would not allow herself the weakness.

‘Then what is the trouble?’

‘It is a big decision, Vittorio,’ Ana replied, a hint of sharpness to her tone. ‘As you said before. I don’t make such decisions lightly.’ She took a breath. If he wanted businesslike, then that was what he would get. ‘What about a pre-nuptial agreement?’

Vittorio arched his eyebrows. ‘Are you worried I’ll take your fortune?’ he asked dryly, for the Viale wealth was a fraction of his.

‘No, but I thought you might have that concern.’

Vittorio’s mouth hardened into a thin line. ‘Divorce is not an option.’

Ana swallowed. ‘What if you meet someone else?’

‘I won’t.’ The steely glint in those dark eyes kept Ana from even asking the question about whether she would.

‘Children?’ she finally managed. Vittorio regarded her coolly, waiting. ‘You said you needed an heir. How many?’

‘Several, if God wills it.’ He paused. ‘You intimated you wanted children. Will that be a problem?’

‘No.’ The ache for a baby had only started recently, her biological clock finally having begun its relentless tick. Yet right now she couldn’t think of babies, only how they were made.

Her and Vittorio. Her mind danced with images and her body ached with longing. She’d never realized how much desire she could feel, how it caused a sweet, sweet pain to lance through her and leave her breathless with wanting. The knowledge that Vittorio surely did not share it, or at least feel it as she did, that he could talk about the consummation of their marriage—the joining of their bodies—without so much as a flicker of emotion or longing made Ana ache, not just with desire, but with disappointment.

She wished he desired her the way she desired him, a wonderful consuming ache that longed only to be sated. Yes, she knew she could stir him to sensuality, but surely any man—well,
almost
any man—would have such a response.

Was it enough?

‘Ana, what are you thinking?’ Vittorio asked. His voice was gentle, and Ana saw a wary compassion in his eyes.

‘I’m thinking I don’t want to marry a man who doesn’t find me attractive,’ she said flatly. The words seemed to lie heavily between them, unable to be unsaid. Vittorio’s face was blank, but Ana sensed his withdrawal, as if he’d actually recoiled from the brutal honesty of her words.

‘I think you are being too harsh.’

The fact that he did not deny it completely made her heart sink a little. ‘Am I?’ she asked, and heard the hurt in her own voice.

‘You felt the evidence of my desire for you the other night,’ Vittorio told her in a low voice. A smile lurked in his eyes. ‘Didn’t you?’

Ana flushed. ‘Yes, but—’

‘Admittedly, you are different from the other women I’ve…known. But that doesn’t mean I can’t find you attractive.’

Having drunk enough whisky and given the right inducements, Ana silently added. ‘Have you had many lovers?’ she asked impulsively, and almost laughed at Vittorio’s expression of utter surprise.

‘Enough,’ he said after a moment. ‘But there is no point raking over either of our pasts, Ana. As I said before, we should look now to the future. Our future.’

Ana tossed her napkin on the table, suddenly restless, needing to move. ‘I’ve finished. Shall we? The last boat back to Fusina leaves before midnight.’

‘So it does.’ Vittorio raised one hand with easy grace to signal for the bill, and within minutes they were winding their way through the tables and then outside, the spring air slightly damp, the heady scent of flowers mixing with the faint whiff of stagnant water from one of the canals, an aroma that belonged purely to Venice. ‘Shall we walk?’ Vittorio asked, taking her arm; it fitted snugly into his and her side collided not unpleasantly with his hip. She could feel the hard contours of his leg against hers.

The piazza outside San Marco had emptied of tourists and now only a few people lingered over half-drunk glasses of wine at the pavement cafés; Ana saw a couple entwined in the shadows by one of the pillars of the ancient church. She found herself hurrying, needing to move, to get somewhere. Her thoughts—her hopes, her fears—were too much to deal with.

They didn’t speak as they made their way back to the ferry and, even once aboard the boat, they both stood at the rail, silently watching the lights of Venice disappear into the darkness and fog.

Ana knew she should have a thousand questions to ask, a dozen different points to clarify. Her mind buzzed with thoughts, concerns flitting in and out of her scattered brain.

