The Bride's Awakening

Chapter Eight

THE next few days were some of the most depressing Ana had ever known, simply by reason of their utter sameness. Except for the fact that she drove back to Castle Cazlevara every night after work, Ana would not know she was married. Her days had not changed at all; after an impersonal breakfast with Vittorio, she left for the winery offices, spent the day there and returned to the castle for another impersonal and often silent meal.
Vittorio seemed to have retreated into himself; they hardly talked, and the little gifts he’d showered her with before their marriage had stopped completely. Ana couldn’t tell if Vittorio was simply satisfied now he’d married her, or if he actually regretted the deed. As far as periods of adjustment went, theirs was an utter failure. There was no adjusting; there was only enduring.
Ana saw Constantia and Bernardo on occasion; they were currently residing at the castle, although they seemed to avoid both her and Vittorio. Bernardo ate out, and Constantia took her meals in her rooms. It was, Ana reflected, an unhappy household, shrouded in its own misery.
After three days of this, Ana could take it no longer. She found Vittorio at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper and drinking his espresso. He barely glanced up when she entered.
‘You’d think,’ Ana said, hearing the acid in her own voice, ‘that we’d been married three decades rather than three days.’
She saw Vittorio’s fingers tense and then he lowered the newspaper. ‘What do you mean, Ana?’ he asked in that careful, mild voice he seemed to save just for her. It was so neutral, so irritating, for it made Ana feel as if he was dealing with a child or a puppy that needed training.
‘I mean,’ she retorted, as Giulia, the morning maid, came bustling forth with her own latte, ‘that for the last three days—the only three days we’ve been married—you have been ignoring me. Are you regretting your decision, Vittorio? Because of course you know we can still get the marriage annulled.’
The only change in Vittorio’s expression was a tightening of his lips and a flaring of his nostrils. ‘I have no wish to annul this marriage.’
‘You have no wish to act as if you were married, either.’
Vittorio folded his paper and dropped it on the table. He picked up his tiny cup of espresso and took a sip, studying Ana from over its rim. ‘I wanted to give you time,’ he finally said quietly. ‘I thought…to rush into things might be difficult.’
‘To feel like I don’t belong—that we’re not even married—is difficult too,’ Ana countered. His words had comforted her, given her hope, but she wasn’t about to give up any ground quite yet.
Vittorio nodded slowly. ‘Very well. I was drawing up the guest list for the party I mentioned earlier. I thought we could have it on Friday, in two days’ time. If you have anyone you’d like to add to the list, just tell me, or email me the particulars.’ He paused before adding only a bit acerbically, ‘Perhaps when we announce to the world we are married, you will feel it yourself.’
Or, Ana thought a bit savagely as Vittorio rose and took his leave, perhaps she would feel married when Vittorio treated her like a wife, a proper wife, a wife in every sense of the word as he’d told her he would.
Alone in the dining room, she drummed her fingers on the burnished mahogany table top and moodily sipped her latte. All around her the castle was quiet; even though Giulia was undoubtedly hovering just outside the door, Ana could hear nothing. She felt very alone.
I didn’t think it would be like this.
Annoyed with herself, Ana pushed the traitorous thought aside and rose from the table. The dining room, like many other rooms in the castle, had been refurbished some time in the last century and now possessed long elegant windows overlooking the terraced gardens that led down to the drained moat. Under a fragile blue sky, it was austerely beautiful, yet it hardly felt like home. And she still couldn’t see or hear another living soul.
Without even realizing she was doing it, Ana brushed at the corner of her eye and her fingertip came away damp. She was crying. She never cried, not since her mother had died. Even during those miserable years at boarding school, that first seeming rejection of her father and, later, Roberto’s worse rejection, she’d always choked her sorrow down and soldiered on so it remained a hot lump in her chest, pushing it further and further down until she couldn’t feel it at all. Almost.
Now she felt it deeply, all the sorrow and anger and fear, rising up in a red tide of emotion she didn’t have the time or energy to deal with.
She’d accepted that Vittorio didn’t love her. She’d been prepared that he might not desire her the way she desired him. She hadn’t counted on the fact that he’d actually avoid her.
How was this meant to make her life easier?
‘Has Vittorio left you alone?’
Ana whirled around at the sound of her mother-in-law’s clipped voice. The ageing beauty stood framed in the doorway of the dining room, poised as ever to make an entrance. Ana forced a small smile. She really didn’t feel like dealing with Constantia just now.
‘He went to work, and I’m off in a moment too,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful even as she attempted some kind of regretful look that she wouldn’t be able to spend breakfast with her mother-in-law. ‘We’re both very busy.’
