He glanced down, frowned.
‘Oh, that, I caught it on the wire when I was pulling the bike free.’
‘Let me see.’ She reached out.
‘No.’
Her chin jerked up as his hand clamped around hers. ‘I can manage. There’s no one watching, you don’t need to pretend you care.’
She flinched. ‘I’m not pretending. I just wanted to—’
His beautiful mouth was set in a taut line, and there was a knife-edged tension to his body now. ‘And I just want you to go to your room and try not to do anything reckless or stupid.’
There was a pulsing silence. She stared at him, frozen with shock and misery.
‘Given that I agreed to come here as your wife, I’d say it’s way too late for that,’ she said slowly, and she turned and walked up the stairs and into her room.
Chapter Six
ETTORE LIFTED HISglass of perfectly chilled Prosecco, savouring the first kiss of tiny bubbles. Personally, he preferred the Verdeca produced on the estate. But Prosecco was arguably the star of Italian wine exports, beloved of people all over the world who were looking to celebrate or commemorate or commiserate.
His eyes tracked across the terrace, moving between his relations. He wondered what they were here to do today. Obviously, typically, a meal to meet a new addition to the family would be a cause of celebration.
But his family was not like other families.
Ever since his grandfather’s death, and his own father’s elevation to the status of Duke, his uncle and his cousins had been circling at the sidelines. They were tempered somewhat in the presence of Edoardo, but they shared a sense of aggrievement at having missed out on the top prize. Not that it stopped any of them living their lives exactly as they pleased whatever the cost or the consequences.
And they all loved a party.
Ettore glanced over at where his father was talking to his sister-in-law and sipping a glass of Prosecco. He wasn’t meant to be drinking, but then neither should he be hosting a party. But that hadn’t stopped Edoardo from issuing a last-minute dinner invitation to his entire extended family to meet Dulcie.
And here they all were. Ettore’s uncle Frederico, his aunt Constanza, his cousins, Francesco, Giorgio and Beppe, together with the current iteration of interchangeable model or wannabe actress girlfriends who his cousins chewed up and spat out on a bi-monthly basis.
Francesco, his uncle Frederico’s oldest son, older, in fact, than him by three weeks, was gazing lazily across the terrace, glass in hand, but he could sense his cousin’s curiosity. It was why Francesco was there. Why all his relations were there. Aside from himself, a short attention span was a family trait. They were like babies. They liked the novel and the random. And nothing could be more random than Ettore turning up with a wife out of the blue.
‘I have to say, you’re full of surprises,fra.’
His cousin’s mouth pulled into a shape that was somewhere between a jeer and a pout. ‘I mean, a wife.’ He puffed up his cheeks and blew them out, mimicking an explosion.
‘It’s not that surprising, Checco.’
‘So where is she, then? Your English rose.’ He made a small, mocking bow. ‘My bad, I meant La Marchesa?’
Ettore felt his spine stiffen infinitesimally. The answer to that question, or rather its un-answerability, made his pulse thrum through his limbs as if he were prepping for a race. Or a fight.
Another fight, he thought, and he had to stop himself from striding back into the castle and straight into her room to finish the one he’d started yesterday at the bottom of the stairs. Although it would be quite the fight. Dulcie had looked as if she wanted to strangle him.
But she’d had no right to be angry. No understanding of what it had felt like to turn and see the bike rear up and her body fall backwards, to hear that shattering sound of metal hitting wood. Even as he’d run towards her, he’d known, logically, that she shouldn’t be badly hurt. But it hadn’t stopped his limbs from feeling light and airless. Or his brain from replaying the moment when his brother’s bike had flipped over.
Feeling scared, feeling anything, was not supposed to be a part of this arrangement and so he’d lashed out, sought refuge from his panic and fear in anger. And he had still been angry when she’d noticed he was bleeding.
Glancing down at his shirt, he could see the faint outline of the plaster covering the wound on his stomach. It wasn’t quite the scratch he’d made it out to be. The wire had snagged on his skin and punctured it as he’d wrenched the bike free.
But he wasn’t the only one hurting.
He’d been brusque with her. Too brusque.
And now she was punishing him.
