It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge. Julia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
she’d expected. In fact, she thought, he looked reflective, almost sombre. But if he had regrets, he certainly did not express them aloud. Or any other opinion either.
In the event, he simply got out of bed, put on his robe and left the room without a word.
So the mantra had worked, Emily thought, gulping with relief as she straightened the bed before turning on to her side and pulling the covers up over her shoulder. It really was—all over and she’d survived, without visible marks. She was conscious of aching a little internally, but she guessed that was only to be expected.
It also occurred to her that, in spite of the provocation she’d deliberately offered, he had not translated his anger into brutality. On the contrary, she could accept, in the absence of other criteria, that he’d probably been—almost considerate.
She’d not been really hurt, she thought wryly, just humiliated. But, all in all, it could have been very much worse.
Then she heard the bedroom door reopen and realised she’d been altogether too optimistic.
She turned defensively—warily. ‘I—I thought you’d gone back to your own room.’
‘And so I have.’ He put the bottle of wine he was carrying and two glasses down on the night table. There was faint mockery in his voice. ‘My place is here, beside you, mia bella sposa.’
He sat down on the edge of the bed to pour the wine, then handed her a glass. ‘To our real honeymoon,’ he said and drank.
Emily stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘You got what you wanted. And I accept now that there’ll be no annulment,’ she added bitterly. ‘You’ve made quite sure of that.’
She drew a breath. ‘But I’ll agree to your conditions for a divorce as long as—all of this—stops now and you leave me in peace.’
‘You thought that, having waited for almost three years, I would be satisfied by that one lacklustre performance?’ Raf asked cynically. ‘You are mistaken.’ He smiled at her. ‘You have an exquisite body, my sweet one, and I intend to enjoy all of this whenever and however I wish, for the duration of our marriage.’
‘But—surely—you came here to talk about a divorce!’ She was pleading suddenly.
‘Oh, that is postponed,’ he said. ‘Indefinitely.’
Her voice was a croak of disbelief. ‘Until when?’
He shrugged. ‘Until—perhaps—the ice melts.’ His smile was sardonic. ‘You see, Emilia, you have become a challenge.’
She lifted her chin. ‘Even though I’ve just shown that I don’t want you—and never will?’
‘You punish no one but yourself, mia cara,’ he told her quietly. ‘A man’s ability to gain satisfaction does not depend on his partner’s pleasure. Although it is enhanced by it, naturalmente.’
He paused. ‘And never is a long time, Emilia. While I—I have become used to waiting. It will not be such a hardship, especially when I expect the eventual rewards to be infinite,’ he added softly.
Her voice shook. ‘I hate you.’
‘Then at least you will not weary me with declarations of undying love when we part.’ His tone was brisk as he took the untouched wine from her and set it aside, then reached into the pocket of his robe. ‘Now, give me your hand.’
She obeyed reluctantly, looking down mutinously as Raf slid her wedding ring back on to her finger.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘From your former bedroom at the Manor. I gathered from the lawyers, among other things, that you were no longer wearing it and made a special detour.’ His smile was ironic. ‘We are finally man and wife, carissima, and you will in future acknowledge as much to the world.’
She was still staring down at the gleam of gold in the lamplight, but her head jerked up. ‘You said—former bedroom?’
‘I have instructed the good Signora Penistone to prepare the master suite for us both when we next return to the Manor.’
‘But you can’t,’ she protested in sudden anguish. ‘Those were my father’s rooms.’
‘His rooms, Emilia,’ Raf said quietly. ‘Not his shrine.’
‘You have no right to give such an order in my house!’
‘I have any rights I choose to assume.’ He shrugged off the robe and rejoined her in the bed, pulling her effortlessly towards him. ‘And maybe now is the time I should remind you of some of them,’ he added softly and put his lips to the hollow between her breasts.
Emily awoke slowly. For a moment she felt totally disorientated, but two things rapidly became apparent—that a pale, sharp light was filtering through the curtains and filling the room and that it was difficult to move because she seemed weighted to the bed.
She turned her head cautiously and saw Raf sleeping beside her, his arm thrown carelessly across her body.
And then she remembered—a wave of embarrassed heat sweeping over her body as all the events of the previous night returned inexorably to haunt her. Everything he’d said—and, oh, God, everything he’d done.
Inch by inch, she began to edge away from him across the bed, but he did not stir.
Too worn out by his exertions, no doubt, she thought, loathing him.
She gave a silent sigh of relief as her feet touched the icy floor. She retrieved her discarded nightdress and put it on in lieu of a dressing gown, then tiptoed surreptitiously across to the window and looked round the curtain.
She had to repress a whistle of dismay, because there was the snow. And not the genteel icing sugar effect she was used to either. Overnight, the world outside the cottage had become a series of anonymous lumps and bumps, shrouded by drifts.
It looked, she thought unhappily, as if she was going to be stranded here for a while—and with him. And there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.
She sighed, then went quietly round the room collecting a handful of underwear, a pair of dark blue cord trousers and a cream roll-neck sweater in thick wool.
Then she slipped out, closing the door noiselessly behind her, and went to the bathroom, running a tub as hot as she could stand. For a while she sat in a little huddle while the water cooled, legs drawn up to her chin as she stared into nothingness, as she came reluctantly to terms with what had happened to her.
She felt exhausted too—by the unexpected strain of the passive resistance she’d managed to sustain until Rafaele had eventually turned away from her to sleep and her taut, obdurate body had finally been able to relax.
Not that her stance had deterred him in the least, she thought bitterly. In fact, there’d been moments when she’d suspected he was even amused by her obstinate refusal to permit herself even the slightest response to his lovemaking.
He’d simply shrugged and continued to use her for his own entertainment, as if she was merely some expensive toy with a range of possibilities that he was curious to exploit.
And doing so, Emily realised, with a complete lack of inhibition that she found impossible to relate to the cool, elegant young man who’d appeared from time to time in her life over the past three years.
Causing her, she thought, the kind of humiliation that she would never be able to forget. Or forgive.
She regretted now that she hadn’t fought him off, kicking and scratching, because instinct told her that Rafaele Di Salis would have never lowered himself by resorting to using his superior strength.
But now it was much too late.
Dry eyes burning, she picked up the soap and began to wash herself from head to foot, massaging the lather carefully into every