The Bride's Awakening

Chapter Ten

SIX weeks after their wedding, Vittorio came to see Ana at the Viale offices. She looked up from her desk, smiling in pleased surprise as he appeared in the doorway.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said, rising to embrace him. Vittorio kissed her with a distracted air, his face troubled before relaxing into a smile that still didn’t reach his eyes.
‘I have to go to Brazil again. There has been trouble with some of the merchants there.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ Ana asked, her smile turning to a frown. Her heart had already sunk a bit at the thought: Brazil.
Vittorio gave a little shrug. ‘It’s not worrisome, but important enough that I should go soothe a few ruffled feathers, murmur encouragement in the right ears.’
‘You’re good at that,’ Ana teased, but Vittorio missed the joke entirely.
‘I came here because I am leaving this afternoon, before you return. If I take the private jet to Rio, I can return within a week.’
‘A week!’ Disappointment swamped her. It seemed like a horribly long time.
‘Yes, this is business,’ Vittorio said a bit sharply, and his tone as well as his words were like ice water drenching her spirit. Her happiness.
Business. Was Vittorio actually reminding her that business was what their marriage was all about? Just business? Ana swallowed dryly. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ll ring you,’ he said, pressing a quick kiss against her cold cheek, and then he was gone.
Ana stood in the middle of the office for a few moments, listening to the sounds around her: Vittorio slamming the front door of the building, the purr of the Porsche’s engine starting up again, the murmur of voices from other offices. And, the loudest sound of all, the sick thudding of her own frightened heart.
Had she been deceiving herself these last few weeks? Lost in a haze of happiness, mistaking lust for love? Ana moved back to her desk and sat down hard in her chair, her head falling into her hands. She couldn’t believe how unsure she felt, how afraid. Her serene certainty that Vittorio loved her had been swept away by one careless remark.
Clearly she hadn’t been so certain after all.
The castle felt lonely and quiet when she returned that evening, its endless rooms lost in shadow. Ana told the cook she’d have something in her room rather than face the elegant dining room alone; Constantia had returned to Milan last week and Bernardo, as he so often was, appeared to be out. She didn’t want to see anyone.
Marco, the cook, however, looked surprised. ‘Ah, but I’ve made dinner! For two—it is all prepared.’
‘For two?’ Ana repeated, hope leaping absurdly inside her. Had Vittorio come back? But of course not; he was halfway to South America by now.
‘Yes, Signor Bernardo wishes to dine with you.’
Ana felt a finger of foreboding trail along her spine, then shrugged the shivery sensation away. Whatever had passed between Bernardo and Vittorio was long ago, and didn’t concern her. Perhaps getting to know her husband’s younger brother would go some way in helping to heal his family’s rift. Despite the happiness of the last few weeks, Ana knew Vittorio was still snared by the dark memories of his childhood. She saw it when he didn’t think anyone was looking, a moment alone lost in sorrowful thought, the shadow of grief in his eyes.
‘All right,’ she told Marco. ‘Thank you.’
As Ana entered the dining room, the setting rays of the sun sending long golden beams of light across the elegant room, she saw the table set cosily for two at one end and Bernardo standing by the window. He started forward as soon as he saw her.
‘Ana! Thank you for joining me.’
‘Of course, Bernardo. I am happy to dine with you.’ Yet, as he took her hands and pressed his cheek against hers in a brotherly embrace, Ana couldn’t shake the feeling that Bernardo had an agenda for this meal.
She stepped back, surveying him as he moved to the table to pull out her chair. He was a slighter, paler version of Vittorio, still handsome, with the same dark hair and eyes, yet he lacked his brother’s strength and vitality. If they stood next to each other, there could be no doubt as to who was the more dynamic, charismatic and frankly attractive brother. How could Bernardo fail to be jealous?
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, and sat in the chair Bernardo had drawn for her. He sat opposite and reached for the bottle of red he’d left breathing on a side table.
‘One of the vineyard’s own?’ Ana asked as she watched the rich ruby liquid being poured into her glass.
‘In a way. I’ve been experimenting a bit with mixed grapes.’ His expression turned wary, guarded. ‘Vittorio doesn’t know.’
Ana took a sip of wine. ‘But this is delicious.’ It was rich and velvety, with a hidden aroma of fruit and spice. She set the glass down and gave Bernardo a frank look. ‘Why doesn’t Vittorio know you’ve been experimenting with hybrids? Especially as the result is so pleasing.’