‘I don’t want my children to be raised by some nanny,’ she blurted and Vittorio glanced sideways at her, his hands still curved around the railing of the ferry.

‘Of course not.’

‘And I refuse to send them to boarding school.’ Her two years at a girls’ school near Florence had been some of the darkest days she’d ever known. Even now, she suppressed a shudder at the memory. Vittorio’s expression didn’t even flicker, although she sensed a tension rippling from him, like a current in the air.

‘On that point we are of one accord. I did not enjoy boarding school particularly, and I am presuming you didn’t either.’

‘No.’ She licked her lips; her mouth was suddenly impossibly dry. ‘You can’t expect to change me.’ Vittorio simply arched an eyebrow and waited. ‘With make-up and clothes and such. If you wanted that kind of woman, Vittorio, you should have asked someone else.’ She met his bland gaze defiantly, daring him to tell her—what? That she needed a little polish? That her shapeless trouser suits—expensive as they were—would have to go? That she wasn’t beautiful or glamorous enough for him? Or was that simply what
she
thought?

‘There would be little point in attempting to change you,’ he
finally said, ‘when I have asked you to marry me as you are.’ Ana nodded jerkily, and then he continued. ‘However, you will be the Countess of Cazlevara. I expect you to act—and dress—according to your station.’

‘What does that mean exactly?’

Vittorio shrugged. ‘You are an intelligent adult woman, Ana. I’ll leave such decisions to you.’

Ana nodded, accepting, and they didn’t speak until they were off the boat and back in Vittorio’s Porsche, speeding through the darkness. A heavy fog rested over the hills above Treviso, lending an eerie glow to the road, the car’s headlights barely penetrating the swirling mist. The air was chilly and damp and Ana’s mind flitted immediately to the vineyards, the grapes still young and fragile. She didn’t think it was cold enough to be concerned and she leaned her head back against the seat, suddenly overwhelmingly exhausted.

Vittorio turned into Villa Rosso’s sweeping drive, parking the car in front of the villa’s front doors and killing the engine. The world seemed impossibly silent, and Ana felt as if she could nearly fall asleep right there in the car.

‘Go to bed,
rondinella
,’ Vittorio said softly. His thumb skimmed her cheek, pressed lightly on her chin. ‘Sleep on it awhile.’

Ana’s eyes fluttered open, his words penetrating her fogged mind slowly. ‘What did you say?’ she asked in a whisper.

Vittorio’s mouth curved in a small smile, yet Ana saw a shadow of sorrow in his eyes, lit only by the lights of the villa and the moon, which had escaped from the clouds that longed to hide it from view. ‘I told you to sleep. And preferably in a bed, I think.’

‘Yes, but—’ Ana swallowed and struggled to a more upright position. ‘What did you call me?’

‘Rondinella.’
His smile deepened, as did the sorrow in his eyes. ‘You think I don’t remember?’

Ana stared at him, her eyes wide, thoughts and realizations tumbling through her now-clear mind. He remembered. Suddenly she was back at her mother’s graveside, her hand still caked with mud, tears drying on her cheeks. Suddenly she was looking at the only person who had shown her true compassion; even her own father had been too dazed by grief to deal with his daughter. And suddenly the answer was obvious.

‘I don’t need to sleep on it,’ she said, her words no more than a breath of sound.

Hope lit Vittorio’s eyes, replacing the sorrow. His smile seemed genuine now and he touched her cheek again with his thumb. ‘You don’t?’

‘No.’ She reached up to clasp his hand with her own, her fingers curling around his. ‘The answer is yes, Vittorio. I’ll marry you.’

E
VERYTHING
happened quickly after that. It was as if her acceptance had set off a chain reaction of events, spurring Vittorio into purposeful action that left Ana breathless and a little uncertain. It was all happening so
fast
.

The morning after she’d accepted his proposal—his proposition—he came to the winery offices. Seeing him there, looking official and elegant in his dark grey suit, the only colour the crimson silk of his tie, Ana was reminded just how businesslike this marriage really was. Vittorio hardly seemed the same man who had caressed her cheek and called her swallow only the evening before. The memory of his touch still lingered in her mind, tingled her nerve-endings.