‘Of course you are.’ Constantia glided into the room, followed by Giulia, who brought a separate tray of espresso and rolls. The Dowager Countess clearly deserved special service. ‘Tell me, Anamaria,’ Constantia asked as she sat down and neatly broke a roll in half, ‘how is marriage suiting you?’ She glanced up, her eyes narrowed only slightly, so Ana couldn’t tell if her mother-in-law knew just what kind of marriage she and Vittorio had, or if she genuinely wanted to know the answer to that thorny question. Constantia never gave anything away.
Ana’s mouth widened into a bright false smile. ‘Wonderfully.’
Constantia nodded thoughtfully and nibbled a piece of her roll. ‘Vittorio is so much like his father. A hard man to be married to.’
In a flash Ana remembered her own father’s assessment of Arturo Cazlevara: Arturo was a good man too, but he was hard. Without mercy.
She glanced at Constantia, now composedly sipping her espresso, with genuine curiosity. ‘What do you mean?’
Constantia shrugged one shoulder. ‘Surely you know what I mean? Vittorio isn’t…affectionate. Emotional.’ She paused, and when she spoke her voice sounded almost ragged. ‘He will never love you.’
Something sharp lanced through Ana; she didn’t know whether it was fear or pain. Perhaps both. She turned back to the window. ‘I don’t expect him to love me,’ she said quietly.
‘You may have convinced yourself of that once, my dear,’ Constantia said. ‘But can you continue to do so? For years?’
There was too much knowledge, too much sorrowful experience in the older woman’s voice for Ana not to ask. ‘Is that what happened to you?’ Ana turned around; for a moment Constantia looked vulnerable, and her fingers shook a little bit as she replaced her cup in its saucer.
‘Yes, it is. I loved Arturo Cazlevara from the time I was a little girl. We were neighbours, you know, just like Vittorio and you are—were. Everyone approved of the marriage, everyone thought it was a great match. Arturo never said he didn’t love me, of course. And on the surface he was considerate, kind. Just like Vittorio, si? Yet here—’ Constantia lightly touched her breastbone ‘—here, I knew.’
Tua cuore. Sudden tears stung Ana’s eyes and she blinked them away. She was not going to cry. ‘Consideration and kindness,’ she said after a moment, ‘count for much.’
Constantia laughed once, the sound sharp with cynicism. ‘Oh, you think so? Because I happen to believe those agreeable sentiments make you feel like a puppy that has been patted on the head and told to go and lie down and stop bothering anyone anymore. Not a nice feeling all these years, you know? To feel like a dog.’ She paused, and something hardened in both her face and voice. ‘You would be amazed to know the things you can be driven to, the things you do even though you hate them—hate yourself—when you feel like that.’ She drained her espresso and rose from the table, giving Ana one last cool smile. The haughty set of her shoulders and the arrogant tilt of her chin made Ana think Constantia regretted her moment of honesty. ‘Perhaps it is different for you, Ana.’
‘It is different,’ Ana replied with sudden force. ‘I don’t love Vittorio either.’
Constantia’s smile was pitying. ‘Don’t you?’ she said, and walked from the room.
Constantia’s words echoed through Ana’s mind all morning as she tried to focus on work. She couldn’t. She argued endlessly with herself, trying to convince herself that she didn’t love Vittorio, she didn’t love the way his eyes gleamed when he was amused, the way they softened when he spoke quietly, the broad set of his shoulders, the feel of his lips—
Of course, those were all physical attributes. You couldn’t love someone based on how they looked. Yet Ana knew there was more to Vittorio than his dark good looks. When she was in his presence, she felt alive. Amazed. As if anything could happen, good or bad, and the good would be wonderful and even the bad would be all right because she still would be with him. She wanted to know more about him, not just to feel his body against hers, but his heart against hers also. She wanted to see him smile, just for her. To have him whisper something just meant for her.
She wanted him to love her. She wanted to love him.
She wanted love.
‘No!’ The word burst out of her, bounced around the walls of her empty room. ‘No,’ she said again, a whisper, a plea. She couldn’t want love. She couldn’t, because Vittorio would never give it. She thought of Constantia, her face a map of the disappointments life had given her. Ana didn’t know all the history between Constantia and Vittorio, or Constantia and her own husband, but she knew—it was plain to see—that the woman was bitter, angry, and perhaps even in despair. She didn’t want that. Yet, if she wanted Vittorio’s love—which she was still trying to convince herself she didn’t—it seemed like only a matter of time until she was like Constantia, unfulfilled and unhappy, pacing the rooms of Castle Cazlevara and cursing other people’s joy.
