The Bride's Awakening

Chapter Six

EVERYTHING 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.
Now as she made her way to the drawing room, she wondered if Vittorio would notice. If he would care. And, if he did, would she be glad? She couldn’t decide if she would feel more of a fool if he did notice or if he didn’t.
All these thoughts flew from her head as she stood in the doorway of the drawing room and a slim, petite blonde—the kind of woman who made Ana feel like an ungainly giant—swivelled to face her. Constantia Ralfino, the Countess of Cazlevara. Soon to be the Dowager Countess.
The moment seemed suspended in time as they both stood there, the Countess taking in Ana with one arctic sweep of her eyes. Ana quailed under that gaze; she felt herself shrivel inside, for Constantia Cazlevara was looking at her as so many people had looked at her, beginning with most of the girls at the boarding school her father had sent her to after her mother had died.
It was a look of assessment and then disdain, followed swiftly by dismissal. It was a look that hurt now, more than it should, because it made Ana feel like a gawky thirteen-year-old again, awkward and still stricken with grief.
‘So,’ Constantia said coolly. She lifted her chin and met Ana’s humble gaze directly. ‘This is your bride.’ Her tone was most likely meant to be neutral, but Ana heard contempt. She lifted her chin as well.
‘Yes. We met many years ago, my lady. Of course, I am pleased to make your acquaintance once more.’
‘Indeed.’ Constantia did not make any move to take Ana’s proffered hand, and after a moment she dropped it. Constantia turned to Vittorio, who was watching them both in tight-lipped silence. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us, Vittorio?’
‘Ana seems to have accomplished the introductions better than I ever could,’ he said in a clipped voice. ‘However, if you must.’ He waved one hand between the pair of them. ‘Mother, this is Ana Viale, one of the region’s most promising winemakers, daughter of our neighbour Enrico Viale, and my intended bride.’ His lips, once pursed so tightly, now curved in a smile that still managed to seem unpleasant. ‘Ana, this is my mother, Constantia.’
The tension almost made the air shiver; Ana imagined she could hear it crackle. Constantia shot her son a look of barely veiled resentment before she turned back to Ana. ‘So was it love at first sight, my dear?’
Ana couldn’t tell if the older woman was baiting her or genuinely interested in knowing. She glanced at Vittorio, wondering what to say. How to dissemble. Did he want people to know just how convenient their marriage was meant to be? Or was he intending to deceive everyone into thinking they were in love? Such a charade would be exhausting and ultimately pointless, Ana was sure.
Before she could frame an answer, Vittorio cut in. ‘Love at first sight? What a question, Mother. Ana and I both know there is no such thing. Now, dinner is served and I don’t enjoy eating it cold. Let’s withdraw to the dining room.’ He strode from the room, pausing only to offer Ana his arm, which she accepted awkwardly, her elbow crooked in his, her strides made awkwardly longer than normal in order to match his.
Dinner was, of course, interminable. Vittorio and Constantia both spoke with that chilly politeness that managed to be worse than outright barbs or even insults. Ana felt her whole body tense and she had the beginnings of a terrible headache. It was impossible to know what to say, how to act. Vittorio gave her no clues.
A thousand questions and, worse, doubts, whirled in her head, demanding answers. What was the source of the antipathy between Vittorio and his mother? How could two people in the same family seem to dislike each other so much? And how could she possibly fit into this unhappy picture? The thought of living in Castle Cazlevara with Constantia’s continual scorn and disdain was unendurable. An hour into the evening, Ana was just beginning to realize how much she’d agreed to when she’d accepted Vittorio’s proposal. Not just a marriage, but a family. Not just a business proposition, but a lifestyle. A life.
She felt fraught with nerves, sick with dread by the time the miserable meal came to an end. There had been some sort of conversation, she supposed, desultory remarks that still managed to be pointed, poised to wound. Ana had contributed very little; she’d eaten less, merely toying with her food.
Constantia rose from the table in one graceful movement. She was a slender slip of a woman, still strikingly beautiful despite the wrinkles that lined her face like a piece of parchment that had been crumpled up and smoothed out again. ‘I’m afraid I’m too weary from my journey to stay for coffee,’ she said, offering Ana a cool little smile. ‘I do hope you’ll forgive me, my dear.’
‘Of course,’ Ana murmured. She was relieved to be able to avoid any further awkwardness with her future mother-in-law—if she was even going to marry Vittorio. A single evening had cast everything into terrible doubt.
‘Well, then.’ She turned to Vittorio, her haughty expression seeming to turn sad, the cool little smile softening into something that looked weary and lost. Before Ana could even register what that look meant, it had cleared, leaving Constantia distant and regal once more, and with one last haughty look she swept from the room and left Vittorio and Ana suspended in a tense and uneasy silence.
