Rinaldo’s Inherited Bride Page 2

  ‘As if I’d do a thing like that!’ Gino sounded aggrieved.

  ‘I’ve known times when-well, never mind. I’m not interested. You can have her.’

  He rose and drained his glass before Gino could answer. He didn’t feel that he could stand much more of this conversation.

  Gino went to bed first. He was young. Even in his grief for a beloved father he slept easily.

  Rinaldo could barely remember what it was to sleep peacefully. When the house was quiet he slipped out. The moon was up, casting a livid white glow over the earth. The light was neither soft nor alluring, but harsh, showing him outlines of trees and hills in brutal relief.

  That was the land to which he’d given his whole life. Here, in this soft earth, he’d lain one night with a girl who smelled of flowers and joy, whispering words of love.

  ‘Soon it will be our wedding day, love of my life-come to me-be mine always.’

  And she had come to him in passion and tenderness, generous and giving, nothing held back, her body young and pliable in his arms.

  But for such a little time.

  One year and six months from the date of their wedding to the day he’d buried his wife and child together.

  And his heart with them.

  He walked on. He could have trodden this journey with his eyes closed. Every inch of this land was part of his being. He knew its moods, how it could be harsh, brutal, sometimes generous with its bounty but more often demanding a cruel price.

  Until today he had paid the price, not always willingly, sometimes in anguish and bitterness, but he had paid it.

  And now this.

  He lost track of time, seeing nothing with his outer eye. What he could see, inwardly, was Vincente, roaring with laughter as he tossed his baby son, Gino, up into the air, then turned to smile lovingly on the child Rinaldo.

  ‘Remember when I used to do that with you, my son? Now we are men together.’

  And his own eager response. ‘Yes, Poppa!’

  He had been eight years old, and his father had known by instinct what to say to drive out jealousy of the new baby, and make him happy.

  Poppa, who had believed that the world was a good place because there was always warmth and love and generosity, and who had tried to make him believe it too.

  Poppa, his ally in a hundred childhood pranks. ‘We won’t tell Mamma, it would only worry her.’

  But these images were succeeded by another, one he hadn’t seen, but which he now realised had been there all along: the old man, round faced and white whiskered, laughing up his sleeve at the little joke he’d played on his sons, and particularly on his forceful elder son.

  Vincente hadn’t seen the danger. So there had been no warning, no chance to be prepared. Rinaldo had always loved his father, but at this moment it was hard not to hate him.

  The darkness was turning to the first grey of dawn. He had walked for miles, and now it was time to walk back and make ready for the biggest fight of his life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  R INALDO F ARNESE finally dragged his eyes away from the woman who was his enemy. He had noted dispassionately that she was beautiful in a glossy, city-bred kind of way that would have increased his hostility if it hadn’t been at fever pitch already. Everything about her confirmed his suspicions, from her fair hair to her elegant clothes.

  It was time for the mourners to speak over the grave. There were many, for Vincente had been popular. Some were elderly men, ‘partners in crime’ who had spent days in the sun with him, drinking wine and remembering the old times.

  There were several middle-aged and elderly women, hinting wistfully at sweet memories, under the jealous eyes of their menfolk.

  Finally there were his sons. Gino spoke movingly, recalling his father’s gentleness and sweet temper, his ready laughter.

  ‘He’d had a hard life,’ he recalled, ‘working very long hours, every day for years, so that his family might prosper. But it never soured him, and to the end of his life, nothing delighted him as much as a practical joke.’

  Then he fell silent, and a soft ripple ran around the crowd. By now all of them knew about Vincente’s last practical joke.

  A heaviness seemed to come over Gino as he realised what he had said. The light went out of his attractive young face, and his eyes sought his brother with a touch of desperation.

  Rinaldo’s face revealed nothing. With a brief nod at Gino he stepped up to take his place.

  ‘My father was a man who could win love,’ he said, speaking almost curtly. ‘That much is proved by the presence of so many of his friends today. It is no more than he deserved. I thank each of you for coming to do him honour.’