That afternoon Ana left work early—a rare occurrence—and drove to the Mestre train station that crossed the lagoon into Venice. As she rode over the Ponte della Libertà—the Bridge of Liberty—Ana wondered what she was doing…and why. Why had she summoned all her courage and rung the boutique Vittorio had taken her to before their marriage, why had she made an appointment with the pencil-thin Feliciana to be fitted for several outfits, including a gown for the party on Friday night?
Ana told herself it was because she needed some new clothes, now that she was the Countess. Part of her arrangement with Vittorio was that she would dress appropriately to her station, as he’d said. Naturally, it made sense to visit the boutique he’d chosen above all others for this purpose.
Yet, no matter how many times Ana told herself this—mustering all her logic, her common sense—her heart told her otherwise. She was doing this—dressing this way—because she wanted Vittorio to see her differently. She wanted him to see her as a wife, and not just any wife, but a wife he could love.
The thought terrified her.
‘Contessa Cazlevara!’ Feliciana started forward the minute Ana entered the narrow confines of the upscale boutique. Ana smiled and allowed herself to be air-kissed, even though she felt awkward and cloddish and, well, huge in this place. Feliciana had to be a good eight inches shorter than her, at the very least.
‘I’ve put some things aside for you,’ Feliciana said, leading her to a private salon in the back of the boutique, ‘that I think will suit you very well.’
‘Really?’ Ana couldn’t keep the scepticism from her voice. Feliciana had only glimpsed her once before; how on earth could she know what suited her? And a little mocking voice asked, how could anything suit her?
Ana commanded that voice to be silent. Yet other voices rose to take its place: the locker room taunts of the girls at boarding school, the boys who had ignored or teased her, the helpless sigh of the matron who had shaken her head and said, ‘At least you’re strong.’ And then, most damning of all, Roberto’s utter rejection. How could I?
Over the years she’d avoided places like this, dresses like these, for a reason. And now, standing in the centre of a brightly lit, mirrored dressing room while Feliciana bustled over with an armful of frocks, she felt horribly exposed and vulnerable.
‘Now, first I thought, a gown for the party, si?’ Feliciana smiled. ‘Most important.’
‘Yes, I suppose,’ Ana murmured, looking dubiously at a white lace gown she’d glimpsed on her last visit to the boutique. It now hung over Feliciana’s arm, exquisite and fragile.
‘A formal occasion, is it not? I thought we’d try this.’ Feliciana held up the gown.
Ana shook her head. ‘I don’t think…’
‘You’ll see,’ Feliciana said firmly. She gestured to Ana’s trouser suit with a tiny grimace of distaste. ‘Now, you hide yourself in these clothes, as if you are ashamed.’
Ana flushed. ‘I’m just not—’
‘But you are,’ Feliciana interjected. She smiled, laying a hand on Ana’s arm. ‘It is not my job to make women look awkward or ugly, si? I know what I am doing. Right now, you walk with your shoulders stooped, your head bowed as if you are trying not to be tall.’
‘I don’t—’ Ana protested.
‘You are tall,’ Feliciana said firmly. ‘With a beautiful full figure. And don’t you know many women long to be so tall? You are strikingly beautiful, but I know you don’t think you are.’ She let go of Ana’s shoulders and gestured to the lace confection of a dress. ‘In this, you will see.’ She smiled again, softly. ‘Trust me.’
So Ana did. She took the dress and let Feliciana take her trouser suit, slipping into the lacy sheath with some foreboding and also a building excitement. The dress fitted like a second skin, hugging her hips, the dip of her waist and the swell of her breasts. Its plunging neckline was made respectable by the handmade Burano lace edging it, and the material ended in a frothy swirl around her ankles. Ana sucked her stomach in as Feliciana did up the hidden zipper in the back, but there was no need as the dress fitted perfectly. They did make gowns like this in her size.
Ana didn’t dare look in the mirror. She wasn’t afraid, precisely, but neither did she want to be disappointed.
‘Uno minuto…’ Feliciana muttered, surveying her, her hands on her hips. She reached out and tugged the clip from Ana’s hair; it cascaded down her back in a dark swirl. ‘Ah…perfectto!’
Perfect? Her? Ana almost shook her head, but Feliciana steered her towards the mirror. ‘Look. You’ve never seen yourself in something like this before, have you?’
No, she hadn’t. Ana knew that the minute she gazed at her reflection, because for a second at least she couldn’t believe she was staring at herself. She was staring at a stranger, a woman—a gorgeous, confident, sexy woman. She shook her head.
‘No…’
Feliciana clucked in dismay. ‘You don’t like it?’
‘No.’ A bubble of laughter erupted, escaping through her lips as Ana turned around. ‘I don’t like it. I love it.’
Feliciana grinned. ‘Buon. Because I have at least six other gowns I want you to try.’
