Chapter Four #3
‘I’ll give you the guided tour tomorrow, but I’m sure you’ll want to see your room and relax after the journey,’ Ettore said smoothly. Without pausing, he turned towards Valentina and started speaking in rapid Italian. The housekeeper nodded, inclined her head, and then once again they were alone.
‘Here we are.’
Ettore strode through a doorway, and Dulcie followed him and stopped, panic pinwheeling inside her ribcage.
She spun wordlessly in a circle, her gaze absorbing the grandeur of her surroundings, although it was hard to take it in. Cambridge was old, maybe older than this in places, and some of the buildings, like King’s College, were not just old but iconic. But they were public buildings.
This was Ettore’s home. Her home too and she felt her fury and some other shivering emotion snatch at her breath.
Refusing to meet his gaze, she stared across the room.
She had grown up in comfort, but this was pure, undiluted opulence.
The ceilings were high and vaulted, and decorated with what could only be described as a work of art.
She gazed upwards at the fresco, her head still swimming, trying to imagine how, when, who had painted it.
Following her gaze, Ettore said matter-of-factly, ‘It’s believed to have been painted in late 1500s. My family would like it to be by Caravaggio, but it’s been authenticated and it’s not.’
He lifted a shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug, and now she could see it in his movements, the heir to a dukedom, an aristocrat mourning the lowly provenance of his fresco.
‘On the plus side, most of it is original but some areas were damaged during the Second World War. Not intentionally. It was a stray bomb that was intended for the ports, but the castle took a hit and some of the building sustained structural and architectural damage. It’s only recently been restored. ’
She stared at the ceiling, trying to see the difference, but she was a scientist by nature and instead she let her eyes drift over the huge four-poster bed and a dressing table fit for a princess.
Someone, possibly Valentina, had placed a probably priceless vase of pale pink peonies on a small low table and, gazing at their delicate, splaying petals, she felt slightly sick.
There was another door and Ettore gestured towards it negligently.
‘Through there is your bathroom and dressing room.’
As her eyes jerked to his, he flicked on the light. ‘As my father’s health has deteriorated, I have taken on most of his social engagements. Obviously, you will have to accompany me to some of those events, so I had Valentina speak to a stylist and she sent over some suitable clothes and shoes.’
Her eyes moved over the rail of shimmering silk evening gowns and lightweight, candy-coloured day dresses. ‘How did you know my size?’
‘You’re my wife. Some things, once known, are never forgotten,’ he said obliquely. ‘If you don’t like them or they don’t fit, then tell Valentina and she will arrange for replacements.’
Really? Was that what he thought was her most pressing concern here?
She stared at him, a wave of anger rising inside her, tangled up with a hurt that she refused to acknowledge in Ettore’s presence.
Clearly, she succeeded because after a moment he switched off the light and said, ‘It’s a lot to process, I know, but you’ve adapted to worse. ’
The arrogance and lack of empathy in his words made her want to snatch up the vase of peonies and bring it crashing down on his head.
Instead, she said coolly, ‘How long exactly have you lived here?’
‘Since I was born.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me that before.’ She thought back to when she’d asked him about his house in the car, and he’d hesitated.
‘I did consider telling you at the airport, but I thought it was something that would be better understood in person.’
‘I don’t mean now. I mean, why didn’t you tell me two years ago?’ But even before he answered she knew that he had kept that part of himself separate and secret because, despite marrying her, he had never committed to the idea of her being here with him, for real.
‘It didn’t come up. Like your brother didn’t come up.’
She felt her spine stiffen. ‘You met him, remember?’
‘It’s not something I’m ever likely to forget.’
His face was interchangeable with the stone of the walls and the cold distance in his voice made her want to crawl under the huge bed. But now at least she understood why he had been so appalled by Oscar’s drunken antics.
‘That makes two of us,’ she said.
His dark gold eyes burned into her. ‘It’s probably best if we avoid discussing certain aspects of our past. I am prepared to put them behind us, you should too.’
She stared at him in silent disbelief. ‘You know, it astonishes me that I ever considered marrying you without any financial incentive.’
They were back to square one.
He sighed. ‘Let’s concentrate on the present, shall we?’
‘Yes, let’s.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘So in the present, where do you sleep?’
‘My room is through that door.’ He gestured to a third, closed door.
‘Which I hope is locked.’
His eyes glittered in a way that made something curl inside her. ‘You clearly don’t know me very well if you think I’m the kind of man who forces himself on women.’
‘Oh, I don’t know you well at all, Ettore. But I do know that you’re the kind of man who manipulates women.’
‘One woman. You. And you could have refused me. Which says as much about you as it does me. Because I know you, Dulcie. I know your price. But be very clear, you are going to earn it. My father needs to believe in us. If we’re going to pass as a happily married couple who have seized a second chance at love, you can’t be like this.
We won’t get away with it. We need to feel connected.
Close. Which means no more jerking away from me if I ask you to pass the salt at lunch. Or try and hold your hand.
‘Because, in case it’s slipped your mind, at some point we are going to have to kiss, so perhaps you should start getting your head round that now. In fact, might I suggest you get in a bit of practice?’ His eyes snaked from her face to her clenched fist.
‘Although you might want to adjust the position of your thumb. Unless, of course, you’d like me to help in person.’
As she watched the door close behind him, she felt her cheeks grow warm. One night, in bed, she had admitted to Ettore that, before she’d got a boyfriend, she had practised kissing by making an O shape with her thumb and forefinger.
Only now it appeared she had been telling her secrets to a stranger. Was this the real Ettore? Maybe. But then this wasn’t a real marriage.
She felt suddenly furious with herself but mostly with Ettore. It had taken her every single day of the last two years to get her life back on track and in that entire time he hadn’t so much as texted.
But when he’d needed something from her, he had simply turned up on her doorstep, or as good as, offering her that wrecking ball of a choice.
Come to Italy as his wife or refuse and knowingly turn down money that could help Oscar turn his life around.
She hated that it was all so easy for him. That he could just ambush her like that and cold-bloodedly use their marriage as a bargaining chip. But most of all she hated that this was her life now and for the foreseeable future.