“You must have heard the rumors?” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

“You must have heard the rumors?”

“I hear a lot of rumors.” There was a controlled edge to Sofia’s voice.

“The rumors I’m referring to are the ones speculating that you and I are about to divorce.”

“I’m at a loss to imagine what you expect me to do about it.”

“What I’d like you to do is help me put a stop to them,” Damiano said.

“Why? The more people talk about us getting divorced, the more used they’re going to get to the idea.... ”

“Of course, you’re entitled to your opinion, but I can tell you here and now that there will be no divorce. Not now. Not ever. No matter what anyone may speculate. You and I are bound together for the rest of our lives.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to ROYAL AFFAIR! By appointment to her loyal readers, Stephanie Howard has created a blue-blooded trilogy of romeos, rebels and royalty. It follows the fortunes of the San Rinaldo royal family : Damiano, the Duke of San Rinaldo, his brother, Count Leone, and their sister, Lady Caterina. Together the three of them are dedicated to their country, people and family. But it takes only one thing to turn their perfectly ordered lives upside down: love!

COUNT LEONE MONTECRESPI, the younger brother of the ruling Duke, is a habitual heartbreaker. A playboy of the old school. love them, leave them and, on no account, marry them. But will small-town American girl, Carrie Dunn, be the one to finally get him down the aisle?

LADY CATERINA MONTECRESPI, Leone and Damiano’s baby sister, has sworn off men since her last disastrous encounter with the opposite sex. And Matthew Allenby is hardly the man to change her mind. As far as Caterina is concerned, he’s a crook and a charlatan. Unfortunately, he’s also proving irresistible!

The DUKE OF SAN RINALDO, DAMIANO MONTECRESPI, had married Sofia to secure his dukedom and produce an heir. But duty for Sofia is a cold bed partner—she wants Damiano to love her as much as he does their baby son, Alessandro. is a happy ending to their fairy-tale romance too much to ask for?

Each of these books contains its own stand-alone romance, as well as making up a great trilogy. Follow Leone and Carrie’s tale in The Colorado Countess. In The Lady’s Man, it’s Caterina and Matthew’s turn. And finally, The Duke’s Wife features Sofia and Damiano’s story—not forgetting little baby Alessandro!

Happy Reading!

The Duke’s Wife
Stephanie Howard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Stephanie Howard was born and brought up in Dundee, Scotland, and educated at the London School of Economics. For ten years she worked as a joumalist in London on a variety of women’s magazines, among them Woman’s Own, and was latterly editor of the now-defunct Honey. She has spent many years living and working abroad—in Italy, Malaysia, the Philippines and in the Middle East.

CHAPTER ONE

SOFIA leaned against the window and gazed down into the palace gardens, where the first buds of spring were starting to break through. And she smiled, for on the path that led down to the lake she could see Alessandro, her sixteen-month-old son, being pushed in his pram by Alice, the royal nanny. A warm glow touched her heart. No doubt, she reflected, they were on their way to say hello to the swans, little Alessandro’s current passion. She would join them in the nursery later to hear all about it. Then she sighed. But first there was the meeting with Damiano to get through.

At that thought Sofia felt a quick dart of apprehension, and as she straightened, frowning, her head was caught in sunlight. A pale, oval face with perfect regular features—wide grey-blue eyes, sensitive and intelligent, short feminine nose, full soft-lipped mouth—and a frame of glorious red-gold hair that fell in a rippling cascade to her shoulders and made a wonderful dramatic contrast with the peacock-blue of her wool dress.

It was no wonder that Sofia, the young Duchess of San Rinaldo, was renowned throughout the world for her beauty, though, had such a thing been possible, she would without a second thought have traded the glorious gift of her beauty, plus all the fabulous wealth and privileges that were hers, if only she could have had the one precious prize that eluded her.

There was a sudden sound behind her, then a deep male voice spoke.

‘I see you got here before me. I trust you haven’t been waiting long?’

‘Only a couple of minutes.’ Sofia did not turn round. Her heart had crashed inside her at the sound of that voice and she needed a couple of seconds to drive the emotion from her face. ‘I was just watching Alessandro on his way down to the lake.’

‘He’ll be going to see the swans.’ Damiano, as he spoke, came to stand a few feet away from her at the window. He glanced outside as the child and his nanny disappeared between the trees. ‘I reckon his first word is going to be “swans”, not “Mama” or “Papa” like other children.’

‘That wouldn’t surprise me.’

At last, Sofia turned to look at him, her features composed, her expression serene again, though, as she looked into her husband’s eyes, a familiar sadness touched her heart. Once, he had been the centre of her very existence and, more than likely, she would always love him, in spite of her efforts to stop. But at least she no longer loved him with the helpless desperation of before, with a love so self-annihilating and all-consuming that it had almost felt like a kind of madness. And it would have driven her mad, too, in the end, if she had not conquered it, for the tragedy was that Damiano had never loved her.

He was looking back at her with those eyes as black as midnight. Fierce, beautiful eyes, the mirror of a passionate and ruthless soul, that were softened now with the warmth of his love for his son.

‘Shall we sit?’

As he spoke, Damiano turned away from the window and was gesturing in the direction of a group of chairs and sofas which were arranged round the huge fireplace where a log fire flickered. For it was the middle of February and even here in San Rinaldo, the sun-drenched little dukedom on the edge of the Mediterranean, the late afternoons could be a little chilly. The flicker of the flames brought a warm glow to the room with its imposing oil paintings, fine French furniture and colourful Persian rugs strewn about the floor.

‘Let’s make ourselves a little more comfortable,’ he smiled.

‘Of course.’

That smile caused a momentary warm glow to touch Sofia’s heart. There was much harshness in his character—he could be so unforgiving—but that rare smile, which always surprised, had a potent magic. Though Sofia was not taken in, of course. She knew why he had smiled and it was not because he derived any pleasure from her company. He was simply keeping her sweet, anxious to avoid any unpleasantness, for these days their rare encounters teetered on a knife-edge of civility and he was clearly anxious to ensure there was no unpleasantness this afternoon.

Not that he need worry, Sofia reflected. She had grown to be quite an expert at keeping her emotions under control. Still, as she crossed to one of the blue damask armchairs and sat down, watching him from beneath her lashes as he seated himself in the armchair opposite, she felt another quick dart of apprehension. For what purpose had he summoned her here?

Her eyes flickered over his dark-eyed face with its wide, sensuous mouth, sculpted jawline and strong curved nose—that unmistakable Montecrespi nose, proud, aristocratic, almost hawk-like, which could be seen in the scores of portraits of his ancestors that hung in their gilt frames from the palace walls. Oh, yes, he was undoubtedly the most glorious-looking man.