By the time Ana left the boutique, she’d purchased four gowns, several skirts and tops, three pairs of shoes, including a pair of silver stilettos that she’d balked at until Feliciana had told her sternly, ‘Your husband must be almost five inches taller than you. You can wear heels.’
She’d never worn heels in her life. She’d probably fall on her face. Ana giggled; she wasn’t used to making such a girlish sound. Yet right now she felt girlish, feminine and frivolous and fun. She’d enjoyed this afternoon and, best of all, she couldn’t wait until Vittorio saw her in the lace gown on Friday night.
Yet, when Friday night actually came and she stood at the top of the sweeping staircase that led down to the castle’s foyer and its waiting master, Ana didn’t feel so confident. So fun. She felt sick with nerves, with a queasy fear that Vittorio wouldn’t like how she looked or, worse, that he wouldn’t even care how she looked. They’d barely seen each other outside meals and Ana spent her nights alone. She was a wife in name only, and she longed to change that tonight.
From the top of the stairs she could see him waiting at the bottom, could feel his impatience. He wore a perfectly cut suit of grey silk and he rested one long tapered hand on the banister railing.
‘Ana?’ he called up, a bit sharply. ‘Are you ready? The guests will be here very soon.’
‘Yes,’ she called, her own voice wavering a little. ‘I’m ready.’

Vittorio heard Ana coming down the stairs behind him, but he didn’t turn around right away. He needed to steel himself, he realized, for however his wife might look. So far he had not been impressed with her clothes; her wedding dress had been an unmitigated disaster. She’d told him she knew the difference between a designer gown and a bin bag, but Vittorio had yet to be convinced. Not, he reflected, that he’d taken Ana’s dress sense into consideration when he’d chosen her as his bride.
Why had he chosen her as his bride? Vittorio wondered rather moodily. All the businesslike reasons about merging wineries and knowing the region seemed utterly absurd to base a marriage on. Of course, when his mother had spoken to him about heirs, his logical mind had not thought about a marriage; it had simply fastened on the one necessity: wife. Object. Then he’d seen the vulnerability in Ana’s eyes, had felt her softness against him, had breathed in the earthy scent of her desire and known that wife and object were not two words ever to string together.
Ana was a person, and not just a person, but his wife. His beloved. The person he should protect and cherish above all others. The person, he realized bleakly, he was meant to love. And he had no idea what to do with her.
It was why he’d avoided her since their wedding; why he still had not come to her bed. He’d thought he could live with a business arrangement. That was what he had wanted. Yet now, bizarrely, he found the cold-blooded terms of their arrangement to be…distasteful. Yet he didn’t love Ana, didn’t know if he was even capable of such an emotion. He hadn’t loved anyone in years. His entire adult life had been focused on not loving, on building Cazlevara Wines, maintaining his reputation and influence as Count, trying to forget the fractured family he’d left behind. The women he’d involved himself with hadn’t even come close to touching his heart.
Yet Ana…Ana with her blunt way of speaking and her soft grey eyes, her brash confidence and her lurking vulnerability, her tall, lush figure and her earthy scent…Ana somehow slipped inside the defences he’d erected around himself, his heart. He’d prided himself on being logical, sensible, perhaps even cold. Yet now he wouldn’t even go to his wife’s bed for fear of—what? Hurting her?
He’d told his bride very plainly that he never intended to love her. Love, he had said, was a destructive emotion. And perhaps that was what made him afraid now; he was afraid that his love would destroy Ana, would ruin their marriage.
His love was destructive.
‘Vittorio…?’ He felt Ana’s hand on his sleeve, her voice no more than an uncertain whisper. She must have been standing there for some moments, waiting for him to notice her while he was lost in his gloomy reflections. Vittorio turned around.
‘Good even—’ He stopped, the words dried in his mouth, his head suddenly, completely empty of thoughts. The woman in front of him was stunning, a vision of ethereal loveliness in white lace. No, he realized distantly, she wasn’t ethereal. She was earthy and real and so very beautiful. And she was his wife. ‘You look…’ he began and, though she tried to disguise it, he saw Ana’s face fall, the disappointment shadowing her eyes and making her shoulders slump just a fraction. He let himself touch her, holding her by the shoulders. Her skin was warm and golden. The dress clung to her figure; he’d never realized how perfectly she was proportioned, the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. He’d once considered her mannish; the thought was now laughable. He’d never seen a more feminine woman. ‘You look amazing,’ he said, his voice low, heartfelt, and Ana smiled.
She had the most amazing smile. He’d noticed her teeth before, straight and white, as one might notice a piece of workmanship. Now he saw the way the smile transformed her face, softened the angles and made joy dance in her eyes in golden glints.