‘Vittorio—’ Ana began, the word bursting from her. She stopped, unable to continue, afraid to frame the thoughts pounding through her head.
‘What is it, Ana?’ His tone was sharp, his look assessing. Knowing. ‘You’re not having second thoughts already?’ he asked, his voice soft now and yet still faintly menacing. He rose from the table, coming around to help Ana from her chair. His hands slid down her bare shoulders in what was surely no more than a pretext to touch her; she shivered noticeably. ‘Cold feet, rondinella?’ he whispered and she shook her head, sudden pain lancing through her.
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because—’ She pressed her lips together. It would sound foolish—pathetic, even—to admit the endearment was special. That it meant something. Yet still she couldn’t stand Vittorio using it now, when his expression was so forbidding, his voice faintly mocking. When there suddenly seemed so much she didn’t know about him, so much she was afraid of.
‘Because why?’ Vittorio asked. He’d trailed his hand down Ana’s bare arm so now their fingertips were touching. Smiling faintly, he laced his fingers with her own and drew her from the table, out into the foyer with its flickering torches, the ancient stones dancing with shadows. ‘We are about to be married, after all.’
Ana let him lead her. His touch was mesmerizing, her thoughts and even doubts seeming to fly from her head as she followed him slowly, knowing each step was taking her closer to danger. Danger, and yet such exquisite danger it was. All she could think or feel was his fingers on her skin. Wanting more. Needing more.
‘I don’t—’ she began, and then simply shook her head, at a loss for words. Feeling was too much, taking over every sense.
‘You don’t…?’ Vittorio prompted. She thought she heard laughter in his voice; he knew. He knew how much his simple touch affected her, reduced her. He used it as a weapon. His fingers still laced with hers, he pulled her towards him. She came, unresisting, until their bodies collided and she had to tilt back her head to look up into his face, his onyx eyes glittering as he gazed down at her. ‘Don’t be afraid, Ana,’ he murmured, his lips inches from hers.
Her own lips parted instinctively, yet also in anticipation. Hope. Even so, she summoned one last protest; it was both an attack and a defence. ‘There’s so much I don’t know about you, Vittorio.’
‘Mmm.’ Vittorio’s fingers trailed up and down her arm, playing her skin like an instrument, his lips now a scant inch from hers so his breath feathered her face. She knew what he was doing. He was distracting her, keeping her from asking the questions whose answers she needed to know, whose answers, she realized fuzzily, might keep her from marrying him. And, even as she knew this, she couldn’t help her overwhelming response to his touch, blocking out all rational thought, all sense of reason.
And so another damning thought followed on the heels of the first: that nothing could keep her from marrying Vittorio, from possessing him, or having him possess her. She knew that as, with his free hand, he cupped her cheek and brought her face closer to his, their lips now no more than a breath apart.
He was going to kiss her. She needed him to kiss her, craved it, knew that her body and mind and soul could not be satisfied until she’d felt his lips on hers once more. Later, she knew, she would be humbled and perhaps ashamed by her own helpless desire. For now, it remained only an unstoppable force, an overwhelming hunger. So much so, in fact, that in barely a breath of sound, she whispered, begged, ‘Kiss me.’
Vittorio’s mouth curved in a smile tinged with triumph. Ana didn’t care. She didn’t care if she was humiliating herself, if Vittorio would gloat in his sensual power over her. She couldn’t care, because the need was too strong. ‘Kiss me,’ she said again, and then, because still he just smiled, she closed the gap between their lips herself, her eyes closing in blissful relief as their mouths connected and her whole body flooded with both satisfaction and yet more need.
Her hands found their way to his hair, fisting in its softness, her body pressing against the full length of his. She let her mouth move slowly over his, let her tongue slide against his lips, knowing she was inexpert, clumsy even, and not caring because it felt so good. She lost herself in that kiss, sank into it like she would a big feather bed, revelling in its softness, its wonder and pleasure, until she realized—slowly—that Vittorio had not moved, had not responded at all. Dimly, distantly, she became aware that his body was rigid against hers, his hands only loosely on her shoulders, his lips unresponsive and even slack under hers.
Desire had swamped her senses, flooded her reason, and yet Vittorio barely seemed affected at all.
In a sickening flash she remembered how she’d kissed Roberto—just as clumsily, no doubt—and how he had not moved either. He had remained still, enduring her touch, relieved when it was over. He’d felt disgust, not desire. And—oh, please, no—was Vittorio the same? She took a stumbling step backwards, shame pouring through her, scalding her senses, making her eager for escape.
Yet Vittorio would not let her flee. His hands came up to encircle her arms and he pulled her towards him as he deepened the kiss and made it his own. His hands moved to her hips, rocking her so their bodies collided in the most intimate way, and her lips curved in a triumphant, incredulous smile when she heard his sharp intake of breath and felt the evidence of his arousal.