Bernardo gave her a faint smile and took a sip from his own glass. ‘Surely you’ve seen by now that Vittorio and I…’ He paused, cocking his head thoughtfully. ‘We are not like normal brothers.’
‘Of course I’ve noticed that,’ Ana returned. ‘In fact,’ she added, a bit sharply, ‘I even wondered if he would want us to dine like this together, alone.’
‘He wouldn’t. Not because he thinks it is inappropriate, but because he is afraid I will whisper poison in your ear.’
Ana gestured to her glass. ‘Is this poison?’ She asked the question lightly, yet Benardo regarded her with grave eyes.
‘It is, as far as Vittorio is concerned. He is not interested in anything I have to do with Cazlevara Wines.’
Ana felt a stab of pity. ‘Why? Is it simply because of what happened so long ago, when your father died?’ Bernardo looked surprised and Ana said quickly, ‘I know Constantia tried to take his inheritance, and make you Count. Vittorio told me. Yet that happened so long ago, and you were only a boy—’
‘That was merely the beginning,’ Bernardo replied. ‘I suppose he told you what our childhood was like? We were forced to take sides, Vittorio and I. At first we resisted it. We resented our parents drawing us into their battles. But after time…’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I admit, I was not a sensible boy. My mother’s attention went to my head. When she so clearly preferred me to Vittorio—and my own father did not have so much as a glance for me—well, I flaunted it. I rubbed Vittorio’s nose in it. Special presents, trips…these things turn a boy’s head. They turned mine.’ His mouth twisted in a bitter smile of regret. ‘Vittorio saw it all, and said nothing. That only made me angrier. He had my papà’s attention and praise, all of it, and I wanted to make him jealous.’
‘And of course he was,’ Ana cut in. ‘Nothing can take the place of a mother’s love.’
‘Or a father’s. I don’t know which of us got the better bargain. Vittorio was my father’s favourite, but he didn’t get spoiled and cosseted like I did. He was whipped into shape.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not literally. But my father was a hard taskmaster. I remember one time he called Vittorio out of bed—he must have been ten or so, home from boarding school. I was but six at the time. It wasn’t even dawn, but my father saw that Vittorio had done poorly on a maths exam. He sat him down at the dining room table and made him write the exam all over again. He didn’t stop until every problem was correct. Vittorio worked for hours. He didn’t even have breakfast.’ Bernardo made a face. ‘I remember because I smacked my lips and slurped my juice and he didn’t even look up, though he must have been hungry.’ Bernardo shook his head, his mouth twisting in a grimace. ‘I am not proud of how I behaved over the years, Ana. I freely admit that.’
Ana let out a sorrowful little sigh. It was such a sad, pointless story. Why had Constantia rejected Vittorio so utterly? Couldn’t she see how her behaviour had affected him, how her love could have softened her husband’s harsh treatment? She’d been so blinded by her own misery, Ana supposed. Arturo’s lack of love for his wife had been the rotten seed of it all.
The food had been served, but she found she had no appetite. ‘And when your father died? What happened then?’
Bernardo steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘By that time the lines were well and truly drawn. Vittorio hated both my mother and me, or at least acted as if he did. He was only fourteen, and he had not one word of kindness for either of us. Oh, he was polite enough, icily respectful, and it drove my mother mad. I suppose Vittorio was so like our father—and my father had never had a true moment of empathy or love for my mother. He was polite, courteous, solicitous even, but there was no love behind it. He was a cold man.’
‘Even so, why did your mother try to have the will overturned and disinherit Vittorio? Simply because you were her favourite?’ Ana heard the accusation in her own voice. What could justify such cruel, callous behaviour?
Bernardo shrugged. ‘Who knows? She has told me she did it because she thought if Vittorio became Count, he would be too hard a man, like my father was. She said she could not bear to see Vittorio become like Arturo.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I rather thought she believed she was saving him—from himself.’
Ana raised her eyebrows. ‘He certainly didn’t view it that way.’
‘It made things worse, of course,’ Bernardo agreed. ‘The plan failed, and Vittorio’s enmity was cemented. Over the years we have had nothing to say to one another and—’ he paused, his gaze sliding from hers ‘—I have not always acted in a way I could be proud of.’ He turned back to face her resolutely. ‘And so it continues even now, as you’ve undoubtedly seen. Which is why I am here.’