He was tall—even Sofia, who was tall herself, only came up as far as his chin!—with a wonderful, easy, regal bearing. Thirty-seven years old, he looked every inch of what he was: Damiano Raffaele Louis Nicoolo di Montecrespi, twelfth hereditary Duke of San Rinaldo and ruler of one of the richest little states in southern Europe. Though the Duke of San Rinaldo was not what Sofia saw when she looked at him. What she saw was the man she’d wasted most of her life loving, for she’d loved him for the greater part of her twenty-three years. And it had been a waste, for his heart belonged to another woman.

He was sitting back in his chair, hair black as tar against the blue damask, his tanned, strong-fingered hands laid lightly along the chair arms. And though he was dressed fairly casually, in dark trousers and a navy shirt, Sofia could sense that his mood was far from casual. Quite clearly, he had something important on his mind.

But he was not divulging what that was yet. He said, referring to Alessandro, ‘He’s a bright child. And walking so well now. I think we’re all going to have our hands full in a couple of months’ time.’

‘I reckon we are.’

He really adored Alessandro. Whenever he spoke of him a light ignited in his eyes and the sometimes harsh lines around his mouth instantly softened. In those moments one caught a glimpse of the passionate human heart that lurked behind the often flinty façade. It was a side of him, Sofia knew, that not everyone was aware of, though she had always been aware of its existence. It was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him. And it pleased her that Alessandro, the precious child they had made together, could ignite that light in his father’s eyes just with the mention of his name.

She added, knowing he would be interested, for he was interested in everything about Alessandro, ‘Alice tells me that he absolutely refuses to crawl at all these days. He insists on walking, even if he has to use his walker.’

Damiano smiled a proud smile. ‘There’s going to be no stopping him.’ And again that unmistakable flash of love touched his eyes. Then he sat back in his seat. ‘I’ve asked for some tea to be brought up. I thought you might like some tea and biscuits?’

Sofia nodded. ‘That would be nice.’ But that knot of anxiety deep inside her tightened. It wasn’t like him to go to all this trouble. Normally, on the rare occasions when he wished to speak to her, he simply called her to his office and said what he had to say. Today he was acting quite out of character, first choosing as their meeting place the informal setting of the Rose Room and now offering her tea and biscuits! What was he about to spring on her? Sofia found herself wondering.

She watched him closely as he observed, ‘Your secretary tells me you’re planning to attend a private dinner on Thursday evening?’

It was said casually enough, but Sofia’s practised eyes had instantly spotted the little giveaway signs that told her he was coming to the point of this encounter. The slight tightening around his jawline, the shuttered look in the dark eyes, the unmistakably authoritarian way he was sitting back in his chair. She felt another tightening inside her. So he was about to put an end to the suspense! And she forced herself to sound as casual as he had as she answered.

‘That’s right. I’ve been invited to dinner at the Pasquales’.’ Then she added with just a twist of annoyance, ’You could have found out what I was doing by asking me directly, you know. There was really no need to make enquiries through my secretary.’

For it maddened her the way, when he wanted to check up on her, he would invariably do it through some palace intermediary, as though he didn’t quite trust her to give a reliable account of herself. But then he probably didn’t. He thought she was a silly, feckless child.

Damiano smiled. He knew what she was thinking. ‘I’ll try to remember that in future,’ he said.

Of course, he would do no such thing. And this time his smile saddened her. It didn’t matter to Damiano that they were reduced to this—his secretary phoning her secretary to find out what she was doing, for more than likely there had been two intermediaries, not just one. The total miserable failure of their three-year-old marriage was of no consequence whatsoever to Damiano, just as the marriage itself had never meant anything to him. All it was, all it had ever been, was a vehicle for providing him with an heir.

At that thought, a coldness touched her. Her trouble was that she’d been too efficient. Less than two years after their marriage Alessandro had been born and from that moment Damiano had had no further use for her. She had served her purpose. That was the brutal, cruel truth of it.

As she pushed that thought away, squashing the hurt that bubbled up, Damiano was saying, ‘I was sorry to hear that. About your dinner engagement with the Pasquales, I mean.’ He paused. ‘You see, I would like you to accompany me to the opera that evening.’

‘The opera?’ Sofia blinked at him.

‘The first night of the new production. As you know, it’s going to be a very special occasion.’

Of course Sofia knew. How could she not know? Thursday was to see the reopening of the newly redecorated Royal Theatre, with an all-star production of Madame Butterfly to mark the occasion. But why on earth was he suggesting that she accompany him?

She said, fixing him with openly perplexed grey-blue eyes, ‘I find this very strange. You always go alone to these things.’

‘I have been doing so, yes.’

‘I mean that was the arrangement.’

‘It was.’ Damiano paused and deliberately held her gaze. ‘But let’s just say I’ve decided to review our arrangement.’

‘Review it? Why?’ Sofia felt a jolt of fear. ‘Why would you want to do that? I would say it was working rather well.’

‘By keeping us out of each other’s hair, you mean?’ Damiano raised one cynical eyebrow. ‘Yes, on that level I would say it was working well too. But there are other things to be considered now. Which is why I think we must review it.’ He paused, the dark eyes narrowing as he looked at her. ‘Why I’m afraid,’ he amended, ‘I must insist that we do.’

It was at that moment that there was a discreet tap on the Rose Room door. A moment later the door opened and a maidservant appeared pushing a trolley laden with tea things—a beautiful blue and gold Castello tea service, Castello being the world-famous locally made porcelain, and an array of silver dishes piled with biscuits and tiny pastries.

She executed a quick curtsy. ‘Your Graces,’ she greeted them, with a quick, discreet bob of her head. Then soundlessly she began to lay out the cups and plates and things on the low mahogany table that stood between the Duke and Duchess.

Sofia had barely glanced at her. Her gaze was fixed on Damiano as she struggled to suppress the sense of dread that rose within her. She had been right to think he had something important on his mind, though she had never dreamed for one moment that it might be anything like this. And this, quite frankly, was the worst nightmare she could imagine.

The arrangement they’d been referring to was the arrangement they’d made five months ago when the situation between them had become frankly intolerable. For it had come to the point when virtually all they did was fight—only in private, of course, though, increasingly, even in public they’d been more and more hard-pressed to conceal the growing rift between them.

It was Damiano who’d instigated the arrangement. ‘From now on,’ he’d decreed, ‘we’ll lead separate lives. No more public appearances together, except on State occasions, when unfortunately it can’t be avoided. And in private we’ll just try to keep out of each other’s way.’