  That was all. The words were jerked from him as if by force. His face might have been made of stone.

  The mourners began to drift away from the grave. Rinaldo gave Alex a last look and turned, touching Gino’s arm to indicate for him to come too.

  ‘Wait,’ Gino said.

  ‘No,’ Rinaldo was following his gaze.

  ‘We’ve got to meet her some time. Besides-’ he gave a soft whistle. ‘She’s beautiful.’

  ‘Remember where you are and show respect,’ Rinaldo said quietly.

  ‘Poppa wouldn’t mind. He’d have been the first to whistle. Rinaldo, have you ever seen such a beauty?’

  ‘I’m happy for you,’ his brother said without looking at him. ‘Your job should be easier.’

  Gino had caught the lawyer’s eye and raised his eyebrows, inclining his head slightly in Alex’s direction. Isidoro nodded and Gino began to make his way across to them.

  Alex caught the look they exchanged, then she focused on Gino. An engaging young man, she thought. Even dressed in black, he had a kind of brightness about him. His handsome face was fresh, eager, open.

  It had little to do with his youth. It was more a natural joyousness in his nature that would be with him all his life, unless something happened to sour it.

  ‘Gino, this is Signorina Alexandra Dacre,’ Isidoro hastened to make the introductions. ‘Enrico was her great-uncle.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of Signorina Dacre.’ Gino’s smile had an almost conspiratorial quality, as if to suggest that they were all in this mess together.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel as if the whole of Florence has heard of me,’ she said, smiling back and beginning to like him.

  ‘The whole of Tuscany,’ he said. ‘Sensations like this don’t happen every day.’

  ‘I gather you knew nothing about it,’ Alex said.

  ‘Nothing at all, until the lawyers were going through the paperwork.’

  ‘What a nasty shock. I’m surprised you want to shake my hand.’

  ‘It isn’t your fault,’ Gino said at once.

  His grasp, like everything about him, was warm, enclosing her hand in both of his.

  ‘We must meet properly and talk,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, there’s a lot to talk about,’ she agreed. Suddenly she burst out, ‘Did I do wrong to come to your father’s funeral? Perhaps it was tasteless of me, but I only-look, I meant well.’

  ‘Yes, it was tasteless of you,’ said a dry, ironic voice. ‘You have no place here. Why did you come?’

  ‘Rinaldo, please,’ Gino said in a swift, soft voice.

  ‘No, he’s right,’ Alex said hastily. ‘I made a mistake. I’ll go now.’

  ‘But we’re having a reception in the Hotel Favello,’ Gino said. ‘Enrico was Poppa’s dearest friend, and you’re part of Enrico’s family, so naturally you’re invited.’

  He glanced at his brother, waiting for his confirmation. For a moment Rinaldo’s manners warred with his hostility. At last he shrugged and said briefly, ‘Of course.’

  He turned away without waiting for her answer.

  ‘The hotel isn’t far,’ Gino said. ‘I’ll show you.’

  ‘No need, I’m staying there,’ Alex told him. ‘I arrived last night.’

  ‘Then shall we go?’ He offered her his arm.

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nbsp; ‘Thank you, but I’ll make my own way. You have guests who’ll want your attention.’

  She hurried away before he could argue, and rejoined Isidoro, who fell into step beside her.

  ‘If you’re going into the lion’s den I’m coming with you,’ he said.

  ‘That might be a good idea after all,’ she agreed.

  As they walked the short distance to the hotel Alex said, ‘He really did have a lot of friends, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he was a much-loved man. But the people at the wake won’t just be his friends and lovers. They’ll be the vultures hovering over that mortgage, and you’ll be very interesting to them.

  ‘Watch out for a man called Montelli. He’s greedy and unscrupulous, and if Rinaldo sees you talking to him it’ll make him mad.’

  ‘Well,’ Alex said, apparently considering this, ‘since everything I do is going to make that man angry, I think I’ll just go right ahead and do what suits me.’

