Prelude to Enchantment, page 12
Sancha shook her head helplessly. ‘But he must know I couldn't possibly go and see him now, even if I wanted to.'
Maria shrugged. ‘He's pretty angry,’ she remarked consideringly. ‘And wet!'
‘Oh, Maria! What should I do?'
Maria looked uncertain. ‘I don't know. What do you want to do?'
Sancha turned her head aside. ‘I don't know. I—he was at Peruccha yesterday. He didn't see me, but I saw him. He was with Janine Rumien. Eleanor says that she's his mistress. She's also an heiress into the bargain. Exactly the right combination for him and the crumbling palazzo,’ she finished bitterly.
Maria put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It seems to me you would be as well to leave him alone,’ she said quietly. ‘No matter how fascinating he is!'
Sancha sighed. ‘Do you think I don't know that?'
‘Well, then.'
Sancha straightened. ‘Thanks for the message, Maria.'
‘What are you going to do?'
Sancha put a hand on the office door. ‘Nothing,’ she said distinctly. ‘Absolutely nothing!'
Even so, she did walk tentatively over to the office windows that overlooked the square below and peered through the misted glass intently. But she could see nothing but a deserted square and the soaking stonework of the fountain.
When she left the office building that evening it was almost dark and she looked about her rather apprehensively as she hurried through the office gardens towards the rainwet square. It was still raining and there was no one about except a man standing in the doorway of a nearby warehouse reading a newspaper. But he was bigger and broader than the Count and he wore a hat and she paid no attention to him.
She was last to join the line for the vaporetto and when it came there was a hustle to get aboard and hopefully under cover. But as Sancha moved forward a hand gripped her arm from behind and almost before she had time to utter a protest she was jerked backwards into the shadow of some old building, a hand silencing her mouth.
The vaporetto moved on and with it the last sign of humanity, and Sancha, petrified though she was, struggled violently to free herself. The man released her mouth and swung her round to face him, but he did not let her go and she saw in astonishment that it was Paolo. In a mackintosh, a hat pulled down to hide his scalp, he looked much the same as any other man, and she realised it had been he who had been standing waiting for her near the offices.
‘What do you want?’ she gasped, as soon as she could get her breath. ‘Don't you know there's a law against kidnapping?'
Paolo's expression did not alter. ‘Your pardon, signorina,’ he said politely. ‘You are to come with me, si?'
‘Where?’ Sancha was at once terrified and exhilarated.
‘To the Palazzo Malatesta, signorina. The signore wishes to speak with you.'
Sancha shook her head vigorously. ‘I've got to go home,’ she exclaimed. ‘My—my friends will worry——'
‘Come.'
Paolo propelled her forward and although she protested to him she made no attempt to summon assistance. When she saw the motor launch awaiting them by the next bridge, though, she felt a faint sense of unease at the risk she was taking.
But it was too late now. Paolo would probably not have let her go anyway, and with his command of the language he would probably have been capable of convincing any would-be rescuer that they were wasting their time. Besides, it was ridiculous feeling so apprehensive. This was the twentieth century, not the era of the Medicis, and if Tony's words about men being prepared to kill for their masters, and the horrible confines of the dungeons, filled her mind, she was merely allowing her imagination to run away with her. Anticipation was always more frightening than realisation.
Even so, when Paolo later opened the heavy door of the palazzo and indicated that Sancha should precede him inside she felt the strongest urge to make some effort on her own behalf.
‘I hope you realise that I shall report you for this!’ she said, in a slightly wavering voice.
‘As you wish, signorina,’ Paolo replied indifferently, and indicated that she should precede him upstairs.
They entered the ante-room she had first entered with Tony and from there she was ushered into the long lounge. Now lamps burned at intervals about the room, shedding a mellow light on to the beautiful appointments, adding a lustre to the articles of gold and silver and a patina on glossy surfaces. Although it was early summer the rain had dampened the atmosphere, but here a warm fire burned merrily in the pale marble of the hearth and its light too was very welcoming.