And that was what had happened. He’d moved out of their shared rooms and into separate quarters in the west wing of the palace. And though it had broken Sofia’s heart she had gone along with the arrangement, for there was no way that things could have continued as they were and she’d known that the solution her heart really longed for, namely that Damiano might after all grow to care for her a little, was nothing but a fantasy that would never become reality. So, in the absence of any hope of love, reluctantly she’d settled for less conflict.

To her surprise, once she’d recovered from the initial blow of the separation, she’d discovered that their arrangement actually made her life much easier. For she’d gradually come to realise that it was a great deal less painful to live without her husband’s love when she didn’t see him every day. Little by little, the wounds inside her had begun to heal, and she had gained new strength from the discovery that she could in fact survive without him, after all.

And now he wanted to change all that. To review their arrangement. Fear flickered inside her. She couldn’t let him do it.

As the maid finished pouring the tea and soundlessly withdrew, Sofia sat forward in her seat and looked anxiously at Damiano. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why would you want to review it?’

Damiano watched her for a moment, knowing what she was thinking, seeing quite plainly the look of horror on her face. ‘Because it’s had some unforeseen and deeply undesirable consequences,’ he told her. As he spoke, he leaned forward and picked up his cup of tea. He glanced at Sofia over the top of it as he drank. ‘You must have heard the rumours that are going around?’

‘I hear a lot of rumours.’ There was a controlled edge to her voice as she said it. ‘Which particular rumours might you be referring to?’

She suspected she knew, of course, and one thing was for sure—he wasn’t referring to the rumours, so far confined to the palace, concerning himself and Lady Fiona. Not that these were really rumours. More plain, simple fact.

Damiano laid down his teacup. Again, he knew what she was thinking, but he simply said, his tone matter-of-fact, ‘The rumours I’m referring to are the ones that have appeared in several newspapers, both here and abroad, in France and in England... The ones speculating that you and I are about to divorce.’

It was as Sofia had suspected, for she was aware of these stories, which had shocked and deeply hurt her when she’d first heard them. Though she feigned bravado now as she tilted her chin at him. ‘And have you come to tell me these rumours are true?’ She forced a disdainful little laugh. ‘That would be good news!’

Damiano’s expression hardened. The black eyes drove through her. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that is not what I’ve come to tell you. What I’ve come to tell you is that I don’t like these rumours in the least.’

Sofia felt something spark inside her and she was tempted to shoot back at him, Well, you’ve only yourself to blame that they started in the first place! It was his affair with Fiona that had caused all the trouble between them. It was thanks to his infidelity that they were leading separate lives, causing people to speculate about divorce! But she did not say it, though once she would have. She had learned that there was no point in raking up that subject. Things would only get ugly and she’d end up feeling torn apart. So instead she said, with a contemptuous little tilt of her head, ‘So, you don’t like the rumours? Well, that’s most unfortunate. But I’m at a loss to imagine what you expect me to do about it.’

‘What I’d like you to do is help me put a stop to them.’

‘Why? Maybe they suit me.’

Sofia’s tone was defiant, and her defiance, as she was aware, sprang from a powerful sense of injury. That he had never loved her was bad enough, but he had also made a fool of her. She had discovered that he had taken up with Lady Fiona, his mistress before their marriage, only a matter of months after their wedding, then after the birth of Alessandro he’d abandoned Sofia more or less totally for her. And, though he’d been discreet and the affair had never reached the newspapers, everyone at the palace knew about it, and Sofia hated him for subjecting her to that humiliation.

She took a deep breath and threw him a look of angry challenge. ‘The more people talk about us getting divorced, the more used they’re going to get to the idea. So if we decide to go ahead there’ll be absolutely no problem. If you ask me, these rumours ought to be encouraged.’

She’d actually seriously thought that on more than one occasion, though deep in her heart the idea of divorce appalled her. She’d been brought up to believe that marriage was for ever. Though what was the point, she had often asked herself, of a marriage that brought only pain?

Damiano subjected her to a long look, his dark eyes fixed on her pale, defiant face. He wasn’t sure if she was serious, but this wasn’t a matter he was prepared to treat lightly. He told her, ‘Of course, you’re entitled to your opinion, but I can tell you here and now that there will be no divorce. Not now. Not ever. No matter what anyone may speculate. You and I are bound together for the rest of our lives.’

He paused for a moment and smiled a dark, humourless smile. ‘No one realises better than I that that’s a harsh sentence for both of us, but I’m afraid that’s the way it is, so you’d better start getting used to it. Now let’s just drop the subject. I don’t want to hear any more talk of divorce.’

He’d been leaning forward almost threateningly in his seat as he’d spoken, but now he leaned back against the cushions again. ‘I suggest you drink your tea. It’s getting cold,’ he told her. ‘Then we can continue with the subject I brought you here to discuss.’

‘Don’t lecture me. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.’ Deep inside, Sofia could feel her anger soaring and the only thing she actually felt like doing with her tea was throwing it in his arrogant, deceitful face. What did he think she was? Some immature five-year-old? How dared he talk down to her like that?

But she did not throw her tea—though she didn’t drink it either! She sat up straighter in her chair, breathing slowly to calm herself, and continued in a tone that was scornfully detached, ‘Instead of lecturing me, why don’t you just come to the point of what this is all about? Then we can wind up this meeting and get on with our separate business—which is what I’m sure we would both much rather be doing anyway.’

As she spoke, Sofia felt proud of herself. She’d come a long way. Once, she’d have exploded at him, hurt and angry at the way he treated her, screaming at him, throwing accusations, bursting into tears, and for her pains all she would have reaped was his angry contempt. But she had learned to keep a rein on her runaway emotions and these days, at least on the surface, she could be as cool and composed as he was.

Though, of course, there was still a world of difference between them. She had learned to control herself in order to save herself more agony. To Damiano it all came naturally because he simply didn’t care.

‘So, you want me to come to the point?’ His gaze swept over her, one coal-black eyebrow lifting a little, as though he was mildly amused by her rebuke. Then he continued, ‘OK. I’ll tell you why I brought you here... I brought you here because I intend to put a stop to these rumours. And, in order to do that, I’m going to require your cooperation.’

‘My cooperation?’ Sofia allowed herself a small sceptical smile. In view of the state of controlled hostility between them, the very notion of cooperation had a decidedly hollow ring to it.

Nevertheless, Damiano was insisting, ‘Yes, your cooperation.’ And there was no hint at all of amusement in his eyes now. On the contrary, his expression was deadly serious as he put to her, ‘It seems to me that the most effective way of putting an end to the divorce stories is by convincing people that you and I have a perfectly happy marriage.’

Sofia could not help it. Incredulously, she laughed. ‘And how do you plan to accomplish that?’ Her grey-blue eyes were mocking. ‘Are you going to wave your magic wand? Or maybe take out an ad in the London Times declaring to the world how very much in love we are?’ She laughed again. ‘What a fanciful notion!’