Ana met his gaze levelly. ‘You have something to ask me.’
‘Yes.’ Bernardo took a breath and gestured to the wine he’d poured, glinting in their crystal goblets. ‘You have tasted my own vintage, Ana, and as an experienced vintner you know it is good. Vittorio is determined never to let me have any control or authority in Cazlevara Wines. God knows, I can understand it. I have not proven myself worthy. I have done things I regret, even as a grown man. But I cannot live like this, under my brother’s thumb. Everything is a grudging favour from him. It wears me down to nothing. And to know he would never market this vintage simply because it is mine—’
‘Surely Vittorio wouldn’t be so unreasonable,’ Ana interjected. ‘He is a man of business, after all.’ How well she knew it.
‘When it comes to me and my mother, he is blind,’ Bernardo stated flatly. ‘Blind and bitter, and I can hardly blame him.’
‘So what are you asking of me?’
‘You’ve done some experimenting with hybrids, yes?’
‘A little—’
‘If you passed this wine off as your own creation, he would accept it.’
‘And I would take the credit?’
Bernardo lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. ‘That does not matter so much to me. It cannot.’
Ana stared at Vittorio’s brother, saw the weary resignation on his pale face. She had no doubt that he’d been petted and spoiled as a child, and he’d made his brother’s life miserable—more miserable than it already was—well into young adulthood. Yet now she saw a man who was over thirty and resigned never to prove himself, never to have the satisfaction of excelling in a job he was created to do. The injustice and sorrow of it twisted her heart.
‘I will not take credit for your own hard work, Bernardo.’ He nodded slowly, accepting, his mouth pulled downwards. ‘This wine is excellent, and you deserve to be known as its creator.’ Ana took a breath. ‘So you can either market it under the Viale label or, as I’m sure would be much more satisfying, under the Cazlevara one. This bitter feud between you and Vittorio must end. Perhaps, if he sees how well you have done, he will be convinced.’
Bernardo leaned forward. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Why don’t you prepare to market the vintage? Vittorio has given me authority over the vineyards while he is gone.’ Ana knew her authority was more perfunctory than anything else; he hardly expected her to change things, or implement strategies such as the one she was suggesting. ‘I can arrange a meeting with some merchants in Milan. Start there, and see what happens. By the time Vittorio comes home, God willing, you will have something to show him.’ And, Ana added silently, God willing, Vittorio wouldn’t be too angry with her. God willing, this feud would finally end and their marriage could continue, grow, work. If he loved her—and she was desperate now to believe he did—his anger would not rule the day.
His love would.
Hope had lit Bernardo’s eyes, erasing the resigned lines from his face. He looked younger, happier already. ‘What you are doing is dangerous, Ana. Vittorio might be furious. In fact, I know he will be.’
‘This feud must end,’ Ana said firmly. ‘It is the only way forward for any of us. I am not biased by childhood slights the way he is. And I’m sure,’ she added with more confidence than she felt, ‘my husband will see reason once I have spoken to him.’

It had been a long, hard week, courting the South American merchants. They wanted to rely on their own wines; they were dubious of a European import. Yet, finally, with honeyed words and persuasive arguments, meetings and dinners and tastings, Vittorio had convinced them.
Now he was home and eager—desperate—to see Ana. As his limo pulled up to the castle, Vittorio nearly laughed at himself. He was acting like a besotted boy. He was besotted, utterly in love with his wife, and it had taken a week apart to realize just what he was feeling.
Love.
He loved Ana, and he’d felt it in every agonising second he’d spent apart from her, when he’d kept looking for her, even though he knew she was thousands of miles away. He’d felt it when he’d reached for her at night, and both his body and heart had ached when his arms remained empty. It didn’t even surprise him, this new-found love; it simply felt too right. He felt completed, whole, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d been missing—in and of himself—until he knew that sense of fulfilment, of rightness, caused by loving Ana.
He knew she loved him. He knew it, he’d seen it in her eyes and felt it in her body, yet it still filled him with wonder and incredulous joy. How could he have been so blind to think he didn’t want this, didn’t need it? Now he could not imagine life without it, without Ana. The very thought left him cold and despairing. But now he didn’t despair; now he felt hope. Wonderful, miraculous hope. And he couldn’t wait to tell Ana.