At their entrance the Count was reclining on a low couch in front of the fire looking dark and attractive in a dark blue silk shirt and paler blue close-fitting suede trousers. But when he saw Sancha he got to his feet at once, dismissing Paolo with a casual movement of his hand. The door closed behind the manservant and they were alone.
Sancha was conscious of the bedraggled picture she must appear. There had been little shelter in the launch and her headscarf had soaked through long ago. Her hair was darkened by dampness, but although her coat was wet she was dry enough underneath.
‘Take off your coat!’ The Count's first words were cool and commanding.
Sancha did not comply, but stood her ground, regarding him with what she hoped was calm indifference.
The Count waited a few silent moments, succeeded in doing nothing but bringing a hot flush to her already pink cheeks, and then walked across to her. With complete assurance he unfastened the belt and buttons of her coat and slid it off her unwilling shoulders, allowing it to fall in a heap at her feet. Then he drew off the offending headscarf and threaded his fingers through the dampened softness of her hair, separating the strands so that they could dry more easily.
Sancha stood still under his hands, scarcely daring to breathe lest he should sense the wanton desires that were enveloping her at his touch. She wanted to press herself against his hard body and feel those strong brown hands caressing her with all the urgency of passion. It didn't signify that yesterday he had been with Janine Rumien or that the French girl was most probably what Eleanor had said she was. All that mattered was him, his nearness, the sweet hunger he aroused inside her.
He had stopped threading his hands through her hair and was now caressing the nape of her neck, his thumbs moving over the lobes of her ears. She looked up at him compulsively, noticing the sombre quality of his expression and the burning lights in his eyes. Then he bent his head and touched the sides of her mouth with his, playing with her lips almost cruelly until his own need overcame all else and his mouth parted hers with a force that swept away any chance she might have had to repulse him.
He kissed her many times, long soul-destroying kisses that seemed to draw the strength out of her body into his, leaving her weak and clinging to him. ‘Dear God, Sancha,’ he muttered once, tangling his fingers in her hair, creating a wild disorder of its silken curtain, sliding her blouse from one soft shoulder and covering it with hair before putting his mouth to it. ‘Dear God, I want you; you don't know how much I want you!'
Sancha came to her senses reluctantly, but something in his voice seemed to penetrate the wall of incoherency that enveloped her every time he took her in his arms. He wanted her, yes, and she wanted him. That much she could not deny. But no word of love had passed his lips. What did he think she was? What low opinion did he have of her that he could speak to her so openly of his desires?
With a broken sob she tore herself out of his arms and fastening the buttons of her blouse with trembling fingers she went to stand by the fireplace. Anywhere to put some distance between her and unresisting temptation.
The Count stood for several minutes where she had left him as though he too found it hard to bring his thoughts back to the present, and then he walked to a low table and extracted a cheroot from a box there, lighting it with a heavy gold lighter. When he finally turned to Sancha he was in complete control of himself again, and the knowledge did not please her as it should have done. She would never have believed that she could feel so utterly wretched because she had acted virtuously …
‘Tell me something,’ he said quietly. ‘Why did you not go to lunch today?'
Sancha swallowed hard. ‘I—I wasn't hungry. I—I didn't know you were outside, if that's what you are implying.'
‘Did not your friend—what was her name?— Maria! Did not Maria give you my message?'
Sancha lifted her shoulders helplessly. ‘Yes—yes, she gave me the message. But I couldn't walk out of the building during office hours. Surely you know that!'
‘I know that I waited for you for two long hours, Sancha,’ he replied tautly. Drawing deeply on his cheroot, he went on: ‘You were at Peruccha yesterday Why did you not speak to me?'
Sancha stared at him incredulously. ‘Speak to you?’ she exclaimed. ‘How could I speak to you? You were with—with—Miss Rumien!'
‘So? What of it?’ His nostrils flared impatiently.
Sancha pressed her lips together, trying to find words to say what she had to say. ‘You must be aware as well as anyone that it is rumoured that you—that she and you—well, that you are expected to marry her!'
‘Yes, I am aware of that.’ He frowned. ‘But what has this to do with you and me?'