Amazing. His wife was amazing.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice just as heartfelt, and Vittorio did the only thing he could do…He kissed her. As he drew her close, he was conscious of her generous curves fitting so snugly against his own body, amazed at the way her length lined up to his. How had he ever stooped to kiss a shorter woman before? His back ached just to think of it.
And Ana’s lips…They were soft and warm and as generous as the rest of her, open and giving and so very sweet. Vittorio had meant only to kiss her briefly—something between a peck and a brush—but once he tasted her he found he couldn’t get enough. The kiss went on and on, her arms snaking up around his shoulders, her body pressing against his—she’d never been shy—until someone behind him cleared his throat in a pointed manner.
‘Pardon me for breaking up this rather touching scene,’ Bernardo drawled, ‘but the guests are starting to arrive.’
‘Good.’ Vittorio stepped away from Ana, his arm still around her waist. She fitted against him, nestled near him in a way that was neither cloying nor coy. It was, he knew, as genuine as the rest of her was.
Bernardo eyed Ana with obvious surprise. ‘You cleaned up rather well.’
‘Bernardo,’ Vittorio said sharply, ‘that is no way to speak to my wife the Countess.’
Bernardo turned back to Vittorio, his eyebrows raised. ‘Isn’t it what you were thinking?’ he countered. Vittorio pressed his lips together; he didn’t want to argue with his brother now. He wouldn’t spoil this evening for Ana. Bernardo turned to Ana and made a little bow. ‘Forgive me, Ana. I meant no insult. You look very beautiful.’
Vittorio said nothing. This was how his brother always acted; he’d deliver the sting with one hand and the sweetness with the other. It made it impossible to fight him, or at least to win. Vittorio had learned this long ago, when his parents had drawn the battle lines. Constantia got Bernardo and his father took him. They had been his parents’ most potent weapons. It had, Vittorio reflected, been a long drawn-out war.
‘No offence taken, Bernardo,’ Ana said, smiling. ‘I was thinking the same thing myself.’
Bernardo gave her an answering flicker of a smile and bowed again. Vittorio squeezed Ana’s waist and the first guests came towards them before he could thank his wife for being so gracious.

Ana moved through the party in a haze of happiness. She never wanted to forget the look on Vittorio’s face when he’d turned around and seen her. She’d expected the disbelief, of course, but not the joy. He’d been happy to see her. He’d wanted her by his side. And when he’d kissed her…Every secret hope and latent need had risen up inside her on newly formed wings, and she hadn’t suppressed them or forced them back to the ground. For years she’d refused to entertain such dreams, knowing they could only lead to disappointment, yet when Vittorio had looked at her, she’d felt like the woman she’d always longed to be. The woman she was meant to be. It was a wonderful feeling.
She stayed by Vittorio’s side for most of the party. He wanted her there, kept his arm around her, her hip pressed against his. She laughed and chatted and listened and nodded, but none of it really penetrated. The need—the desire—was building within her slowly, a force rising up and needing to be reckoned with. To be satisfied.
Tonight, she told herself. Tonight, he will come to me. As the evening wore on, her certainty—and her happiness—only grew.

Vittorio had been so proud, so happy to have Ana by his side. He’d drifted through the party in a haze, on a cloud. He couldn’t wait to get Ana alone, to touch her—
Yet now she’d gone to see her father off and, alone, he felt strangely flat, indifferent to all he’d achieved. He wanted her to come back to him and yet, even so, he didn’t go in search of her. He didn’t even know what he would say.
He thought of how Enrico Viale had stopped him in the middle of the party, one hand on his sleeve. ‘She looked beautiful, our Ana, si?’ the older man had said, pride shining in his eyes. Vittorio had been about to agree when he realized Enrico was not talking about how Ana looked tonight. ‘It was her mother’s wedding dress, you know. I asked her to wear it.’
Vittorio had been left speechless, amazed and humbled by Ana’s selflessness, by her loyalty. And he’d demanded that same loyalty of her for him? When he didn’t even know what to do with her, how to treat her, how to love her?
Love. But he didn’t want love.
As the last guests trickled outside, the cars heading down the castle’s steep drive in a steady stream of light, Vittorio wondered what on earth he’d been trying to accomplish by setting out to acquire a wife like so much baggage. What had been the point, to take another being into his care, another life into his hands? Who was meant to notice, to know?
Who cared?
Of course, most of his neighbours and fellow winemakers were curious about the Count of Cazlevara’s sudden return and even more sudden marriage. He’d felt their implicit approval that he’d returned to where he belonged, was now taking his rightful place, esteemed winemaker and leader of the community.
Yet he hadn’t been trying to gain their approval. At that moment, their approval hardly mattered at all.
‘So, Vittorio. A success.’