  The Hotel Favello was a Renaissance building that had once belonged to the Favello family, wealthy and influential for centuries, now fallen on hard times.

  It had been turned into a luxury hotel in such a way that every modern comfort was provided, but so discreetly that nothing seemed to have changed for centuries.

  Alex went up to her room first, so as not to arrive too soon, wishing she had time for a shower. It was June and Florence was hotter than anything she had experienced in England. Standing in the sun, she had felt the heat spreading over her skin beneath her clothes, making her intensely aware of every inch of her body.

  But there was no time for a shower if she were to join the reception. She mopped her brow and checked her appearance in the mirror. She looked, as always, immaculate.

  It would have been over-the-top to wear black for a man she hadn’t known, but she was formally dressed in a navy blue linen dress, with a matching coat, adorned only by one silver brooch. Now she tossed aside the coat before going downstairs.

  She was relieved to see that the reception room was already crowded, so that she attracted little attention.

  Isidoro scuttled to greet her and pointed out some of the others.

  ‘The ones glowering at you in the corner are the other members of Enrico’s family,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t tell me they’re annoyed with me too?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Of course. They were expecting to inherit more.’

  ‘So I’m in the firing line from both sides,’ she said with a touch of exasperation. ‘Oh, heavens!’

  ‘This is Italy,’ Isidoro said wryly. ‘The home of the blood feud. Here they come.’

  Two men and two women appeared solidly before Alex. Greetings were exchanged, not overtly hostile, but cautious. The older man, who seemed to be the spokesman for the group, muttered something about having ‘necessary discussions’ later.

  Alex nodded agreement, and the group moved off. But behind them was a middle-aged man of large proportions and an oily manner. He introduced himself as Leo Montelli, and said that the sooner they talked the better.

  After him came another local landowner, and after him came the representative of a bank. Alex began to feel dizzy. One thing was clear. The message about who she was and why she was here had gone out loud and clear to everyone in the room.

  It had certainly reached Rinaldo Farnese, who was watching her steadily. His face was inscrutable, but Alex had the feeling that he was mentally taking notes.

  ‘Isidoro, I’m leaving,’ she said. ‘This shouldn’t be happening here. It isn’t seemly.’

  ‘Shall I fix appointments with them for you?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she said quickly. ‘I must talk to the Farneses first. For now I’ll just slip away.’

  ‘Look,’ Isidoro said.

  Rinaldo was cutting his way through the crowd until he reached her and said very softly, ‘I want you to leave, right now. Your behaviour is unseemly.’

  ‘Hey, now look-’

  ‘How dare you dance on my father’s grave! Leave right this moment or I’ll put you out myself.’

  ‘Signore-’ Isidoro was vainly trying to claim his attention.

  ‘I was about to leave anyway,’ Alex said.

  ‘To be sure, signorina, I believe you.’

  ‘You’d better,’ she said losing her temper. ‘Signor Farnese, I dislike you at least as much as you dislike me, and I won’t stand for being called a liar. If this wasn’t a solemn occasion I would take the greatest pleasure in losing my temper in a way you wouldn’t forget.’

  She stormed out without giving him the chance to answer. If she could have sold the entire farm out from under him she would have done so at that moment.

  The Hotel Favello was in the Piazza della Republica, in the medieval heart of Florence. Here Alex was close to the great buildings, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Duomo, whose huge bulk dominated the Florence skyline, the fascinating Ponte Vecchio over the River Arno, and many other places she had promised herself that she would visit before she left.

  On the evening of the funeral she decided to eat out, preferably in a restaurant where she could gain a floodlit view of the buildings.

  She’d had a shower as soon as she left the reception, but before getting dressed she had another one under cold water. Thankfully the onset of evening was making temperatures fall, and the room had good air-conditioning, but she felt as though the heat had penetrated down to the core of her.

  She started to put on a pair of tights, but discarded them almost at once, disliking the suffocating sensation of anything clinging to her flesh. She rejected a bra for the same reason.