The castle was quiet as he entered; it was four o’clock in the afternoon and he had no doubt Ana was at her own office. He thought of surprising her there; he’d make love to her right on her own desk. His mouth widened into a grin at the thought of it. First, he would check in at the Cazlevara office and then…Ana. He could hardly wait.
He was just sorting through the post left by his secretary when his vineyard manager knocked on the door.
Vittorio barely glanced up. ‘Yes, Antonio? Everything went well while I was gone?’ He tossed another letter aside, only to pause when he realized his manager had not spoken. He glanced up, saw the man twisting his hands together, looking uncertain. Afraid, even. Vittorio’s eyes narrowed. ‘Antonio? Has something happened?’
‘It’s Bernardo, Lord Ralfino…Bernardo and the Contessa.’
Vittorio stilled. He felt as if his blood had turned to ice water; the sense of coldness gave him a chilling clarity, a freezing resolve. He’d been expecting this, he realized. He wasn’t surprised. ‘Has my mother been plotting again?’ he asked levelly. ‘Now that I am married, she seeks to disinherit and discredit me once more?’
Antonio shook his head, looking wretched. ‘Not the Dowager Contessa, my lord. Your wife.’
For a moment Vittorio couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. The words made no sense. What his manager was saying was impossible, ridiculous—
Vittorio drew a breath. ‘Are you saying my wife is acting with Bernardo?’
‘She told me not to ring you,’ Antonio confessed unhappily.
‘What?’ Vittorio could barely process it. His wife had been attempting to deceive him? To scheme against him? The shock left him senseless, reeling, nearly gasping in pain.
‘I know you do not wish Bernardo to—well, I knew you’d want this approved,’ Antonio continued, ‘but since she said—and you’d given her authority—’
Vittorio laid one hand flat on his desk, bracing himself. He would not jump to conclusions. He would not. He kept the rage and fear down, suppressing it, even though it fermented and bubbled, threatened to boil over and burn them all. He would not let it. He would listen to Antonio, he would hear Ana’s side of the story. He would be fair. ‘What has happened, Antonio?’
‘Bernardo went to Milan,’ the manager confessed. ‘He is marketing his own label. I didn’t know of it until yesterday, but the Contessa approved it, arranged the meeting—’
‘His own label?’ Vittorio repeated blankly. Was his brother actually trying to take over the family winery, to make it his own? And Ana was helping him? Had they been planning this—this takeover—together while he was gone? Or even before? He could hardly make sense of it, his heart cried out its innate, desperate rejection of such lies, even as his mind coolly reminded him that this was exactly how he’d felt returning from his father’s funeral, hoping—desperately hoping—that now his father was dead his mother might turn to him, if not with open arms, then at least with a smile.
She’d turned her back instead. Something had died in Vittorio then, that last frail hope he’d never realized he’d still clung to. The desire for love. The hope it would find him. He’d lost it then, or thought he had, only to find the desire and the hope—the need for love—inside him, latent, and with Ana it had begun to grow, young and fragile, seeking her healing light.
Now he felt as if it had been felled at its tender root. His heart had become a barren wasteland, frozen and unyielding. He turned back to Antonio. ‘Thank you for telling me. I will deal with it now.’
‘I would have rung you, but since the Contessa was meant to be in charge—’
‘I completely understand. Do not think of it again.’ Vittorio dismissed the man with a nod, then turned to stare blindly out of the window. Rows upon rows of neat growing grapes stretched to the horizon, Cazlevara’s fortune, his family’s life blood. He’d made love to Ana out there, among those vines. He’d held in her arms and loved her.
Loved her.
And now she’d betrayed him. He tried to stay reasonable, to keep the anger and hurt and oh, yes, the fear from consuming him, but they rose up in a red tide of feeling until he couldn’t think any more. He could only feel.
He felt the hurt and the pain and the sorrow, the agony of his mother and brother’s rejection, over and over again. Day after day of trying to please his father, only to strive more and more; nothing he’d ever done was enough. And then when his father had died, torn between despair and relief, he’d wanted to turn to his mother, thinking that now she would accept him, love him even, only to realize she’d rejected him utterly.
And now. This. Ana had somehow been working against him with his brother, waiting until he was gone to use the authority he’d given her on trust to discredit him. This, he acknowledged, was the worst betrayal of all.