Sancha stared at him for a long moment and then she raised her eyes heavenward. ‘You can't be serious!'
‘Why not? What are you trying to say, Sancha? That because Janine expects to become the Contessa di Malatesta one day she has the right to direct my actions, to choose my friends for me? That I am some kind of lap-dog that runs constantly at the heels of its mistress!'
Sancha felt a sharp pain in the pit of her stomach. ‘But—as—as your fiancée, she has some—rights——'
‘What are rights?’ he threw his cheroot into the fire. ‘I doubt if you know. Is it fair—is it right—that because Janine was born the daughter of Sebastian Rumien she should inherit his fortune? Is it right that I must marry someone like Janine for the sole purpose of restoring the palazzo which is my birthright?’ He came across to her, his eyes holding hers with brilliant insistence. ‘Is it right that our relationship should be denied when it is what we both want?'
‘No! No!’ Sancha backed away from him, holding out a hand in front of her as though to ward him off. ‘No, Cesare, don't come near me! Don't touch me!'
He halted abruptly, his expression hardening. ‘Do not be alarmed, signorina,’ he said bleakly. ‘I have never found it necessary to force my attentions on a woman!'
Sancha turned away, staring blindly out of the windows of the apartment that overlooked the canal below. Rain streamed constantly down the panes, causing the distant spires to waver in the dim light. Inside the room all was warmth and light and comfort, and in spite of what he had said and the reactions she had made she found the prospect of leaving vastly depressing.
As though sensing that she was uncertain in her resolve he moved and came to stand behind her, not touching her, but near enough for her to feel the heat of his body against her flesh. She tried desperately to think coherently. What was he asking of her? What did he expect of her? Did he imagine she would agree to an affair so long as it was not the hole-and-corner thing she had refused to contemplate? Didn't he care that Janine was bound to find out?
‘She's a very beautiful woman,’ she said now, almost speaking to herself the thoughts that plagued her mind, but he heard the hushed remark.
‘Yes,’ he said, his breath fanning the back of her neck. ‘Very beautiful.'
Sancha quivered. ‘Do you love her?'
‘No.’ His reply was incisive.
‘Why?’ Sancha could not leave it alone.
Pushing her hair aside, he bent his head and put his mouth to the nape of her neck ‘Your skin is so soft,’ he groaned huskily. ‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Sancha, but I can't let you go. I can't leave you alone …’ and with that his arms slid round her, drawing her closely back against him, moulding her body to his. ‘I don't love Janine,’ he went on in a strangled voice, ‘I love you! I adore you! And God help me, I need you so badly I can no longer think straight …’ With urgent hands he twisted her round in his arms and sought her mouth with his.
Now Sancha was lost. She could no longer resist the compelling quality of his caresses or the tortured appeal in his voice. She wanted only to please him, to know him, to be possessed by him …
And then, as he swung her up in his arms and carried her to the couch, there was an imperative tapping at the door.
The Count swore violently, and allowed Sancha to fall softly against the luxurious cushions of the couch. She sat there uncertainly, her cheeks flushed and her hair a glory of silver about her shoulders. The Count gave her one devastating look that deprived her of all modesty and then strode impatiently to the door.
As he swung it open to reveal Paolo outside small, delicately manicured hands pushed the huge manservant aside and Janine Rumien swept into the room.
In a gown of cream slipper satin that had a slit almost to the knee, her upswept hair glittering with diamond pins, she looked more beautiful than Sancha had ever seen her, and more venomous. Her heavily made-up eyes raked Sancha insolently as she remained on the couch in a state of shocked immobility, examining her bare bruised lips and the tumbled mass of hair with scathing distaste. Then she turned on the Count, treating him to the same kind of appraisal.
But the Count seemed wholly indifferent to this outraged display and had reached for a cheroot and was lighting it with unconcern. Sancha, watching him, was amazed at his control and undisturbed assurance.
‘Well, Cesare!’ Janine spoke in English. ‘Have you nothing to say to me?'
Cesare drew deeply on his cheroot. ‘What are you doing here, Janine?’ he enquired. ‘I understood you to say that you were attending the theatre this evening.'