  When she finally slipped on a white silk dress she wore only a slip and brief panties beneath, because that was the only way she felt her body could breathe.

  Just as she was about to leave there was a knock on her door.

  She opened it to find Rinaldo Farnese standing there.

  He had removed the jacket of his smart black suit, and was holding it hooked over the shoulder of his white shirt, which had been pulled open at the throat. His hair was untidy, his face weary, and he looked as though he had discarded the strait-laced persona of the funeral with as much relief as she had discarded her coat.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ he said, pushing the door further open and walking into the room.

  ‘Hey, I didn’t invite you in,’ she protested.

  ‘I didn’t invite you either, but here you are,’ he responded.

  ‘And I’m just going out to dinner,’ she said.

  At this point a gentleman would have at least offered her a drink. Rinaldo’s only response was a shrug.

  ‘Then I’ll be brief,’ he said.

  ‘Please do,’ she replied crisply.

  ‘First, I suppose I owe you an apology for my behaviour this afternoon.’

  She gaped at him, totally taken aback. The last thing she had expected from this man was an apology.

  ‘After you left I spoke to Isidoro who confirmed that you’d been about to depart of your own accord, and that you too had used the word unseemly.’ He took a deep breath and spoke as though the words were jerked from him. ‘I apologise for doubting your truthfulness.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ she said, ‘all the more because it half killed you to say it.’

  ‘I’m not known for my social skills,’ he agreed wryly.

  ‘I’d never have guessed.’

  ‘You think to disconcert me with irony? Don’t bother.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You’re right. You don’t care enough about other people’s opinions to mind whether you have social skills or not,’ she said gravely. ‘I’m sure rudeness has its advantages, besides being less trouble.’

  This time there was no doubt that she got to him. He eyed her narrowly. Alex looked straight back at him.

  ‘May I remind you that I only came to that reception on your brother’s invitation?’ she said. ‘It wasn’t my idea, and I certainly wouldn’t have come if I’d known what would hap
pen. Perhaps it’s I who owe you an apology for my clumsiness.’

  They regarded each other warily, neither of them in the least mollified by the other’s conciliatory words.

  Despite her exasperation Alex was curious about him. After the sleek, smooth men she knew in London, meeting Rinaldo was like encountering a wild animal. The feelings that drove him were so powerful that she could almost feel them radiating from him. He was controlling them, but only just.

  She thought of David, who never did anything that hadn’t been planned beforehand. She couldn’t imagine him losing control, but with Rinaldo Farnese she could imagine it only too easily.

  Strangely the thought did not alarm her, but only increased her curiosity.

  He began to stride impatiently about the room in a way that told her he was happier outdoors, and rooms suffocated him. Now she appreciated how tall he was, over six foot, broad-shouldered but lean. He was lithe, not graceful like his brother, but athletic, like a tightly coiled spring.

  ‘So now you’ve seen them all,’ he said. ‘All the vultures who are lining up to swoop. They’ve calculated that your only interest is money. Are they wrong?’

  ‘I-well, you’re certainly direct.’

  ‘I came here to know what your plans are. Is that direct enough for you?’

  ‘My plans are fluid at the moment. I’m waiting to see what develops.’

  ‘Do you fancy yourself as a farmer?’

  ‘No, I’m not a farmer, nor do I have any ambitions to be one.’

  ‘That is a wise decision. You would find us two to one against you.’

  She surveyed him with her head a little on one side. ‘You don’t believe in sugar coating it, do you?’

  ‘No,’ he said simply, ‘there’s no point. What are your plans?’

  ‘To discuss the situation with you. The vultures can think what they like. You get the first chance to redeem the loan. Look, I’m not a monster. I know money can be difficult. In my own country I’m an accountant-’

  ‘I know,’ he said impatiently. ‘Somebody who works with money. And that’s all you care about-money.’

  ‘Enough!’ she said in a sudden hard voice. ‘I won’t let you speak to me like that, I’m not responsible for this situation.’