‘I thought we should go over some details,’ Vittorio said now. ‘If you have time?’

Ana braced her hands on her desk, nodding with swift purpose, an attempt to match Vittorio’s own brisk determination. ‘Of course.’ He paused, and Ana moved from behind the desk. ‘Why don’t we adjourn to the wine-tasting room? I’ll order coffee.’

He smiled then, seeming pleased with her suggestion. Just another business meeting, Ana thought a bit sourly, even as she reprimanded herself that she had no right to be resentful of Vittorio’s businesslike attitude. She was meant to share it.

Once they were seated on the leather sofas in the wine-tasting room, a tray of coffee on the table between them, Vittorio took out a paper that, to Ana, looked like a laundry list. He withdrew a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and perched them on the end of his nose, making an unexpected bubble of laughter rise up her throat and escape in a gurgle of sound. ‘I didn’t know you wore specs.’

He arched his eyebrows, smiling ruefully. ‘I started needing them when I turned thirty-five, alas.’

‘Is that in your medical file?’ Ana couldn’t help but quip. ‘I should have a full report, you know.’

‘I’ll have it sent to you immediately,’ Vittorio returned, and Ana realized she didn’t know if he was joking or not. To cover her confusion she busied herself with preparing the coffee.

‘I realize I don’t know how old you are,’ she commented lightly. ‘At my mother’s funeral, you were—what? Twenty?’

‘Twenty-one.’

The mood suddenly turned sober, dark with memories. Ana gazed at him over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘Your father died when you were around my age then, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. I was fourteen.’

‘A heart attack, wasn’t it? Sudden.’

Vittorio nodded. ‘Yes, as was your mother’s death, if I remember correctly. A car accident?’

Ana nodded. ‘A drunk driver. A boy no more than seventeen.’ She shook her head in sorrowful memory. ‘He lost his life as well.’

‘I always felt like the death of a parent skewed the world somehow,’ Vittorio said after a moment. ‘No matter how happy you are, nothing seems quite right after that.’ Ana nodded jerkily; he’d expressed it perfectly. He understood. Vittorio looked away, sipping his coffee before he cleared his throat and consulted his list. ‘I thought we could have a quiet ceremony in the chapel at Castle Cazlevara. Unless you object?’

‘No, of course not. That sounds…fine.’

‘If you envisioned something else—’

‘No.’ She’d stopped dreaming of any kind of wedding years ago. The thought of a huge spectacle now seemed like an affront, a travesty, considering the true nature of their marriage. The thought was an uncomfortable one. ‘A quiet ceremony will be fine,’ she said a bit flatly, and Vittorio frowned.

‘As long as you are sure.’ He turned back to his list, a frown still wrinkling his forehead, drawing those strong, straight brows closer together. ‘As for dates, I thought in two weeks’ time.’

Ana nearly spluttered her mouthful of coffee. ‘Two
weeks
!’

‘Three, then, at the most. There is no reason to wait, is there?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Ana agreed reluctantly. ‘Still, won’t it seem…odd? People might talk.’

‘I am not interested in gossip. In any case, the sooner we marry, the sooner we become…used to one another.’ He gave her the glimmer of a smile. ‘Of course, we can wait—a while—before we consummate the marriage. I want you to feel comfortable.’

Ana blushed. She couldn’t help it. Despite his tone of cool, clinical detachment, she could imagine that consummation so vividly. Wonderfully. And she didn’t want to wait. She took another sip of coffee, hiding her face from Vittorio’s knowing gaze. She wasn’t about to admit as much, not when Vittorio was all too content to delay the event.

‘Thank you for that sensitivity,’ she murmured after a moment, and Vittorio nodded and returned to his list.

‘I thought a small wedding, but do let me know if there is anyone in particular you would like to invite.’

‘I’ll have to think about it.’

‘I realize if we invited only some of the local winemakers, others will be insulted at not being included,’ Vittorio continued. ‘So I thought not to invite any…We’ll have a party at the castle a few days after the wedding. Everyone can come then.’

‘All right.’ Ana wished she could contribute something more
coherent to this conversation other than her mindless murmured agreements. Yet she couldn’t; her mind was spinning with these new developments, realizations. Implications.