Yet if Ana felt she was in control—even for a second—she soon realized she was sorely mistaken. Vittorio had taken command, pulling her into even closer contact, keeping her there, trapped between his powerful thighs. His mouth, at first so still and unresponsive under hers, now moved with deliberate, languorous ease, travelling from her lips to the sensitive skin under her ear so she was the one gasping aloud, and then to the intimate curve of her neck, and finally to the vee between her breasts.
Ana threw her head back, her eyes clenched shut, her breath coming in audible moans. She’d never been touched so intimately, so much. Her head spun and her body felt as if every nerve-ending had blazed to life; it almost hurt to feel this much, to know such pleasure.
She’d never known that anything could be like this.
Then Vittorio stepped away, leaving Ana reeling and gasping, the aftershocks of exquisite sensation still rocking her, and he smiled rather coolly. ‘See, Ana?’ he said, reaching behind her to open the front door of the castle; a cool breeze blew over her heated body. ‘I think you know me well enough.’

Vittorio waited until Ana was safely in her car, making her way down the curving drive, before he let out a long, low shudder.
He had not expected that. He’d been planning to seduce Ana, to sweep away her doubts with a kiss—or two. Instead, she’d kissed him. He’d been shocked by her audacity as well as his response. For, in that kiss, he’d realized that Ana was more than this thing he wanted, this possession he meant to acquire, his goal achieved. Wife.
She was a person, a being with hopes and needs and oh, yes, desires—and, even as he’d sent his little gifts and said the right words and kissed her, he’d somehow managed to forget this fact. Had he ever really known it?
Why he should realize that when she’d been kissing him, pressing against him, stirring him to a sudden desperate lust, he had no idea. He wished he hadn’t realized; it was easier not to know, or at least to pretend not to know.
To hold someone’s happiness in your hand, to take responsibility for her life—
It was monumental. Frightening, too.
‘Why, Vittorio?’
Vittorio stilled, his mother’s accusing voice ringing in his ears. He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over her in one dismissive glance. She stood poised on the bottom step of the ornate marble staircase—a nineteenth-century addition to the castle—her eyes blazing blue fire and her mouth twisted into a contemptuous sneer. It was an expression he’d become accustomed to.
‘Why what, Mother?’ he asked, his words holding only a veneer of icy politeness.
‘Why are you marrying that poor girl?’
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t appreciate the way you refer to my bride. There is nothing poor about Ana.’
Constantia let out a crow of disbelieving laughter. ‘Come, Vittorio! I know the women you’ve taken to your bed. I’ve seen them in the tabloids. They would eat Anamaria Viale alive.’
He just kept himself from flinching. ‘They will never have the opportunity.’
‘No?’ Constantia took a step towards him, incredulity lacing the single word. ‘You think not? And how will you manage that, my son? Will you keep your precious wife locked away in a glass case? Because, I assure you, that is not a pleasant place to be.’
‘I have no intention of putting Ana anywhere,’ Vittorio said flatly, ‘that she does not wish to be.’
‘She loves you,’ Constantia said after a moment. Her voice was quiet. ‘Or at least she could.’
Vittorio’s jaw tightened. ‘That is no concern of yours, Mother.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Constantia lifted her chin, her expression challenging and obdurate. ‘Do you know how it feels to love someone and never have them love you back? Do you know what that can drive you to think, to do?’ Her voice rang out, raw and ragged, and Vittorio narrowed his eyes. Her words—her tone—made no sense to him; was her obvious distress another ploy?
‘What are you talking about?’
Constantia pressed her lips together and shook her head. ‘Why are you going to marry her, Vittorio? Is it simply to spite me?’
‘You give yourself too much credit.’
‘You had no interest in marriage until I spoke of it.’
Vittorio lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘You simply reminded me to do my duty as Count of Cazlevara and CEO of Cazlevara Wines,’ he said. ‘It is my duty to provide an heir.’
‘So Bernardo cannot take your place,’ she finished flatly.
Vittorio’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t even hide her true ambition, but then she never had. ‘Every man wants a son.’
‘Why her?’ Constantia demanded. ‘Why marry a woman you could not love?’
‘I’m not interested in love, Mother.’
‘Just like your father, then,’ she spat, and again Vittorio felt a confused lurch of unease which he forced himself to dismiss.
‘I’m finished with this conversation,’ he said shortly and he turned away, walking quickly from the room. It was only later, when he was preparing for bed, that he remembered and reflected on his mother’s words. She’d called Ana a woman he could not love, as if such a thing—to love Ana—was an impossibility.
His hands stilling on the buttons of his shirt, Vittorio wondered if his mother spoke the truth. He’d never wanted to love, that was true; was he even capable of it?