‘Lord Cazlevara is here to see you, Signorina Vi—Lady Cazlevara.’
Ana half-rose from the desk, smiling at Edoardo. ‘You don’t need to stand on ceremony, Edoardo. Send him in!’ Yet, even as a smile of hope and welcome—how she’d missed him!—was spreading across her face, another part of Ana was registering the look of wariness on her assistant’s face and wondering why he seemed so uncomfortable.
‘Good afternoon, Ana.’
‘Vittorio!’ The word burst from Ana’s lips and, despite his rather chilly greeting, she couldn’t keep from smiling, from walking towards him, her arms outstretched, needing his touch, his kiss—
Vittorio didn’t move. Ana dropped her arms, realization settling coldly inside her. He’d heard about Bernardo, obviously. He knew what she’d done. And he hadn’t liked it.
‘You’re angry,’ she stated, and Vittorio arched one eyebrow.
‘Angry? No. Curious, perhaps.’ He spoke with arctic politeness that froze Ana’s insides. She hadn’t heard that voice in such a long time; she’d forgotten just how cold it was. How cold it made her feel. Vittorio leaned against the door frame, hands in his pockets, and waited.
Ana took a breath. She’d been preparing for this conversation, had known that Vittorio, on some level, would not be pleased. He’d try to distance himself; that was how he stayed safe. She knew that, yet she’d trusted what she felt for him—and what she believed and hoped he felt for her—that their love would make him see reason. She’d told herself so hundreds of times over the last week, yet now that the time had come and Vittorio was standing here looking so icy and indifferent, all the calm explanations she’d come up with seemed to have vanished, leaving her with nothing but a growing sense of panic, a swamping fear. She didn’t want her husband looking at her this way, talking to her as if she were a stranger he didn’t really like. She couldn’t bear it. ‘Vittorio,’ she finally said, and heard the plea in her voice even though her words sounded firm, ‘Bernardo showed me the vintage he’s created. He’s been working with hybrids—you didn’t know—’
‘Funny, I thought I knew everything that happened in my company. And, as I recollect, my brother was assistant manager, not head vintner. Or did you give him a promotion in my absence?’ He spoke pleasantly, yet Ana heard and felt the terrible coldness underneath. It crept into her bones and wound its icy way around her heart. She felt like shivering, shuddering, crying out.
This was what Constantia had lived with day in, day out. This was what Vittorio had been to her, a man who refused to be reached, whose heart was enclosed in walls of ice. No wonder the woman had gone half-mad. She already felt perilously close to the edge of reason after just a few minutes under his freezing stare.
‘No, I didn’t give him a promotion,’ Ana replied as levelly as she could. ‘I wouldn’t presume to do such a thing—’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
Ana forced herself to ignore the sneering question. ‘But I did allow him to market his own wine. He’s in Milan right now, talking to some merchants about it. I thought we could put it in the catalogue this autumn—’
‘Oh, you did, did you?’ Vittorio took a step into the room, his pleasant mask dropped so Ana saw the icy rage underneath. ‘You didn’t waste much time, did you, Ana?’ he asked, fairly spitting the words. ‘The moment I’d gone, you were plotting and planning behind my back.’
Ana quelled beneath the verbal attack. Did he think so little of her? ‘It wasn’t a plot, Vittorio,’ she insisted, ‘though I can understand why you might think that way. But I am not your mother, and Bernardo has changed—’
Vittorio gave a sharp laugh. ‘Nothing has changed. Don’t you think I have a reason for keeping him on as short a leash as I do?’
Ana struggled to keep her calm. ‘Vittorio, your brother was ten when your mother tried to disinherit you—’
‘And he was twenty when he tried to sabotage the winery and discredit me to my customers, and twenty-five when he embezzeled a hundred thousand euros. Don’t you think I know my own brother?’
Ana stared at him in shock, her mouth dropping open before she had the sense to snap it shut. Realization trickled icily though her. ‘I didn’t know those things,’ she finally said quietly. Vittorio gave another disbelieving laugh and she thought of Bernardo’s words: I have done things I regret, even as a grown man. She almost felt like laughing hysterically, despite the panic and the fear. Perhaps she should have asked Bernardo to clarify what he’d meant. Perhaps she shouldn’t have leapt in so rashly, thinking she could heal old wounds, hurts that had never scarred over, just festered and bled—
Still, Ana knew there was more going on here, more at risk than Vittorio’s sour relationship with his brother. There was his relationship with her, a fundamental issue of trust and love. She had to ask crucial questions, and now she was afraid of their answers.