Damiano did not join in her laughter, though a small smile touched his lips. ‘Actually, I wasn’t planning to do either of those things.’

‘In that case, I would say you’ve set yourself an impossible task.’

‘Difficult, but not impossible.’ The dark eyes watched her for a moment. Then he continued, ‘What I plan to do, you see, is not simply tell people how happy we are.’ Again, a small, dry smile touched his lips. ‘Rather, what I plan on doing is, with your assistance, showing them.’

‘Showing them? How?’ Sofia was no longer laughing. Deep inside she felt a flicker of real alarm. She didn’t like the sound of this at all.

‘I plan on showing them in the only way it’s possible to show such a thing: by the two of us making frequent appearances together in public and demonstrating by our behaviour how happy we are.’

He really meant it. Sofia felt sick inside. He really was cynical enough to stoop to such a charade.

‘You mean we’re to hold hands and gaze longingly into each other’s eyes, with perhaps the occasional passionate clinch thrown in just to make sure everyone’s getting the message?’

‘I see you get the general idea.’ Again the faint glimmer of an amused smile. ‘Though personally I would aim for a little more subtlety. Looks and glances. Sympathetic body language. That should be sufficient. No need to go over the top.’ Damiano paused and seemed deliberately to hold her gaze for a moment. ‘They can imagine that all the other stuff goes on in private.’

Sofia’s gaze nearly faltered, but she forced herself to keep it steady. Nothing went on in private. Nothing whatsoever. It was nearly eight months since they’d last slept together. Their sex life was totally a thing of the past.

She felt a crushing sense of loss. He was a wonderful, tender lover, the most accomplished, exciting lover a woman could ever have. It had been a hard thing to accept that he would never make love to her again. But she quashed these thoughts instantly. Things were better as they were. For surely there could be nothing in the world more demeaning than to be made love to by a man who didn’t love you and who had only just come from another woman’s bed. That had been her lot in the past, but it must never be so again.

She flashed him a cool look. ‘People could imagine whatever they liked. Fortunately, they’d be miles from the truth.’ Then, as he simply looked back at her with uncaring dark eyes, she added, ‘But that apart, your plan would never work. People aren’t that gullible and I’m not that good an actress. Nobody would be taken in for a minute.’

‘I’m afraid they’ve got to be.’ Damiano was sitting very still. ‘I’m afraid they’ve got to be completely taken in. And, besides, I’m sure you’re being unduly modest. I’m sure you can be a very good actress when you try.’

‘Not that good. Definitely not.’ Sofia shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid your plan would never succeed.’ She smiled. ‘You really would do better just to take out an ad in The Times.’

Damiano continued to watch her in silence for a moment. Then he said, his tone flat and dangerously quiet, ‘You seem to be under the illusion that this is some kind of proposition I’m putting forward. Something to be discussed and debated and agreed upon. Well, I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong.’ He leaned forward in his seat. ‘This is no proposition. I’ve already made the decision. This is something that’s going to happen.’

Sofia tensed. ‘You mean it’s an order?’

‘Yes, if you like, an order.’

‘And what if I don’t like?’

‘Then that would be unfortunate. But, whether you like or not, it’s not going to change a thing.’

So he was laying down the law again? Hot anger flared inside her. Sofia narrowed her eyes and pointed out in an icy tone, ‘You said you needed my cooperation, I seem to remember. Well, I’m afraid I have no intention of giving it. Issue all the orders you like. It’ll do no good, I promise you.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘I’m terribly sorry to disappoint you, but your clever little plan, I’m afraid, is a nonstarter and there isn’t a single thing you can do about it.’

‘Isn’t there?’

‘No, there isn’t. You can’t force me to act. You can force me to go places with you, if that’s what you want, but there’s no way you can force me to look as though I’m enjoying it.’

As Sofia finished speaking, Damiano said nothing. A silence stretched between them, as taut as piano wire. And as she looked into his eyes, black and unreadable, cold fingers of anxiety touched the back of Sofia’s neck. Something was brewing inside that ruthless brain of his. She had no idea what it might be, but already she feared it.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, his words measured. ‘You’d be surprised what I could force you to do if I put my mind to it.’ And he paused, just for an instant, to let the warning sink in. ‘But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ he continued. ‘And it needn’t if you listen carefully to what I’m about to say.’ He faced her squarely, and his tone as he began to speak again was as hard as a block of stone.

‘Rumours are circulating, rumours concerning our marriage, rumours I don’t like and that I intend to put a stop to. I will not allow the dignity of my country—nor the dignity of my position as Duke—to be compromised and subjected to damaging gossip. I’ve told you what I intend to do about it and I’ve told you I shall need your cooperation and, whether you like it or not, you will give your cooperation.’ As he paused, his eyes drove through her like bayonets. ‘And there’s really no more to be said on the subject.’

‘Oh, yes, I’m afraid there is.’ As Sofia glared back at him, her insides were churning with an anger and outrage that had momentarily eclipsed her earlier anxiety. ‘I’ve already told you I refuse to cooperate. And I mean it, I promise you. I’ll never agree.’

It was as though she had not spoken. Damiano rose to his feet, as though signalling that their discussion was over. But before he turned away he glanced down at her and told her, ‘You shall have your first opportunity to show what a fine actress you can be on Thursday evening at the opera. And then, after that, you will have an even more public opportunity when you accompany me on my trip to London next week.’

‘You’re fooling yourself, you know,’ Sofia returned, trembling with anger.

‘I know you weren’t scheduled to join me on the London trip, but the arrangements have been revised and you’ll be joining me, after all.’ Again, it was as though she had not spoken. Pushing his hands into his trouser pockets, Damiano started to turn away, informing her almost casually over his shoulder, ‘Oh, by the way, don’t worry about cancelling your other engagements. That has already been taken care of.’

‘Meaning?’ she queried through clenched teeth.

‘Meaning, quite simply, that your previous appointments have already been cancelled. Including, of course, the Pasquales’ dinner on Thursday evening.’

‘What? Surely you’re joking? How dare you do this to me?’ As he began to head for the door, ignoring her protest, Sofia sprang from her chair and launched herself after him. Blindly, she grabbed at his arm. ‘Who do you think you are,’ she demanded, ‘treating me in this high-handed fashion?’

Damiano turned to look at her, eyes harsh and unrepentant. ‘Who I think I am is your husband and who I think you are is my wife. And it’s high time that’s what we started behaving like in public.’

‘Newer! I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you salvage your precious dignity! I don’t give a damn about your reputation and I’m not going to cooperate!’