Vittorio turned slowly around; his mother stood in the doorway of the drawing room. She looked coldly elegant in a cream satin sheath dress, her expression unsmiling. This was the person whose approval he’d been trying to gain, Vittorio realized, and how absurd that was, considering his mother had not had a moment of interest or affection for him since he was four. When his brother had been born.
He was jealous, Vittorio realized, incredulous and yet still somehow unsurprised by this. All these years, his desire to return to his home and show his brother and mother his success, his self-sufficiency—it had just been jealousy. Petty, pathetic jealousy.
He turned back to the window. The last cars had disappeared down the darkened drive. ‘So it appears.’
‘You’re not pleased?’ she asked, moving into the room. He heard a caustic note in her voice that still made his shoulders tense and the vulnerable space between them prickle.
Go away, Vittorio. Leave me alone.
At that moment he felt like that confused child who had tugged his mother’s sleeve, desperate to show her a drawing, receive a hug. She’d turned away, time and time again, forever averting both her face and her heart. When she’d welcomed Bernardo, adored and doted on and spoiled him utterly, it seemed obvious. She simply preferred his brother to him.
Vittorio made an impatient sound of disgust; he was disgusted with himself. Why was he remembering these silly, childish moments now? He’d lived with his mother’s rejection for most of his life. He’d learned not to care. He’d steeled himself against it, against the treachery she’d committed when his father had died—
Except obviously he hadn’t, for the emotions were still present, raked up and raw, and they made him angry. What kind of man was still hurt by his mother? It was ridiculous, pathetic, shaming.
‘On the contrary, Mother. I am very pleased.’ His voice was bland with just a hint of sharpness; it was the tone he always reserved for her.
She gave an answering little laugh, just as sharp. ‘Oh, Vittorio. Nothing is ever enough, is it? You’re just like your father.’ The words were meant to be an accusation, a condemnation.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
His mother’s lip curled in a sneer. ‘Of course you will.’
Impatient with all her veiled little barbs, Vittorio shrugged. ‘Where’s Ana?’
Constantia arched her eyebrows in challenge. ‘Why do you care?’
His temper finally frayed. ‘Because she is my wife.’ And he wanted to know where she was, he wanted to see her now, to feel her smile, her sweetness—
‘A wife you won’t love.’
Vittorio stiffened. ‘That is no concern of—’
‘Isn’t it?’ She stepped closer and he saw the anger in her eyes, as well as something else. Something that looked strangely like sorrow. It was unfamiliar. He was used to his mother angry, but sad—?
‘You don’t know what it is like to love someone, Vittorio, who will never love you back—’
He laughed in disbelief; he couldn’t help it. ‘Don’t I?’
Constantia looked utterly nonplussed. ‘No—’
He shook his head, too weary to explain. ‘Do you know where Ana is?’
‘You will bring heartache to that girl. You will destroy her—’
Vittorio tensed, steeling himself once more, but this time he couldn’t. Love is a destructive emotion. The thought of bringing such pain and misery to Ana made his head bow, his shoulders shake. ‘Why do you care?’ he asked in a low, savage voice.
‘She is a good woman, Vittorio.’
‘Too good for me, obviously.’
Constantia sighed impatiently. ‘I have made many mistakes with you, I know. I have many regrets. But this marriage—it can only lead to more despair. And surely our family has had enough unhappiness?’
She was pleading with him, as if their family’s misery was his fault? Vittorio turned around, his body rigid with rage. ‘On that point we agree, Mother. Yet it seems odd that the instrument of so much unhappiness should then seek to end it.’
Constantia blinked as if she’d been struck. ‘I know you blame me—’
‘Blame you?’ Vittorio repeated silkily. ‘Are you referring to your attempt to take my inheritance, my father only hours in the grave? Your desperate desire to drag the family into the law courts and give my brother my title?’
Constantia straightened and met his hostile gaze directly. ‘Yes, Vittorio, I am referring to that. God knows you will never let me forget it.’
‘One hardly forgets the dagger thrust between one’s shoulders,’ Vittorio returned, every word encased in ice. He still remembered how he had reeled with shock; he’d come back from his father’s funeral, devastated by grief, only to find that in his absence his mother had met a solicitor and attempted to overturn the contents of his father’s will, disinheriting him completely and giving everything to Bernardo. All the childhood slights had led to that one brutal moment, when he’d understood with stark clarity that his mother didn’t just dislike him, she despised him. She’d do anything to keep him from inheriting what was rightfully his.
He would never forget. He couldn’t.
‘No,’ Constantia agreed softly, her eyes glittering, ‘one does not forget. And I will tell you, Vittorio, that for a woman to be denied love—by her own husband—is not a dagger between the shoulders, but one straight to the heart. For your wife’s sake, if not my own, do not hurt her.’
