She sat down on the sofa, patted the seat next to her.
‘Sit down, Carla, and let me put something to you.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
CESARE’S VOICE WAS warm as he greeted the guests being ushered into the drawing room at the castello—the Marchese and the Marchesa and their three adult children—Francesca and her younger brother and sister.
Francesca he’d already met up with, as she’d requested, on her own, when she’d arrived back in Italy. They’d talked, long and in detail, feeling their way forward, reaching a mutual understanding. Now she was here at the castello with her family to formalise that understanding.
Their greetings were cordial and affectionate. He’d known her family all his life, just as he’d known Francesca—though he’d seen little of her since she’d gone to the States to do her post-graduate studies four years ago. Only occasional meetings when he’d been out there on business and taken the opportunity to look her up, or when she was visiting Italy from time to time.
There had been no rush—no need to meet up more.
He’d hoped that he could go on like that for a while longer still.
Into his head stabbed an image—he thrust it from him. He’d been thrusting it from him for days now. It was essential to do so. Absolutely essential.
Carla is in the past. I have made my decision. I will not rescind it. I cannot—
Because it would be impossible to do so. Impossible now that Francesca was here, with her family, for the intimate gathering that would result in their formal engagement. The engagement he was entering into entirely of his own volition. His own preference. The engagement that had always been waiting for him. That would now be fulfilled.
Putting Carla behind him for ever.
Greetings over, he signalled that the champagne should be served. His staff were excited, he could see, for this was to be their new chatelaine—the new Contessa. They approved of his choice—and what was there not to approve of? Francesca had visited here often—with her parents, as a child, as a teenager and as an adult.
Now, as she sipped the vintage champagne, Francesca looked tall and serene in a Grecian style off-white gown that matched her ash-blonde hair, her pale, slender beauty—very different from Carla’s full-figured, vivid looks.
Carla...whom he would now never see again—except perhaps on rare social occasions if their paths should cross in Rome. But never again would she be what once she had been to him.
I wanted longer with her.
The guillotine sliced down again. Sliced through the thought and the image that formed in his head of Carla at her most alluring. He must not think of her—must not. Francesca was saying something to him and he must pay attention to her, ask a question in return. Something about her work that he hoped was not too unintelligent. But her field of research was so rarefied he knew he could only stumble at its edges.
She smiled, giving him an explanation he could understand. Behind her, her father beamed proudly, and her mother bestowed a doting look upon her.
‘A doctor of science!’ her father said, with pride openly in his eyes. ‘And achieved two years before it was expected!’
‘Astrophysics!’ breathed her mother.
Cesare shook his head ruefully. ‘I’m humbled even by the thought of it!’ he exclaimed lightly.
Francesca gave a laugh. ‘Oh, Ces—you? Humble? You’ve never been humble in your life!’
‘Before your intellect, how can I be otherwise?’ he rejoined promptly.
His eyes
rested on her. She truly was a remarkable woman—extreme intellect, glowing beauty and an ancestry that wound throughout the annals of Italy’s history.
She will make an exceptional contessa!
His father had been right—irrefutably right—in his judgement of Francesca delle Ristori. Only one aspect had he neglected—and that was what Francesca had needed to discuss with him so deeply.
Cesare had heard her out, given her all the assurances she required, let her choose entirely by herself whether she was going to do as she had now chosen—be his wife. He had assured her that of course there would be no question—none at all—of her having to focus solely on her role as his contessa as his mother had. She would join whatever research facility suited her field here in Italy, for as long as she wanted to, and find fulfilment both as his contessa and as a research scientist.
Francesca would not be the kind of wife his own mother had had to be—of that he was completely sure. He didn’t want that—and nor would Francesca have contemplated marriage to him on any other basis.
He drew her out a little over dinner, and she smiled and mentioned some possibilities of where she might work in Italy.