‘Oh, yes, you are.’

‘And how do you suppose you can make me? You can’t make me, you know! There isn’t a thing you can do!’

‘I think you’re wrong about that.’ As she still clung to his sleeve, Damiano fixed her with a look as harsh as an Arctic winter. ‘In fact, you’ve probably never been more wrong about anything in your life.’

‘You’re the one who’s wrong!’ But her defiance was half-hearted. That look in his eyes was making her heart freeze and suddenly Sofia was seriously frightened. ‘You’re bluffing,’ she accused, praying she might be right.

Damiano shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid I’m not.’

‘Why, what would you do?’

‘I don’t think you really want to find that out.’ He frowned. ‘Be sensible. Just do as I say. Believe me, that’s the best solution by far.’

But still Sofia refused. ‘I won’t cooperate. No matter what!’

‘Oh, yes, you will.’

‘And how will you make me?’ She continued to clutch at his sleeve. ‘Go on! What will you do?’

Damiano took a deep breath. ‘OK. Since you insist.’ And he fixed her anxious face with eyes as black as Hades. ‘It’s really very simple... If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll be barred from seeing our son until you come to your senses.’

So, finally she had her answer. Sofia’s heart stopped dead in her chest. ‘You couldn’t do that,’ she protested feebly, scarcely able to get the words out.

‘You think not?’

‘But you wouldn’t.’ Her cheeks were bloodless, transparent. ‘Even you,’ she stammered, feeling sick and suddenly faint, ‘wouldn’t do a monstrous thing like that.’

‘Oh, yes, I would.’ There was not a shred of mercy in his eyes. ‘And, if you don’t believe me, go ahead and put me to the test.’

‘You monster!’

A sudden burst of anger exploded inside her. Barely knowing what she was doing, Sofia took a swing at him, aiming to punch his shoulder with her fist. But he was already shaking her off and, as she swung, she lost her balance and went staggering backwards across the carpet, catching the corner of the coffee-table a sharp blow with her leg. As she landed like a rag doll in her chair, there was a sickening crash as the blue and gold tea service went shattering to the floor.

In her state of shock, Sofia barely noticed the disaster at her feet. ‘You monster!’ she shouted again. ‘Tell me you wouldn’t do that!’

But there was no reply. Damiano had already left the room.

Damiano had not intended that the meeting would end up that way. On the contrary, he had set the whole thing up most carefully, deliberately choosing the Rose Room for its relaxed, cosy atmosphere and ordering tea in the hope of keeping the mood civilised, but still things had degenerated into the usual shambles. It just wasn’t possible to have a civilised encounter with Sofia any more.

After he’d left the Rose Room, so mad that he hadn’t even heard the crash of toppled china, he had stormed down the corridor to his private quarters, flung open the door, startling poor Emilio, his valet, and demanded, ‘Look out my riding gear and tell Kurt to prepare Sirdar. There’s been a change of plan. I’m going for a ride.’

Kurt was the Duke’s senior stable lad, Sirdar his favourite bay stallion, and as Emilio hurried off to do his master’s bidding he knew without being told that the meeting with the Duchess had not gone well. For whenever he was upset or angry this was the Duke’s favourite therapy—a hard ride through the acres that surrounded the royal palace. It was his way of exorcising the demons in his head. And demons there were aplenty. As he strode through to his private bathroom—all tiled in black and gold with a huge sunken bath—impatiently tearing off his shirt as he went, Damiano was almost exploding with seething anger. Damn Sofia! Why did she have to make things so difficult? Why couldn’t she just do as he told her and be done with it?

He turned on the cold tap over the huge washbasin and stuck his head under it for a minute. Then he straightened and shook his head, splashing the mirror with a rain of water, grabbed a towel from the rail and gave his hair a quick rub. As though the situation weren’t bad enough without Sofia making it worse!

As he turned away from the washbasin and tossed the towel aside, Damiano didn’t even so much as glance at his reflection in the mirror, as most men with his looks and physique undoubtedly would have done. For he had the most glorious face—it wasn’t just Sofia who thought that—and the tanned, exquisitely muscled body of an athlete. But the way he looked was something Damiano had never paid much attention to—which of course simply had the effect of making him even more impossibly attractive.

His unconcern grew out of the fact that he tended to have his mind on higher things, namely the duties and responsibilities that went with his position as reigning duke. Responsibilities to his people. Duties to his crown. For what drove Damiano was his absolute conviction that his principal role in life was to serve his country and honour the name of Montecrespi. All else in his life took second place to that.

He strode through to his dressing room where Emilio had already laid out his riding gear—creamcoloured breeches, burgundy jacket and high leather boots polished as bright as conkers—and, pulling off his trousers, began quickly to get dressed.

These rumours about divorce had upset him deeply. Never in all the years of his family’s rule of San Rinaldo had a royal Montecrespi been divorced. Of course, divorce happened all over. It was a fact of modern life. And it would never have occurred to Damiano to impose his views on others. But divorce was out of the question for him and Sofia. And the rumours were pernicious. They simply had to be stopped.

As he emerged from the dressing room, Emilio was waiting to inform him, ‘I’ve spoken with Kurt, Your Grace. He’s preparing Sirdar for you now.’

‘Thanks, Emilio.’ Damiano smiled at him. Emilio, who had been with him for over twelve years, was as much a valued friend as a valet. ‘If anyone phones for me, tell them I’ll be back in about an hour.’

On swift strides now he headed down to the stables. As he had explained to Sofia, he needed her cooperation, and it had been his fondest hope that she would offer it freely, though he might have known, of course, that to hope for that was madness. He cursed beneath his breath, recalling the bitter finale of their meeting. And now look what her hard-headedness had forced him into!

The last thing Damiano had wanted was to be pushed into making threats, especially threats that involved Alessandro. For, in spite of all her faults, Sofia was a wonderful mother—the best mother a man could ever wish for his son. And he esteemed her for that, deeply and sincerely, and he felt profoundly uneasy about the threat he had made. He’d been praying with all his heart that it would not come to that.

But now that the deed was done, would he stand by his threat? he wondered. Would he really be prepared to deprive Sofia of her son and little Alessandro of the mother he so adored? In the end, if it came to it, would he actually be capable of behaving like the monster Sofia had accused him of being?

Over the next hour, as he pounded across woodland and through thicket, Damiano continued to ask himself these questions. And when, once more calm, he finally arrived back at the stables and slid from Sirdar’s steaming back he knew the answer.

As a strictly temporary measure he would carry out his threat. Very reluctantly perhaps, but he would force himself to do it. Desperate situations, after all, called for desperate measures and it would be a short, sharp shock guaranteed to bring Sofia to her senses. But, with any luck, such drastic steps would not be necessary. The threat alone would be enough to persuade her to cooperate.