‘Such pretty words,’ Vittorio scoffed. The rage had left him, making him feel only weary. ‘You have come to care for my wife then, Mother?’
‘I know how she feels,’ Constantia said bleakly and, with one last shake of her head, she left the room.
Her words rang in his ears, and yet Vittorio still made himself dismiss them. I know how she feels. Was his mother implying she’d loved his father? To Vittorio’s young eyes, his parents had agreed on a polite marriage of convenience. Just like the one he’d meant to have. Yet his parents’ marriage had descended into anger and even hatred, and at the thought of that happening to him—to Ana—Vittorio swore aloud. All the old feelings, hurt memories, had been raked up tonight and Vittorio knew why.
Ana.
Somehow she’d affected him, touched him in a way he had never been touched. Made him open and exposed and, more than that, she made him want. Made him need.
Love.
He swore again.
‘Vittorio?’
He whirled around. Ana stood in the doorway, her face nearly as white as her lace gown.
‘How much did you hear?’ he asked, his tone brusque, brutal.
Ana flinched. ‘Enough. Too much.’
‘I told you my family’s history was not worth repeating,’ Vittorio replied with a shrug. He moved to the drinks table and poured himself a whisky.
‘Don’t—’ Ana said inadvertently and he turned around, one eyebrow arched.
‘I’m having a drink, Ana,’ he said, the words a taunt. ‘Whisky. Your favourite. Don’t you want to join me?’
‘No. Vittorio, I want to talk.’
He took a healthy swallow and let the alcohol burn straight to his gut. ‘Go ahead.’
Ana flinched again. Vittorio knew he was being callous, even cruel, but he couldn’t help it. The exchange with his mother, the emerging feelings for Ana—it all left him feeling so exposed. Vulnerable.
Afraid.
He hated it.
Turning away from her, he kept his voice a bored drawl. ‘So what do you want to talk about?’

Ana watched her husband as he gazed out of the window, affecting an air of bored indifference, yet she knew better now. He was hurting. She didn’t understand everything he’d referred to in his conversation with Constantia, didn’t know the source of all the pain, but she did know her marriage had no chance if Vittorio was going to remain mired in his painful past.
‘Tell me what went wrong,’ she said quietly.
Vittorio must not have been expecting that, for he bowed his head suddenly, his fingers clenched around his whisky glass.
‘Everything,’ he finally said in a low voice. ‘Everything went wrong.’
Cautiously Ana approached him, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Oh, Vittorio—’
He jerked away. ‘Don’t pity me. I could not stand that.’
‘I just want to understand—’
‘It’s simple, Ana.’ He turned to face her, his expression hard and implacable once more. ‘My mother didn’t love me. What a sad story, eh? Pathetic, no? A thirty-seven-year-old man whingeing on about his mean mamma.’
‘There’s more to it than that,’ Ana said quietly.
‘Oh, a few trite details.’ He gave a negligent shrug and drained his glass. ‘You see, my parents hated each other. Perhaps there was once love or at least affection, but not so I could remember. By the time Bernardo came along, the battle lines were drawn. I belonged to my father and Bernardo was my mother’s.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simple. My father had no time or patience for Bernardo, and my mother had none for me. They used us like weapons. And my father was a good man, he trained me well—’
‘But he was a hard man,’ Ana interjected, remembering.
Vittorio glanced at her sharply. ‘Who told you that?’
‘My father. He said Arturo was a good man, but without mercy.’
Vittorio let out a little breath of sound; Ana wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or something else. Perhaps even a sob. ‘Perhaps that is true. But he knew I was to inherit, and he wanted to train me up for the role—’
Ana could just imagine what that must have felt like, especially if Bernardo was not receiving the same harsh treatment. ‘And Bernardo?’ she asked softly.
‘My mother lavished all her love on him. He was like a spoilt poodle.’
Ana flinched at the contempt in his voice. Surely being spoiled was just as bad as being disciplined, just in a different way. ‘It sounds like both of you had difficult childhoods.’
‘Both of us?’ Vittorio repeated in disbelief, then shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He sounded bored, and Ana clung to her belief that it was merely a cover for the true, deeper emotions he was too afraid to expose.
She knew all about being vulnerable. Physically and emotionally. Even wearing this dress—opening herself to scorn—made her feel exposed, as exposed as Vittorio did raking through his unhappy childhood. No one liked to talk about such dark memories, admit how they hurt.
‘What happened when your father died?’ Ana asked.
‘My mother did what she’d undoubtedly been planning to do ever since Bernardo was born. She went to court to have his will overturned—and Bernardo made heir.’