‘I really didn’t know everything he’d done,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Still, I believe Bernardo has changed. If you just give him a chance—’
‘So he’s convinced you,’ Vittorio stated quietly. He turned away so she couldn’t see his face. ‘He’s turned you from me.’
Ana suddenly felt near to tears. Vittorio’s voice sounded so final, so sad. ‘Vittorio, it’s not like that! I just wanted to give Bernardo a chance, not only for his sake, but for ours.’
‘Ours,’ Vittorio repeated, the word dripping sarcasm.
‘Yes, ours, because your hatred of him poisons everything! Poisons—’ She stopped, not wanting to expose herself so utterly and admit she loved him. ‘And he could be a credit to you,’ she continued quietly. ‘He rang me from Milan this morning, and the meetings went well. He’s not trying to take some kind of control—’
‘So he says.’
‘This bitterness must end,’ Ana stated. Her voice trembled and she forced herself to go on, to say the words she’d shied away from. The truth was the only thing that had the power to heal. ‘It poisons you, and it poisons our love.’
She felt as if she’d laid down a live wire; the room crackled with uncontained energy. Love. She’d said it, admitted to that most dangerous forbidden feeling.
Vittorio turned around; his eyes were like two pools of black ice. ‘Love?’ he enquired silkily. ‘What are you talking about, Ana?’
Ana blinked, forcing back the tears. She would be strong now, even if that strength meant being more vulnerable than she ever had before. ‘I love you, Vittorio. I gave Bernardo a chance for love of you—’
‘Just like my mother took my inheritance, claiming she did it out of love for me?’ Vittorio mocked.
‘Is that what she said?’
‘Or something like it. I found it rather hard to believe.’
Yet Ana didn’t. She could see Constantia’s twisted reasoning now, understand how she might do anything—anything—to keep Vittorio from becoming the cold, hard man his father had been, and had wanted to make him. Yet, right now before her eyes, he was changing, hardening, the last weeks of love and gentleness falling away as if they’d never been, leaving her with a man she didn’t like or even know.
‘It’s true, Vittorio. I don’t doubt Bernardo has hurt you, as has Constantia, but this cannot go on. You are all poisoned by it—all three of you. I thought if Bernardo proved himself to you, you could see each other as equals. Forgive each other and learn to—’
‘Oh, Ana, this is all sounding very cosy,’ Vittorio drawled. ‘And completely unrealistic. I didn’t marry you to play therapist to my family. I married you to be loyal to me.’
Ana blinked. ‘And does that loyalty mean blind obedience? I can’t take any decisions for myself? You didn’t want a lapdog, you said. You rather touchingly referred to our marriage as one of partnership—’
‘A business partnership,’ Vittorio corrected. ‘That is what I meant.’
Ana swallowed, struggling to stay reasonable, as if her heart and soul hadn’t been shredded to pathetic pieces as they spoke. ‘Yet you do not want me to have any concern with your business—’
‘I do not want you to use your influence to put my brother’s concerns forward!’ Vittorio cut her off, his voice rising to a nearshout before he lowered it again to no more than a dark whisper. ‘You have betrayed me, Ana.’
‘I love you,’ Ana returned. Her voice shook; so did her body. ‘Vittorio, I love you—’
He shook his head in flat dismissal. ‘That wasn’t part of our bargain.’
She searched his face, looking for any trace of compassion or even regret. Every line, every angle was hard and implacable. He had become a stranger, a terrible stranger. ‘I know it wasn’t,’ she said quietly. ‘But I fell in love with you anyway, with the man you…you seemed to be. Yet now—’ she took a breath ‘—you are so cold to me. Vittorio, do you not love me at all?’
A muscle jerked in Vittorio’s cheek and he didn’t answer. He gazed down at her, his eyes hard and unrelenting, and suddenly Ana could stand it no more. She’d felt this exposed only once before in her life, when she’d flung herself at Roberto, hoping he would take her into his arms and admit he was attracted to her, to make his love physical as well as emotional. She’d been rejected then, utterly, or so she’d thought. Yet that moment was nothing—nothing—compared to this. Now Vittorio was rejecting her emotionally; he was rejecting her heart rather than her body and it hurt so much more.