So, it’s up to you, Sofia, he thought as he headed back to the palace. Do the wise thing and capitulate if you don’t want a ‘monster’ on your hands.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER Damiano had gone and a maid had come to clear up the mess—which fortunately wasn’t as bad as it had sounded, for only one cup had been broken, though most of the tea had spilled over the carpet—Sofia walked unsteadily over to the window and stood staring unseeingly down into the garden, struggling desperately to calm herself. Surely this was about as low as things could possibly go?

She bit her lip. I hate him, she told herself. And at that thought a wretched sadness twisted at her heart. Once, she would have been incapable of even thinking such a thing. Once, she had been filled with the sheer joy of loving him and with the conviction that she would love him until the day she died.

Even now she could remember when she had first fallen in love with him. She had been ten years old, spending a summer holiday at the royal palace, the fabulous rosy-stoned Palazzo Verde which stood high on a promontory overlooking the sea and had been the home of the ruling Montecrespis for centuries. And she’d been sitting in one of the courtyards waiting for Caterina—Damiano’s younger sister, who was two years older than herself—when suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Damiano had appeared.

He’d been dressed in his riding gear—cream breeches and burgundy jacket—his high polished boots making a sharp clack-clack sound as he strode across the cobbled courtyard. He’d been about to walk past her, for she was half-hidden in a corner, but then, at the last minute, he’d spotted her and paused.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘And who are you?’

Sofia looked up at him and felt her heart turn over in her chest. Surely she must be dreaming? This had to be some fairy-tale prince? For she had never seen a more dashingly arresting sight in her life. He had the most wonderful face, long-lashed eyes as black as treacle and the most glorious head of hair, which in those days he wore a little longer and was as black and glossy as washed coal. And he was smiling at her with a warm smile that was turning her flesh to jelly.

She finally found her voice. ‘I’m Sofia,’ she said.

‘Sofia? Now which Sofia is that?’ He frowned a little. ‘I don’t think I know you.’

‘Sofia Riccione.’ Her tongue felt like cardboard. ‘My mother’s a friend of your mother, the Duchess, and I’m a friend of Caterina’s. I—’

‘Oh, that Sofia!’ He smiled more broadly, understanding, and Sofia caught a glimpse of perfect strong white teeth. ‘I’ve heard all about you from my sister. You’re the youngest daughter of the Marquis of Romano.’

Sofia nodded, wondering if she dared ask him who he was, though she had already guessed that he was probably Caterina’s elder brother. She’d already met Leone, her other brother, who was younger. But, even as she was wondering, he held out his hand to her.

‘Pleased to meet you, Sofia,’ he told her. ‘I’m Damiano. No doubt we’ll be bumping into one another from time to time.’

And they did, though not nearly as often as Sofia would have liked. Still, even just a glimpse of him was enough to make her day sublime—and to bring a blush to her cheeks, as, to her dismay, Caterina noticed.

‘You’re in love with my brother!’ she accused, shrieking with laughter. ‘You’re in love with Damiano! I’m going to tell him!’

Sofia nearly died. ‘Oh, no, don’t!’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t, Caterina! I’m not in love with him, I swear!’

‘Yes, you are!’ Caterina’s blue eyes were sparking with devilment. ‘I know the signs. I saw you blushing!’ Then she took pity on the distraught expression on poor Sofia’s face, for she would sooner have died than have her secret made public. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing,’ she promised solemnly. ‘And, anyway, I don’t blame you. Damiano’s terribly handsome. Both my brothers are, but especially Damiano. And one day, you know, he’s going to be the Duke.’ She laughed a teasing laugh. ‘How would you like to be his duchess?’

Quite frankly, Sofia thought that that would be the most wonderful thing imaginable. Not the duchess bit particularly. She didn’t care about that. But to be Damiano’s wife. That was what she dreamed of. And as the years went by and she returned again and again as a guest at the sumptuous Palazzo Verde it became a dream that established itself deep within her. Though it was just a make-believe dream, not one she ever believed might really come true. Damiano was way out of her reach and she knew that.

For a start, he was so much older. Fourteen years divided them. He was so sophisticated, smart, worldly and wise and she, by comparison, knew nothing at all. In his eyes all she was was an immature child.

On one particular occasion when she was about thirteen years old she was having lunch with the Duke and Duchess and her own parents and Damiano—Caterina, for some reason, wasn’t present—and the conversation became terribly obscure and adult, with words like ‘deflation’ and ‘equities’ being bandied about, and she didn’t have a clue what on earth they were talking about. She didn’t care either. She was perfectly happy just to sit there secretly feasting her eyes on Damiano. On those wonderful jet-dark eyes, on the way his mouth curled at the corners, on the glossy black hair that flopped down over his forehead. She kept wishing she could reach across the table and touch it, and she would shiver at the thought of its cool silkiness against her fingers.

But then the Duke, Damiano’s father, who was the kindest of men and would never have knowingly embarrassed her, suddenly said, ‘But we’re boring poor Sofia with all our silly chatter. Poor thing’s been sitting there as quiet as a mouse for hours.’ He smiled kindly across at her. ‘Let’s talk about something different. Come on, Sofia, tell us who your favourite pop star is these days.’

Sofia turned the same colour as the raspberry sorbet she’d been eating. She stared back at the Duke, feeling humiliated to her very core. What kind of idiot must she look, capable only of conversing about pop stars? What a hopeless impression she must be making on Damiano.

And then Damiano spoke. ‘She used to be very keen on The Police—at least so Caterina was telling me.’ He smiled across at her, a smile in which Sofia could see only condescension, and asked, ‘Do you still like them or have you moved on to someone else?’

‘I—I don’t know...’

Sofia could feel all eyes on her. And, suddenly drowning in embarrassment, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Her brain was functioning with all the clarity of a lump of sago.

‘I—’ she began again. But there was nothing to come out. And that was when something snapped inside her and she ended up making the situation a hundred times worse. She sprang from the table with a muttered, ‘Excuse me!’ and went flying from the dining room in helpless tears.

Later, she apologised to the Duke and Duchess, who told her not to be silly, that she had obviously just been tired, and the incident was never mentioned again. But it continued to haunt Sofia for years and years afterwards. What an idiot she’d made of herself in front of Damiano!

Her lingering embarrassment, in fact, was so enormous that in the years that followed, when she began to see less and less of Damiano—partly because he just never seemed to be around when she visited the palace and partly because her visits had grown more seldom anyway since her friendship with Caterina had waned a little—she told herself that it was simply a blessing in disguise. It would save her doing something else that would make her an even bigger fool in his eyes! Besides, didn’t they say that out of sight was out of mind? And it really was time she gave up her foolish fantasies.