In a short while—as little as two weeks—they could be married.
Would
be married. Her hand trembled and she put the coffee cup back in its saucer with an inelegant clatter.

‘We will need witnesses, of course, for the ceremony,’ Vittorio said, reaching for his own cup. If he noticed Ana’s agitation, he did not remark on it. ‘Is there a woman friend in particular you would like to stand witness?’

‘Yes, a friend from university.’ Paola was still her best friend, although they saw each other infrequently ever since her friend had married a Sicilian. She’d moved south and had babies. Ana had moved home, caring for her father and the winery. ‘She’ll be surprised,’ Ana said a bit wryly. She could only imagine Paola’s shock when she told her she was getting married, and so suddenly. ‘And what about you? Who will you have as your witness?’

‘I thought your father.’

‘My father!’ Ana couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice; she didn’t even try. ‘But…’

‘He is a good man.’

‘What about your brother?’

‘No.’ Vittorio’s voice was flat and when his gaze met Ana’s his eyes looked hard, even unfriendly. ‘We are not close.’

There was a world of knowledge in that statement, Ana knew, a lifetime of memory and perhaps regret. She longed to ask why—what—but she knew now was not the time. ‘Very well.’

Vittorio finished his coffee and folded his list back into his breast pocket. ‘I assume I can leave the details of your dress and flowers to you?’ he asked. His eyebrow arched, a hint of a smile around his mouth, he added, ‘You will wear a dress?’

Ana managed a smile back. ‘Yes. For my own wedding, I think I can manage a dress.’

‘Good. Then I’ll leave you to work now. I thought you could come to dinner this Friday, at the castle. You will need to meet my family.’ Again that hardness, that darkness.

Ana nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

And then he was gone. He rose from the table, shook her hand and left the office as if it had just been another business meeting, which, Ana recognized, of course it had.

That evening, over dinner, she told her father. She could have told him that morning, but something had held her back. Perhaps it was her own reluctance to admit she’d done something that seemed so foolhardy, so desperate. Yet, now the wedding was a mere fortnight away, she could hardly keep such news from her father, especially if Vittorio intended for him to stand as witness.

‘I said yes to Vittorio, Papà,’ Ana said as they finished the soup course. Her voice came out sounding rather flat.

Enrico lowered his spoon, his eyes widening in surprise, a smile blooming across his dear wrinkled face. ‘But Ana!
Dolcezza!
That is wonderful.’

‘I hope it will be,’ Ana allowed, and Enrico nodded in understanding.

‘You are nervous? Afraid?’

‘A bit.’

‘He is a good man.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

Enrico cocked his head. ‘You aren’t sure?’

Ana considered this. ‘I would hardly marry a bad man, Papà.’ Vittorio was a good man, she knew. Honourable, just, moral. She thought of that hardness in his eyes and voice when he spoke of his family. He was a good man, but was he a gentle man? Then she remembered the whisper of his thumb on her cheek, the soft words of comfort.
It’s all right…rondinella.

She didn’t know what to think. What to believe or even to hope for.

‘I am happy for you,’ Enrico said, reaching over to cover her hand with his own. ‘For you both. When is the wedding?’

Ana swallowed. ‘In two weeks.’

Enrico raised his eyebrows. ‘Good,’ he said after a moment. ‘No need to waste time. I will telephone Aunt Iris today. Perhaps she can come from England.’

Ana nodded jerkily. She’d only met her aunt a handful of times; she’d disapproved of her sister marrying an Italian and living so far away. When Emily had died, she’d withdrawn even more. ‘I hope she’ll come,’ Ana said, meaning it. Perhaps her wedding could go some way towards healing such family rifts.

Even when at work in the winery on Monday she found her thoughts were too hopelessly scattered to concentrate on much of anything. She jumped at the littlest sound, half-expecting, hoping even, to see Vittorio again. He did not make an appearance.

In the middle of a task or phone call she would catch herself staring into space, her mind leaping ahead…
I’ll be the Countess of Cazlevara. What will people say? When will Vittorio want to—?

