Hot Nights with...the Italian: The Santangeli Marriage / The Italian’s Ruthless Marriage Command / Veretti's Dark Vengeance. Lucy GordonЧитать онлайн книгу.
been a disappointment in any circumstances, but in view of the evening’s events my need to hear that the next generation is established becomes even more pressing. From now on I must take more care, they tell me. Moderate my lifestyle. In other words, I have been made aware of my own mortality. And I confess that I would dearly like to hold my first grandchild in my arms before I die.’
Renzo moved restively, ‘Papa—you will live for many years yet. We both know that.’
‘I can hope,’ said Guillermo briskly. ‘But that is not the point.’ He leaned back against his pillows, adding quietly, ‘Your bride can hardly give you an heir, figlio mio, if you do not share a roof with her, let alone a bed. Or do you visit her in London, perhaps, in order to fulfil your marital obligations?’
Renzo rose from his chair and walked over to the window, lifting the slats of the blind to look out into the darkness. An image of a girl’s white face rose in his mind, her eyes blank and tearless, and a feeling that was almost shame twisted like a knife in his guts.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I do not.’
‘Then why not?’ his father demanded. ‘What can be the problem? Yes, the marriage was arranged for you, but so was my own, and your mother and I soon came to love each other deeply. And here you have been given a girl, young, charming, and indisputably innocent. Someone, moreover, you have known for much of your life. If she was not to your taste you should have said so.’
Renzo turned and gave him an ironic look. ‘It does not occur to you, Papa, that maybe the shoe is on the other foot and Marisa does not want me?’
‘Che sciocchezze!’ Guillermo said roundly. ‘What nonsense. When she stayed with us as a child it was clear to everyone that she adored you.’
‘Unfortunately, now she is older, her feelings are very different,’ Renzo said dryly. ‘Particularly where the realities of marriage are concerned.’
Guillermo pursed his lips in exasperation. ‘What can you be saying? That a man of your experience with women cannot seduce his own wife? You should have made duty a pleasure, my son, and used your honeymoon to make her fall in love with you all over again.’ He paused. ‘After all, she was not forced to marry you.’
Renzo gave his father a level look. ‘I think we both know that is not true. Once she’d discovered from that witch of a cousin how deeply she was indebted to our family she had little choice in the matter.’
Guillermo frowned heavily. ‘You did not tell her—explain that it was the dying wish of your mother, her madrina, that financial provision should continue to be made for her?’
‘I tried, but it was useless. She knew that Mama wanted us to marry. For her, it all seemed part of the same ugly transaction.’ He paused. ‘And the cousin also made her aware that when I proposed to her I had a mistress. After such revelations, the honeymoon was hardly destined to go well.’
‘The woman has much to answer for, it seems,’ Guillermo said icily. ‘But you, my son, were a fool not to have settled matters with the beautiful Lucia long before you approached your marriage.’
‘If stupidity were all, I could live with it,’ Renzo said with quiet bitterness. ‘But I was also unkind. And I cannot forgive myself for that.’
‘I see,’ his father said slowly. ‘Well, that is bad, but it is more important to ask yourself if your wife can be persuaded to forgive you.’
‘Who knows?’ Renzo’s gesture was almost helpless. ‘I thought a breathing space—time apart to consider what we had undertaken—would help. And at the beginning I wrote to her regularly—telephoned and left messages. But there was never any reply. And as the weeks passed the hope of any resolution became more distant.’ He paused, before adding expressionlessly, ‘I told myself, you understand, that I would not beg.’
Guillermo put his fingertips together and studied them intently. ‘A divorce, naturally, could not be countenanced,’ he said at last. ‘But from what you are telling me it seems there might be grounds for annulment?’
‘No,’ Renzo said harshly, his mouth set. ‘Do not be misled. The marriage—exists. And Marisa is my wife. Nothing can change that.’
‘So you say,’ his father commented grimly. ‘But you could be wrong. Your grandmother honoured me with a visit yesterday to inform me that your current liaison with Doria Venucci is now talked of openly.’
‘Nonna Teresa.’ Renzo bit out the name. ‘What a gratifying interest she takes in all the details of my life, especially those she considers less than savoury. And how could a woman with such a mind produce such a gentle, loving daughter as my mother?’
‘It has always mystified me too,’ Guillermo admitted. ‘But for once her gossip-mongering may be justified. Because she believes it can only be a matter of time before someone tells Antonio Venucci exactly how his wife has been amusing herself while he has been in Vienna.’
He saw his son’s brows lift, and nodded. ‘And that, my dear Lorenzo, could change everything, both for you and for your absent wife. Because the scandal that would follow would ruin any remaining chance of a reconciliation with her—if that is what you want, of course.’
‘It is what must happen,’ Renzo said quietly. ‘I cannot allow the present situation to continue any longer. For one thing, I am running out of excuses to explain her absence. For another, I accept that the purpose of our marriage must be fulfilled without further delay.’
‘Dio mio,’ Guillermo said faintly. ‘I hope your approach to your bride will be made in more alluring terms. Or I warn you, my son, you will surely fail.’
Renzo’s smile was hard. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not this time. And that is a promise.’
However, Renzo was thoughtful as, later, he drove back to his apartment. He owned the top floor of a former palazzo, the property of an old and noble family who had never seen the necessity to work for their living until it was too late. But although he enjoyed its grace and elegance, he used it merely as a pied à terre in Rome.
Because the home of his heart was the ancient and imposing country house deep in the Tuscan countryside where he had been born, and where he’d expected to begin his married life in the specially converted wing, designed to give them all the space and privacy that newlyweds could ever need.
He remembered showing it to Marisa before the wedding, asking if she had any ideas or requirements of her own that could be incorporated, but she’d said haltingly that it all seemed ‘very nice’, and refused to be drawn further. And she had certainly not commented on the adjoining bedrooms that they would occupy after their marriage, with the communicating door.
And if she’d had reservations about sharing the house with her future father-in-law she hadn’t voiced those either. On the contrary, she’d always seemed very fond of Zio Guillermo, as she’d been encouraged to call him.
But then, Renzo thought, frowning, apart from agreeing to be his wife in a small wooden voice she hadn’t said too much to him at all. Something he should, of course, have noticed but for his other preoccupations, he conceded, his mouth tightening.
Besides, he was accustomed to the fact that she did not chatter unnecessarily from the days when she’d been a small, silent child, clearly overwhelmed by her surroundings, and through her years as a skinny, tongue-tied adolescent. A time, he recalled ruefully, when she’d constantly embarrassed him by the hero-worship she’d tried inexpertly to hide.
She hadn’t even cried at her own christening in London, which he’d attended as a sullenly reluctant ten-year-old, watching Maria Santangeli looking down, her face transfigured, at the lacy bundle in her arms.
His mother had met Lisa Cornell at the exclusive convent school they had both attended in Rome, and they had formed a bond of friendship that had never wavered across the years and miles that separated them.
But whereas Maria had married