But that was not the way it worked out. She saw him fairly seldom and then usually at some banquet, wedding or reception where she almost never had a chance to speak to him personally, but for all that he remained a permanent presence in her mind. And an even more tenacious one in her heart. For she simply loved him more with each year that passed.

There were times when these feelings seemed bound to bring her grief. Like those times when she would see him at some dinner with a girlfriend—and there were no shortage of these coming and going over the years, though Damiano had never been a playboy like his younger brother Leone. And then there was the time—perhaps the worse time of all—shortly after his thirtieth birthday, when Rino, the San Rinaldo capital, was rife with rumours that he was about to get engaged to an Austrian princess.

Sofia held her breath and prayed. And her prayers were answered. There was no engagement, the Austrian princess vanished from the scene and eventually the rumours died.

Over the years Sofia had never been conscious of saving herself for Damiano, but perhaps without realising it that was in fact what she had done. For she had never had a real boyfriend, never even been kissed. Sexually, she really had been totally inexperienced when, four and a half years ago, tragedy had struck and Damiano had suddenly found himself in need of a wife.

At just fifty-nine years old, his father was killed when the helicopter he was travelling in crashed into a mountain. And within the month, years before he’d expected to succeed, Damiano was being crowned in Rino Cathedral. He was a popular successor but one vital thing as missing. He was unmarried with no heir and that had to be put right.

At the time it was common knowledge that he’d been seeing a lot of Lady Fiona, the glamourously beautiful daughter of a local count, and that he’d actually been doing a great deal more than just seeing her—that he and the lovely Fiona were madly in love and for the past eighteen months had been having a passionate affair. Would Fiona be the one to become his duchess? people were asking. And again Sofia held her breath and prayed. Though she was being foolish, she told herself. Even if he didn’t marry Lady Fiona, he would still marry someone else. He would never marry her.

But then the strangest thing happened. A couple of months later she was invited with her parents to a private dinner at the palace. And at the end of it Damiano, who had been most attentive to her all evening—so attentive that she had scarcely managed to eat a bite—took her out onto the terrace and there, beneath the moonlight, told her, ‘I think it would be really nice if we could get to know each other better. What do you say, Sofia? How would you feel about that?’

Sofia was almost as tongue-tied as on that previous occasion. She blushed to her hair roots. ‘I’d like that,’ she answered. And she stared hard at the. ground, not daring to meet his eyes.

After that there followed a brief, intense courtship. Dinners together. Outings in public. And rumours quickly spread that she was to be the one. But she still didn’t really believe it, for she knew he didn’t love her. So she was totally stunned when, three months later, he proposed.

Her reaction made him smile. He looked down into her shocked face and gently reached out to touch her cheek with his fingers.

‘I appreciate that what I’m asking must seem a pretty daunting prospect. The role of Duchess is an important and extremely demanding one, though I know my mother will help you all she can. But I think you can do it. You’ve lived most of your life close to the palace. You know how things work. You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

He looked into her face with those dark eyes that could melt her soul. ‘I really would be very pleased if you’d agree to be my wife.’

Sofia looked back at him, struggling for composure. It had sounded more like a job offer than a proposal of marriage. Not one word had he spoken of his personal feelings for her or of what he expected their relationship to be. But somehow that didn’t matter. She already knew he didn’t love her. But she loved him. And something else she was very sure of was that he was the only man in the world she would ever want to marry. So she took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes, I’ll marry you.’

I’ll make him love me, she vowed to herself. I’ll make him love me as I love him.

The wedding took place in Rino’s splendid Gothic cathedral once the official one year mourning period for the old Duke was over. And it was a glorious occasion, with the twenty-year-old Sofia looking perfectly exquisite in a fairy-tale wedding dress, wearing a tiara that had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, and with a look of blissful happiness in her wide grey-blue eyes. That day she felt she must be the luckiest girl in the universe.

They flew to Sicily for their honeymoon and stayed in a hilltop castle belonging to one of Damiano’s relatives. And Sofia could clearly remember how excited and terrified she’d been when they’d set off for that honeymoon.

She was a virgin, of course—one of the reasons, after all, that Damiano had chosen her to be his bride. And until that night when they found themselves alone together in the big vaulted room with the vast canopied bed Damiano had never done more than chastely kiss her. She stood there frozen, her mouth dry, her heart hammering. She wanted him. She longed for him. But she was desperately nervous. Would she do it all wrong? Would she disappoint him? Would it hurt? Did he really want her anyway?

‘Come here.’

He was standing in the open doorway to the balcony, the starlight in his hair, making it glisten like polished jet. And he held out his hand to her and smiled at her gently.

‘Come here,’ he said again. ‘I want to kiss you.’

Sofia walked towards him as though she were walking on water. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of feeling in her legs, or in any other part of her rigid body, come to that. But then he took her hand and kissed it and slipped his other hand round her waist and, as he drew her towards him and she felt the strength of him enfold her, every inch of her suddenly burst into flames of desire.

‘Don’t be afraid, Sofia. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’ He released her hand and tilted her chin and delicately, unhurriedly bent to kiss her mouth. ‘I want you to enjoy this. I want it to be special.’

She looked up into his eyes, drowning, drowning. God, how I love him. How I love him, she thought. And she smiled a nervous smile.

‘That’s better,’ he said.

Damiano kissed her again then, her face, her eyes, her hair, and as she began to relax a little she laid her hands on his shoulders, then let them slide round to the back of his neck. She felt the dark hair brush her fingers and a jolt of pleasure stab through her. Suddenly her fear was slipping away, excitement growing in its place.

And that was when, at last, he took hold of her more firmly and kissed her as she had only ever dreamed of being kissed. Fiercely. Hungrily. A kiss that blazed with passion. And she found herself responding, clinging to him, gasping, tight spirals of desire twisting in her body.

‘My sweet Sofia.’

His hand was on her breast now, moving lightly, sending a rain of brightness through her. Suddenly all the fear inside her had vanished. She was filled with a bright, hot need that must be satisfied.

He was leading her towards the bed, undoing the buttons of her dress. Then he was slipping it from her shoulders, letting it slither to the floor, and quickly discarding his shirt before laying her on the coverlet.

‘You are beautiful,’ he told her, making her heart swell with happiness, for there was nothing she wanted more in the world than to please him. And she could see from the dark look in his eyes that she did. At least he desired her. That much was plain enough.

And she desired him. Every inch of her ached for him as she reached up her hand to caress his broad chest, letting her fingers slide quiveringly over the taut muscles of his shoulders, feeling the strength of him, longing for that strength to overwhelm her.