‘So I was—I am!’ Janine clenched her fists. ‘I wondered why that brute of a man refused to allow me to enter!’ She cast a malevolent glance in Paolo's direction. He still stood by the door awaiting his master's instructions. ‘I am not a fool, Cesare! I knew there must be some reason why you refused to accompany me to La Fenice!'
The Count regarded her through narrowed eyes. ‘What I do in my own time is my own affair,’ he stated calmly. ‘I repeat—why are you here, Janine?'
Janine seethed, ‘I am here because it appears to be common knowledge in the city that you are having an affair with a girl—this girl!’ She pointed dramatically at Sancha. ‘What have you to say to that?'
The Count smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. ‘I intend to say nothing, Janine,’ he responded, with cold indifference. ‘You are not my keeper and you never will be!'
There was a moment when Sancha thought Janine was about to storm out of the palazzo in a rage, but then, almost miraculously, her mood changed, and instead of spitting the poison which so obviously trembled on her lips, she swallowed her pride and walking across to the Count she deliberately reached up and kissed his tanned cheek.
‘Mi spiace, Cesare,’ she murmured appealingly, caressing his throat with her gloved hand. ‘I am sorry. But I am so jealous of your time that I allow my emotions to run away with my reason. Forgive me, caro, forgive your Janina!'
Sancha felt physically sick. Janine's anger had been bad, but this was so much worse. That Janine should be prepared to overlook what had obviously been happening here between Sancha and the man she intended to marry was nauseating in its implications. It made Sancha feel cheap, and dirty. Was that really how it was? Was this to be her station in life? That of the Count's mistress, as and when he thought fit, and for so long as it suited him?
She gathered her scattered senses with difficulty. She must get away. She must leave here now, while Janine was there to distract him. She did not trust herself alone with him. No matter how appalled the situation might make her, her own feelings for him were capable of destroying her natural defences and she could no longer allow that to happen. He had been right at least in what he had said. Janine was willing to stand any amount of humiliation to become the next Contessa di Malatesta! But his professed love for her, Sancha, was merely a salve to her conscience and meant absolutely nothing in terms of decency.
Rather unsteadily, she got to her feet, smoothing her skirt down over her hips. The movements attracted the Count's attention, and Janine's, too, but it was the Count who moved impatiently away from Janine's clinging fingers and said: ‘Where are you going?’ in a taut, authoritative tone.
Sancha tried to smooth her hair, raising her arms to tuck the strands behind her ears, unconsciously drawing attention to the gentle swell of her breasts. ‘Will Paolo take me to where I can board the vaporetto?’ she requested, not looking at him. ‘Or perhaps he could hire a motoscafo for me.'
‘Sancha!’ The Count's agonised tone caused her to raise her head and look at him compulsively. Deeply engraved lines of strain edged his mouth, and his eyes were darkly glinting with suppressed emotion. ‘Sancha, don't go!’ There was appeal as well as command in his voice.
Sancha dragged her gaze away from his and walking across the room lifted her wet coat from where it still resided on the floor since he had slid it from her shoulders. Paolo stepped forward politely and assisted her to put it on and all the while the Count stood, legs slightly apart, his cheroot in his mouth, watching her. Janine might not have been in the room, and as though sensing this she went to the Count again and touched his arm possessively.
‘Will you not change your mind, caro?’ she murmured insistently. ‘Will you not come to La Fenice with me?'
Sancha turned away. She could not bear to watch them together. It was so much worse than she had ever imagined it could be. The pain in the pit of her stomach was reaching out to all the extremities of her body, engulfing them in an anguish that seemed almost too great to be borne.
Brushing past Paolo, she said in a muffled voice: ‘Don't bother! I can walk——'
But Count Malatesta stepped forward then, anger indelibly marring his lean features. ‘Paolo will take you home!’ he decreed, and although Sancha wanted to protest she did not dare. She felt she had tried him to the limits of his endurance, and to attempt any further defiance might result in the very situation she most wanted to avoid.