It hurt unbearably.
‘I see you don’t,’ she said quietly and, when Vittorio still didn’t answer, Ana did the only thing she could think of doing, the only option left to her. She fled.
In a numb state of grief—the same kind of frozen despair she’d felt when her mother had died—Ana walked away from her office. She didn’t think about where she was going until she found herself on the dirt road back to Villa Rosso, its mellow stone and terracotta tiles gleaming in the afternoon sun.
She was going home.
The villa was quiet when she entered, her footsteps falling softly on the tiled floor of the foyer. She headed for the stairs but heard her father’s voice call out from his study.
‘Hello? Is someone there?’
‘It’s me, Papà.’ Ana paused on the stairs; her father came to the hall. He took one look at her face—Ana could only imagine how terrible she looked—and gasped aloud.
‘Ana! What has happened?’
Ana gave a sad little smile. She felt as if her whole body were breaking, her soul rent into pieces. ‘I discovered you were right, Papà. Love isn’t very comfortable, after all.’
Enrico’s face twisted in sorrow, but Ana knew she could not bear even his sympathy now. She just shook her head and walked with heavy steps upstairs, to the room she had not slept in since she’d got married.
Married. Vittorio was her husband, yet she hardly knew what that meant any more.
She spent the night alone, lying on her bed, watching the moon rise and then descend once more. She didn’t sleep. She found herself reliving the joy of the last few weeks, now made all the sweeter by its brevity. Vittorio kissing her, taking her in his arms. Laughing as they played stecca again; he’d won that time. Talking about the vineyards, and grapes, and wine, gesturing with their hands, shared enthusiasm in their voices. The way he touched her casually, a hand on hers, when they were reading in bed, simply because he wanted to feel her next to him. And then later, the way he touched her so her body cried out in pleasure. So many memories, so many wonderful, sweet, terrible memories, because she was afraid they were all she’d ever have.
Was their marriage actually over? She could hardly believe he had rejected her so utterly; she thought of trying to see him again and then knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t face that hard, blank face again. She couldn’t face the feeling of being so raw, so exposed and rejected again. Not by Vittorio, not by the man—the only man—she’d ever love.
She pressed her face into her pillow and willed the tears to come; crying would bring relief of a sort. They didn’t. Some things, Ana knew, were too deep for tears.
Enrico knocked on her door in the morning, begging her to take a bit of breakfast. ‘Ana, have some toast at least,’ he called, his voice sounding thin and frail. ‘I told the cook not to make kippers. I know they put you off.’
Ana couldn’t even summon a smile. ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Papà. I’m not hungry. I just need to be alone for a little while.’
She needed to be alone to grieve the ending of her marriage, for surely that was what this was. Vittorio had not come to see her and Ana dreaded some horrible letter, a cold official ending to their marriage. Although, she reminded herself, he’d said divorce was not an option.
Yet the alternative—the cold convenient marriage she’d once agreed to—would be so much worse, for affection and respect had been obliterated. All that was left was duty.
Funny, Ana thought distantly as she lay on her bed, watching the sun rise in the sky, still in her clothes from the day before, how she had once convinced herself she could accept such a thing. A loveless marriage, a business arrangement. She’d deceived herself. Love wasn’t comfortable but it was everything.
In the early evening, Enrico knocked again. ‘Dolcezza—’
‘I’m still not hungry,’ Ana called.
‘You don’t need to eat,’ her father called back, ‘but your husband is here, and he wants to see you.’
Ana stilled. Her hands clenched into fists on her bed covers. ‘I can’t see him, Papà,’ she said, her voice no more than a choked whisper.
‘Please, Ana. He is desperate for you.’
‘Desperate?’ She said the word disbelievingly, yet still laced with damning hope.
‘Desperate, rondinella.’ Vittorio’s voice, no more than a husky whisper, made Ana freeze. Distantly, she heard her father’s footsteps patter down the hall and, after a moment, her heart beating with hard, heavy thuds, she went to open the door. Vittorio stood there, ushaven, his hair rumpled, still wearing his clothes from yesterday. His eyes remained grave as he gave her a small uncertain smile.
‘You look as awful as I do,’ Ana said.
Vittorio touched her cheek. ‘You have not been crying, at least.’ His own eyes looked red.