He stripped her naked, never hurrying, discarding her garments one by one, inviting her to do the same with his. And all the while he was whipping up her senses with deep, hot kisses and intimate caresses that grew ever more fiery, ever more urgent. Desire licked through her, making her limbs tremble.

‘Damiano! Oh, Damiano!’ she whispered, pressing against him. How I love you! she added silently. Please love me in return!

When the moment came he was swift and sure and gentle. As he entered her, Sofia felt a quick, sharp shaft of pain. Then it was over and he was a part of her. As she clung to him and kissed him, every inch of her was flooded with a sense of pure, exquisite joy.

And that was when she knew she would love him all her life. He was part of her now and nothing could change that and her love for him would be the glorious centre of her life.

The first couple of months were marvellously happy. He still didn’t love her, but he seemed to have grown fond of her and their sex life was wonderfully, greedily satisfying.

‘You’re going to wear me out,’ Damiano would sometimes tease her. ‘Wouldn’t you ever just like to read a book or something in bed?’

And she would laugh and tease him back, turning away from him, ‘OK. No making love tonight. I’m going to catch up on my Shakespeare.’

‘The devil you are!’ He would grab her then and kiss her as they lay there naked in the big four-poster bed. ‘You can catch up on your Shakespeare once I’ve finished with you, young lady!’ And he would take her breast in his hand, teasing the nipple. ‘Though I’m afraid that may not be for quite some time. I can tell this is going to be another long session.’

‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ She would press against him, shivering, her heart tightening with excitement as she felt him harden.

‘It’s a promise.’

‘How do you know? Maybe I don’t want a long session. Maybe I really do want to catch up on my Shakespeare.’

‘OK, then. Go ahead.’ And he would pretend to release her. But even as she clung to him and moaned in protest he would be kissing her and turning her moans of protest into breathless, excited moans of pleasure.

And Sofia would sink back against the pillows in surrender, losing herself in the cascade of sweet sensations that went tumbling over her in great drenching waves of pleasure.

The secret of their glorious sex life was really very simple. Neither of them, quite frankly, could get enough of the other.

Less than three months after their wedding, however, a second tragedy struck that rather took the edge off their happiness. Damiano’s mother died. Of a broken heart, it seemed, for she had never got over the death of her beloved husband.

Damiano was devastated. Coming so soon after the loss of his father, the loss of his mother affected him badly. And though Sofia tried to be there for him she felt inadequate, almost useless. What could a child like her offer him? She was only twenty, after all. And it seemed to her that they started to grow a little apart at that point.

There was something else too that was starting to trouble her, for Sofia had hoped she might get pregnant very quickly. She had always wanted to have lots of children; besides, Damiano needed an heir, and, more than anything, she longed to give him one. Especially now, after the tragic death of his mother, for surely it would help to ease the pain of his loss. It might also, it occurred to her, have another happy side-effect. It might bring them closer together again.

But the months went by and nothing happened and she grew more and more upset, though Damiano assured her, ‘Don’t worry. There’s no hurry. There’s plenty of time. Just put it out of your mind and, you’ll see, it’ll happen.’

But she couldn’t put it out of her mind and it didn’t happen. Suddenly she began to feel like a horrible failure.

And it was around that time that she heard the first stirrings of the rumour that Damiano was seeing Lady Fiona again.

Sofia ignored these tales. The possibility that they were true was a horror so huge that she dared not even look in its direction. Instead, she focused on Damiano. On trying to please him every way she could, in bed and out of it, desperate to make him love her. And then—miracle!—it seemed at last that the power to do so was within her grasp. Just thirteen months after their wedding, she finally became pregnant.

That was a wonderfully happy time. Damiano was ecstatic, and so sensitively caring and so gloriously proud of her. Sofia felt herself blossom. It was all going to be all right now—a fact which seemed secure when a scan showed that the child was a boy. How could he not love her now, when she was about to give him his precious heir?

During her pregnancy he made love to her with less and less frequency, though Sofia kept assuring him that the doctors had said it was all right.

‘I don’t want to take any risks. This baby is too precious,’ he told her. ‘And so are you,’ he added, kissing her. ‘Let’s just err on the side of caution.’

Very well. Sofia accepted that. There would be plenty of sex later. And she felt a thrust of perfect happiness at the thought of all the joys the future held. Soon they would be a real family with a lovely little son. It was as though the stars had dropped down from heaven and kissed her.

But then all that changed. Another wave of rumours reached her concerning Damiano and Lady Fiona. They stopped her in her tracks. She wept for days, but said nothing. And then she found proof in his waste-paper basket.

She flung it at him in fury when he returned to their apartments that evening after a day of official duties.

‘I would like you,’ she spat at him, fighting back tears, ‘to kindly explain the meaning of this!’

Damiano picked up the crumpled fax with infuriating calm. Glancing down at it, he demanded. ‘Where did you find this, if I may ask?’

‘I found it in your office waste basket! That’s where I found it!’

‘And what were you doing in my office rummaging through my waste basket?’

Sofia glared at him. The truth was that she’d been looking for evidence, praying with all her heart that she wouldn’t find it, after storming down to his office late that morning to question him about where he’d been the night before. For he hadn’t slept with her and, when she’d gone to check, she’d discovered that neither had he slept in the room along the corridor that he sometimes used these days, since the advancement of her pregnancy, claiming that when he came home late he didn’t want to disturb her. But when she’d arrived at his office to demand some answers his secretary had told her he was out on an appointment, so, in fury, she’d searched first his desk then his waste-paper basket.

But she didn’t tell him that. Instead, furiously, she told him, ‘It doesn’t matter what I was doing! All that matters is what I found! And, if you don’t mind, I’d very much like you to explain it!’

Damiano said nothing for a moment and a look crossed his face that fleetingly suggested he was far from in agreement that it didn’t matter why she’d been rifling through his waste bin. But another look instantly replaced it, a look of sharp concern, as he took stock of her flushed and agitated face.

He stepped towards her. ‘Sofia, sit down,’ he told her. ‘You shouldn’t be standing there like that.’ For she was half leaning against the back of one of the armchairs, her weight awkwardly balanced, as though she might topple over.

He took hold of her arm. ‘Come on. Sit down.’

Sofia tried to push him away and very nearly did topple over. And that made her feel worse. Tears sprang to her eyes. She was like a great ungainly whale these days, now that she had reached the eighth month of her pregnancy. Not like Fiona, who was slim and svelte and sexy!

‘Leave me alone!’ she started to protest. But he had already caught firm hold of her and was lowering her, whether she liked it or not, into the safety of the armchair.

Then he sat on the arm and took her hand in his, though she clenched her fist tight and would not look at him.

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