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It would be a mistake to tell her how he felt. She wouldn’t want the responsibility, the burden of his love, when there was so much else for her to come to terms with.
But he could, in time, teach her to love him. This wasn’t about his father’s or her child’s best interests. It was about what he felt for her. And he could tell her, with almost vehement sincerity, ‘Trust me, Portia. It will be all right. It will be perfect, I promise you.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘WHICH one suits me best, Nonna?’
Portia, her cheeks the colour of pink roses, her grey eyes sparkling, made a stately perambulation of her sitting room.
‘This, or one of the others? Goodness,’ she giggled, ‘I feel like a professional model prancing down the catwalk—though I guess I don’t look like one! Do I look too bosomy?’
‘That one,’ Lorna piped up in the background.
Lucenzo’s grandmother put her aristocratic head on one side and said, ‘I agree. That is perfect.’ Then she clapped her hands together. ‘You are perfect. Oh, I do love weddings!’
‘Si, si! Bella, bella!’ Assunta cried, and even little Sam, jiggling in her arms, gave a crow of excitement.
At nearly four months he was developing quickly. Portia gave him a love-drenched smile. In one week she would be marrying to secure his future and there were no regrets.
Her husband-to-be didn’t love her, of course, but she could live with that because she knew without a question of doubt that he really cared about her. Hadn’t he said so? Promised to be faithful to her? And the way he’d made love to her, that day in the high meadow, had even transcended the wild passion of the night before. It had seemed deeper, more meaningful.
Realising her flush was deepening to a vivid blush, she returned to the mirror. Lucenzo had arranged for a selection of wedding gowns to be flown in from Milan, and although they were all lovely, and she really was spoiled for choice, she had to agree that this one made her look like a fairy-tale bride.
Fashioned of ivory-coloured wild silk, the bodice fitted like a second skin. The deep neckline showed a discreet amount of cleavage, and the rustling silk skirts flowed down from her tiny waist. The long, narrow sleeves, which were fashioned from delicately embroidered lace, echoed the filmy veil.
‘I have something for you,’ Nonna said, hauling a velvet-covered box from beneath the chair she was occupying and opening it to display a glittering diamond-encrusted tiara resting against dark blue satin. ‘It belonged to my great-grandmother and has been worn by Verdi brides ever since. Perhaps you would try it now? And then we will have Ugo lock it in the safe until your wedding day.’
Portia’s eyes went very wide as she gazed at the incredibly delicate jewels. ‘Are the stones real?’ Goodness, what a responsibility if they were!
‘But of course.’ Just for a moment aristocratic haughtiness looked out of her eyes, centuries of breeding. ‘Verdis do not wear paste.’ Then she smiled impishly. ‘My great-grandfather bought it for his bride-to-be in St Petersburg. It was already very old. He was a man of great good taste.’
‘I was a Verdi bride,’ Lorna pronounced sulkily as Portia gingerly fixed the glittering tiara. ‘How come I didn’t get to wear it?’
‘Because, my dear—’ the old lady’s level look was not unkind ‘—yours was not a true love match. Anyone with a grain of sense could see that. And I have more sense than most and a nose for such matters. The Verdi men have always married for love. In the case of your marriage to Vittorio the wearing of such a love token seemed inappropriate.’
Portia gazed at the starry glitter on her head and was swamped with guilt.
Her Verdi man wasn’t marrying her for love. Surely
if Nonna had ‘a nose for such matters’ she must see that? Or had her venerable age robbed her of her judgement?
With such an apparently long tradition behind the tiara she would feel a fraud if she wore it. With trembling fingers she laid it back in its box, hoping that when the big day came Nonna would forget all about it and leave it safely locked away until it could grace the head of a Verdi bride who was truly loved.
‘Shall we sit awhile?’ There was a stone seat in the shade just inside the enclosed garden, where old roses bloomed in a wild and perfumed tangle, their exuberance grounded by the formality of pencil-slim cypress trees.
‘Oh, Eduardo—have we walked too far?’ Portia shot him a worried glance. ‘Are you exhausted?’
‘Not a bit of it—don’t fuss! I want to talk to you, that is all.’
‘Right.’ Portia angled the buggy further into the shade. Sam was blissfully asleep and would probably stay that way for another hour. A quiet few minutes in this beautiful place before they headed back to the villa through the gardens was just what she needed.
Eduardo was wearing a battered panama, a straw-coloured linen jacket and he looked as fit as a fiddle. So she really shouldn’t worry about getting him overtired. Since Lucenzo had told him of his marriage plans three weeks ago his progress back to full health had been remarkable.
‘Everything is in hand for the big day?’ he asked as Portia settled beside him. ‘And the marquee is going up tomorrow? Is that woman Lucenzo hired to organise everything doing her job properly?’
Portia gave him a beaming smile. He was such an old darling! He knew the answers to all his questions before he asked them. He and Nonna had demanded to be kept abreast of every tiny detail from day one.
But she was happy to humour him. Talking about the wedding made it seem more real. Mostly, she felt as if she were living in a dream. ‘Signora Zanichelli’s doing a brilliant job. The flowers, the music, the caterers—everything is arranged. And all the people on the guest list you and Nonna gave her have replied in the affirmative.’