She forced her mind back to her work, even as a lump of something—half dread, half excitement—lodged in her middle and made it impossible to eat or even to swallow more than a sip of water. She was a seething mass of nerves, wondering just what insane foolishness she’d agreed to, longing to possess the cool business sense Vittorio had credited her with. She couldn’t summon it for the life of her.

On Thursday evening, as she headed back to the villa, she compiled a list in her head of all the things she needed to do. Tell the winery staff. Ring Paola. Find an outfit—a dress?—for her dinner with Vittorio and his family tomorrow.

The downstairs of the villa was quiet and dark when Ana entered.

‘Papà?’ she called, and there was no answer. She headed upstairs, pausing in the doorway of one of the guest bedrooms
they never used. Her father, she saw, was seated on the floor, his head bowed. Ana felt a lurch of alarm. ‘Papa?’ she asked gently. ‘Are you all right?’

He looked up, blinking once or twice, and smiled brightly. ‘Yes. Fine. I was just looking through some old things.’

Ana stepped into the room, now lost in the gloom of late afternoon. ‘What old things?’ she asked.

‘Of your mother’s…’ The words trailed off in a sigh. Enrico looked down at his lap, which was covered by a heap of crumpled white satin. ‘She would be so pleased to know you were getting married. I like to think that she does know, somehow. Somewhere.’

‘Yes.’ Ana couldn’t help but remember Vittorio’s words:
tua cuore
. ‘What’s that on your lap?’

‘Your mother’s wedding dress. Have I never shown it to you?’

Ana shook her head. ‘In photographs…’

Enrico held it up, shaking it out as he smiled tremulously. ‘I know it’s probably out-of-date,’ he began, his voice hesitant. ‘And it needs to be professionally cleaned and most likely altered, but…’

‘But?’ Ana prompted. She felt moved by her father’s obvious emotion—unusual as it was—but it saddened her too. This enduring love was something she’d agreed never to know.

‘It would give this old man great joy for you to wear your mother’s gown on your wedding day,’ Enrico said, and Ana’s heart sank a little bit.

‘You’re not an old man, Papà,’ she protested, even as she scanned his face, noticing how thin and white his hair was, the new deeper grooves on the sides of his mouth. He’d been forty when he’d married; he was just past seventy now. It seemed impossible, and her heart lurched as she reached for the gown. ‘Let me see.’ She shook the dress out, admiring the rich white satin even as she recognized the style—over thirty years old—was far from flattering for her own fuller figure. The round neckline was
bedecked with heavy lace and the skirt had three tiers of ruffles. Not only would she look like a meringue in it, she would look like a very large meringue. She’d look
awful
. Ana turned back to her father; tears shimmered in his eyes. She smiled. ‘I’d be honoured to wear it, Papà.’

The next day Ana stood outside Castle Cazlevara. The torches guttered in a chilly spring breeze and lights twinkled from within. Even before she stepped out of her car—she’d insisted on driving herself—a liveried footman threw open the double doors and welcomed her inside.

‘Signorina Viale, welcome. The Count and his mother, the Countess, are in the drawing room awaiting your arrival.’

Ana swallowed past the dryness in her mouth; her heart had begun to thump so loudly she could feel it in her ears. She straightened, her hands running down the silvery-grey widelegged trousers she wore. She’d taken great pains over her outfit, and yet now she wondered if it was as plain as the other trouser suits she donned as armour. Only yesterday she’d taken the ferry to Venice, had even ventured down Frezzeria to the chic boutique Vittorio had led her to just the other night. She’d stood in front of the window like a child in front of a sweet shop; twice she’d almost gone in. But the stick-thin sales associate with her black pencil skirt and crisp white blouse looked so svelte and elegant and forbidding that after twenty minutes Ana had crept away. The thought of trying on such beautiful clothes—of looking at herself in such beautiful clothes—in front of such a woman was too intimidating. Too terrifying.

So she’d scoured her closet, finding a pair of trousers she’d never worn; the fabric shimmered as she moved and even though it was still a pair of trousers, the legs were wide enough to almost pass for a skirt. She chose the beaded top she’d worn the last time she’d come to the castle and she’d pulled back her hair loosely
so a few loose tendrils framed her face, softening the effect. She’d even put on a little lipstick.