The Italian's Bought Bride
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Allegra shivered. Stefano had never kissed her neck. The few times he’d kissed her, he had been chaste, almost brotherly, yet the brush of his lips against her skin had sent a strange sensation pooling deep inside, flooding through her with an unfamiliar, new warmth.
Now she watched, fascinated, as the unknown couple’s bodies moved and writhed in a sensuous dance.
She drew in a little breath, her eyes still fastened on the couple, the balmy night air cooling her flushed face. Suddenly she wanted to see Stefano. She wanted to say…what?
That she loved him? She’d never said those three little words, and neither had he, but it hardly mattered. Surely he saw it shining from her eyes every time she looked at him. And, as for Stefano…how could she doubt? He’d sought her out, he’d courted her like a troubadour. Of course he loved her.
Yet now she wanted to see him, talk to him. Touch him.
A blush rose to her face and she turned away from the window and the couple, who had moved further into the shadows, her hands pressed to her hot cheeks.
She’d only seen Stefano with his shirt off once, when they’d all gone swimming in the lake. She’d had a glimpse of bare, brown muscle before she’d jerked her gaze away.
And yet tomorrow they would be married. They would be lovers. She knew as much; even she, kept away in convent school, knew the basics of life. Of sex.
Her mind darted away from the implications, the impossibilities. What vague images her fevered brain conjured were blurred, strange, embarrassing.
Yet she still wanted to see him. Now.
Stefano was a night owl; he’d told her before. Allegra didn’t think he’d be in bed yet. He’d be downstairs, in her father’s study or library, reading one of his fusty old books.
She could find him.
Taking a breath, Allegra opened her bedroom door and crept down the passage. The soft September air was cool, although perhaps she was just hot.
Her hand was slick on the wrought iron railing as she went down the stairs. In the hall, she heard voices from the library.
‘This time tomorrow you will have your little bride,’ her father, Roberto, said. He sounded as sleekly satisfied as a tomcat.
‘And you will have what you want,’ Stefano replied, and Allegra jerked involuntarily at the sound of his voice—cool, urbane, indifferent.
She’d never heard him speak in such a tone before.
‘Yes, indeed I will. This is a good business arrangement for us both, Stefano…my son.’
‘Indeed it is,’ Stefano agreed in a bland tone that still somehow made Allegra shiver. ‘I’m pleased that you approached me.’
‘And not too bad a price, eh?’ Roberto chuckled, an ugly, indulgent sound. Allegra’s flesh crawled at the sound—a sound she realized she’d never heard, a sound she’d been protected from. Her father’s own callousness. Towards her.
‘Allegra’s mother has raised her well,’ Roberto continued. ‘She’ll give you five or six bambinos and then you can keep her in the country.’ He chuckled again. ‘She’ll know her place. And I know a woman in Milan…she’s very good.’
‘Is she?’
Allegra choked, one fist pressed to her lips. What was her father saying? What was Stefano saying?
Their words beat a remorseless echo in her numb brain. Business arrangement. A deal to be brokered. A bargain to be had.
A woman to be sold.
They were talking about a marriage. Hers.
She shook her head in mute, instinctive denial.
‘Yes,’ Roberto said, ‘she is. There are many pleasures for the married man, Stefano.’
Stefano gave a light answering laugh. ‘That I believe.’
Allegra closed her eyes, her hand still against her mouth. She felt dizzy and strange, her heart thudding hopelessly in her chest.
She took a calming breath and tried to think. To trust. Surely there was some explanation why Stefano was saying the things he was, sounding the way he was. If she just asked…it would be all right. Everything would be just as it had been.
‘Allegra! What are you doing here?’
Her eyes flew open. Stefano stood in front of her, an expression of concern—or was it annoyance?—on his face. Suddenly Allegra couldn’t tell. She wondered if she’d ever been able to tell.
Even now, her gaze roved hungrily over his features—the bronzed planes of his cheekbones, the thick chocolate-coloured hair swept away from his forehead, his amber eyes glinting in the dim light.
‘I…’ Her mouth was dry and the questions died in her heart. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ ‘Too excited, fiorina?’ Stefano smiled, but now everything had been cast into doubt and Allegra wondered if she saw arrogant amusement in that gesture rather than the tendernessshe’d always supposed. ‘In less than twelve hours we will be man and wife. Can you not wait until then to see me?’ He cupped her cheek, letting his thumb drift to caress her lips. Her mouth parted involuntarily and his smile deepened. ‘Go to bed, Allegra. Dream of me.’
He dropped his hand and turned away, dismissing her. Allegra watched him, watched the clean, broad lines of his back, tapering to narrow hips, watched him move away from her.
‘Do you love me?’ As soon as she’d asked the question, she wished she could bite back the words. Gobble them up and swallow them whole. They sounded desperate, pleading, pathetic.
And yet it was a reasonable question, wasn’t it? They were about to be married. Yet as she saw Stefano turn slowly around, his body tense and alert, she felt as if it wasn’t.
She felt as if she’d asked something wrong. Something stupid.
‘Allegra?’ he queried softly, and she heard a stern note of warning in the sound of her name.
‘I heard you…and Papa…’ she whispered, wanting even now to explain, to understand. Yet the words trailed off as she saw Stefano’s expression change, his eyes turning blank and hard, the mobile curve of his mouth flattening into an unforgiving line.
‘Business, Allegra, business between men. It is nothing you need concern yourself with.’