‘Some things are too deep for tears,’ Ana told him and he stepped into the room. She leaned against the door, her arms crossed, unwilling to relax her guard. Afraid to hope.
‘Oh, Ana.’ Vittorio shook his head, his voice choking a little bit. ‘I made you so unhappy.’
‘Yes, you did,’ Ana agreed, and was amazed at how level her voice sounded, as if she wasn’t affected at all. As if she wasn’t dying inside.
‘I was so angry,’ Vittorio said quietly. ‘And it blinded me. All I could see—feel—was betrayal.’
‘I know.’
His smile was touched with sorrow. ‘It’s not an excuse, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Just a reason.’ He sighed again. ‘I have a lot to learn, I suppose, if you will consent to be my teacher.’
Ana shook her head. ‘I don’t want to be your teacher, Vittorio. I want to be your wife. And that means you need to trust me.’
‘I know,’ Vittorio said in a low voice. ‘I know I should have, but I couldn’t think—’
‘It doesn’t even matter.’ Ana cut him off, her voice tight. ‘I realize the bargain we made doesn’t work for me, Vittorio. I can’t…I can’t accept our marriage on your terms.’
‘What?’ He looked shocked. ‘What are you talking about?’
She swallowed, her voice raw. ‘I need more from you than your trust. I need your love.’
He stared at her, slack-jawed, and Ana braced herself for his refusal. His rejection. It never came.
‘I do love you, Ana,’ Vittorio said, his voice a throb of intensity. ‘And it has terrified me. That’s why I acted like I did yesterday. Not another excuse—just the truth. I am sorry. So sorry. Please forgive me.’
Ana could hardly believe what he’d said. ‘You love me?’ she repeated, and he offered her a tremulous smile.
‘Utterly. Unbearably. I spent the most wretched night last night, and for love of you—I thought I’d just gone and thrown out the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me, and for what? My own pride?’
She shook her head. Hope bubbled up inside her, an everlasting well of joy. ‘I shouldn’t have acted without you, but I thought…I thought to help heal the past—’
‘And you have,’ Vittorio said. ‘Already, it has begun. When you walked out of that office I realized you might actually be walking away from me for ever, and I was letting you go. I was devastated, in agony, and I knew I could not let my pride keep you from me. I spoke to Bernardo, and to my mother.’ He took a breath, offering her a wry smile. ‘It was not easy or comfortable for any of us. We have all committed wrongs against each other and there is still much to do, to say and to forgive. Yet we have begun. You have helped us, Ana. You are the best thing to have come into my life.’
Ana’s throat ached with unshed tears and suppressed emotion. ‘And you are the best thing in mine.’ Still, she felt the fear lurking in the dark corners of her heart. It seemed so hard to believe, too wonderful to be true. To last. ‘Yesterday you were so cold, so hard to me—’
Vittorio reached for her fingers and pressed them against his lips. ‘I do not want to be a hard man,’ he confessed, his voice a ragged whisper, his eyes glinting with unshed tears of his own. ‘God knows, I don’t. Yet, when I am afraid, I find that is how I become, for it is what I learned as a boy.’
‘I know it is,’ Ana whispered, remembering what both Constantia and Bernardo had told her. They’d helped her understand Vittorio, and she was grateful to them for that.
‘It is no excuse,’ Vittorio replied resolutely. ‘And yet you have changed me, Ana. I am so grateful for that. I realized just how much you’ve changed me when you left me yesterday. I do not want to be that man any more. With you, I am not him.’
He touched her cheek, resting his forehead against hers. ‘Can you forgive me, rondinella, for those moments when I became him again? Can you forgive me, and believe in the man I am trying to become?’
Ana thought of the man who had comforted her as a grieving child so many years ago; she remembered his many kindnesses over the last few months. She recalled the wonder and joy she’d felt in his arms. ‘You are that man, Vittorio. You always have been.’
He kissed her then sweetly, so very sweetly, a kiss that was healing and hope together. ‘Only because of you, Ana. Only because of you.’
She laughed, a tremulous, muffled sound, for the knowledge that Vittorio loved her—that this was real—was too wonderful, too overwhelming. She trusted it now; she believed in it, and it was good.
It was amazing.
Vittorio touched her cheek; it came away damp. ‘It’s all right to cry, rondinella,’ he whispered and Ana laughed again, entwining his fingers with her own as she kissed him once more.
‘For joy,’ she said. ‘This time for joy.’