Ana gasped. Even though she’d suspected as much, it still surprised her. Why would Constantia do such a vindictive thing? Yet, even as she asked the question, Ana thought she knew the answer. Hadn’t Constantia explained it herself? You would be amazed to know the things you can be driven to…when you feel like that. And then, her words tonight: You’re just like your father. Had she transferred all the bitterness and anger she’d felt towards her husband to her son? It seemed perfectly possible, and unbearably sad.
‘Oh, Vittorio,’ Ana whispered. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Well, don’t be,’ he replied, his voice turning harsh again. ‘She didn’t have a prayer of succeeding. My father was too smart for that. Perhaps he suspected what she was up to, what she could be capable of. His will remained intact, and Bernardo didn’t inherit a single lira.’
Ana gasped again. ‘Not…anything?’
‘No, and rightly so. He would have squandered it all.’
‘But then,’ Ana said slowly, realization dawning, ‘he lives here only on your sufferance. Doesn’t he work at the winery?’
Vittorio shrugged. ‘I let him work as the assistant manager.’
‘You let him,’ Ana repeated. ‘As an assistant.’
‘Are you saying it is not enough?’ Vittorio demanded raggedly. ‘This brother who would have taken everything from me? Do you think he would have been so merciful?’
Ana shook her head. ‘But if your mother attempted all this with the will when your father died, you were only—’
‘Fourteen.’
‘And Bernardo was a child—nine or ten at the most—’
‘Ten,’ Vittorio confirmed flatly. Anger sparked in his eyes; his face had become hard again, a stranger’s. ‘Are you taking his side, Ana? Don’t you remember what I told you, what I warned you about?’
His tone was so dangerous, so icy, that Ana could only blink in confusion, her mind whirling with all these revelations. ‘What—?’
Vittorio closed the space between them, circling her wrist with his hands, drawing her to him. The movement was not one of seduction, but possession, and Ana came up hard against his chest. ‘Loyalty, Ana. I told you those closest to me would try to discredit me. You swore you would be loyal to me—’
She could hardly believe he was bringing up loyalty now. This was his family. ‘Vittorio, I am simply trying to understand—’
‘Maybe I don’t want you to understand,’ Vittorio said harshly. ‘Maybe if you understood—’ He stopped, shaking his head, a look of what almost seemed like fear flashing across his face before he muttered an oath and then, with a sudden groan, claimed her mouth in a kiss.
It wasn’t a kiss, Ana thought distantly, so much as a brand. He was punishing her for her curiosity and reminding her of her vow. And, in that kiss she felt all his anger, his hurt and even his fear. And despite her own answering anger—that he would kiss her this way—she felt the traitorous flicker of her own desire and she pressed against him, let her hands tangle in his hair, wanting to change this angry embrace into something healing and good—
‘No!’ With a bellow of disgust, Vittorio pushed her away. Ana stumbled and reached out to steady herself; both of them were gasping as if they’d run a race. And lost.
‘Vittorio—’
‘No,’ he said again. He raked a hand through his hair, let out a ragged sob. ‘Not like this. God help me, I never wanted this.’
‘But—’
‘I told you,’ he said in a low voice, ‘love is a destructive emotion.’
Ana shook her head, wanting to deny what he said, wanting to fight—and wondering if he was actually telling her, in a terribly twisted way, that he loved her.
Was this love? This confusion and sorrow and pain?
No wonder they’d both agreed to live without it.
‘It doesn’t have to be destructive,’ Ana said quietly but, his back now to her, Vittorio just shook his head.
‘With me,’ he said in a voice so low Ana strained to hear, ‘it is.’ He let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Leave me, Ana. Just leave me.’
Ana stood there uncertainly, knowing to slink away now was surely the worst thing to do. ‘No,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t want to.’
Vittorio swung around, incredulous. ‘What—’
‘We’re married, Vittorio. I’m not going to run away like some frightened child.’ He flinched, and she raised her chin. ‘And I’m not going to sleep alone tonight, either. I’m your wife and I belong in your bed.’
Vittorio’s disbelief turned to disdain. ‘Now—’
She stepped closer to him, reached out with one hand to touch his lapel. ‘Just hold me, Vittorio.’ She saw his mouth tremble and she touched his lips. ‘And let me hold you. And maybe, together, for a few moments, we can forget all this bitterness and pain.’
Vittorio shook his head slowly and Ana’s heart sank. She’d thought she’d reached him, managed to get past the barrier he’d constructed to keep her—and anyone important—out. She could not bear his rejection now, not when she’d made herself so vulnerable, so exposed—just as he had—
Then, to her amazement and joy, he slowly reached for her hand, lacing his fingers tightly with hers, and silently, accepting, he led her from the darkened room.