He shrugged elegantly. He shouldn’t bait her, he knew—but he was well aware that Lucia Foscesca took her lovers mostly from artistic circles. Young men who were likely to put up with her in exchange for the influence she could bring to bear on their careers. It was one of the—many—reasons that Rafaello refused to gratify his parent’s insistence on the suitability of marriage between the cousins. Call him old-fashioned—and Lucia frequently did, with a taunting laugh that could not quite hide her annoyance—but he would prefer his bride to be less well acquainted with the opposite sex.
He stilled. The word ‘bride’ pulled him up short. The idea that upstairs a scrawny, unlovely, sexually undiscriminating twenty-one-year-old English girl, with a nameless, fatherless child in her arms, was actually, in the eyes of the law, his bride of less than twelve hours struck him as completely unbelievable. Had he really gone through with it? What he had done still felt completely unreal. Insane. Then he hardened his resolve.
Yes, he had done it—put his name and hers on a wedding certificate. He had had no other option. His hand had been forced. Angry resentment seethed through him, but he banked it down. He’d get his revenge for what his stubborn, pig-headed father had made him do—get it right now.
His father was speaking again.
‘And to what, may I ask—’ his father’s voice sounded biting ‘—do we owe this unexpected honour?’
Rafaello’s dark eyes glinted. ‘Why, Papà, tomorrow is my thirtieth birthday. Surely you knew I would come?’
Enrico di Viscenti’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did I?’ he countered.
His son smiled. ‘And here I am—as dutiful as ever. Come,’ he went on, ‘join me on the terrace—I believe a little…celebration…is in order.’
He was aware of Lucia’s piercing scrutiny and sudden, riveted attention, and his gaze moved from his father to meet her assessing gaze. He smiled blandly, his eyes glinting just as his father’s had done.
‘Lucia—you will join us, of course.’
His voice was urbane, but it signalled volumes. He watched as a slow expression of satisfaction, swiftly veiled, passed over her handsome features.
‘Good,’ said Rafaello, and smiled again. But beneath the smile a hard, tight band seemed to be lashing itself around his heart.
CHAPTER THREE
‘WELL?’ demanded Enrico, taking his seat at the ornate ironwork table at the shady end of the terrace outside the formal drawing room of the villa. ‘Can it be that you have come to your senses at last?’ His voice was sharp, and the gaze he rested on his son even sharper.
The hard, tight rope around Rafaello’s chest lashed the knot around his chest tighter.
‘Did you doubt that I would, Papà?’ he replied, his voice level.
His father made a sound in his throat between a growl and a rasp. ‘I know you are more obstinate and self-willed than any father deserves. It was always the way with you!’
‘Well,’ said Rafaello, with a temporising air, ‘for once I am being the model son—’
If there was a bite in his voice, no one heard it. He went on, ‘But first I would like, Papà, to confirm that if I do what you want, and marry by my thirtieth birthday, you will give me undisputed control of the company. Is that right?’ Rafaello addressed his father directly, keeping his voice brisk and businesslike.
‘Hah!’ exclaimed his father. ‘You know perfectly well it is so.’
‘And you give me your word on that?’
‘Of course.’ He sounded affronted that he had even been asked.
Rafaello smiled inexpressively. ‘In which case, Papà,’ he went smoothly on, his voice bland, ‘you may wish me happy—and keep to your side of the agreement.’
His father stilled, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, unable to speak for the moment. Not so Lucia. With a breathless little laugh, she spoke.
‘Rafaello, you are the most abominable man.’ Her voice was full of flirtatious exasperation. ‘Proposing to me in such a fashion.’ She gave her tinkling laugh again. ‘But I shall punish you for your lack of gallantry, be sure of that.’ She turned to her prospective father-in-law. ‘Tell me, Enrico,’ she said with coy feminine teasing, ‘how shall I punish this boorish son of yours for depriving me of my rightful wooing?’
She gave another little laugh, coquettish now, and let her gaze slip back to her husband-to-be.
There was a curious look on his face. Half-shuttered, half-revealing. He held up a hand.
‘Before we go any further, I think it is time for champagne, no?’