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There was only one tricky moment. About halfway through the evening Sylvia came hurrying over to Rafaello and murmured something urgently to him in Italian. Rafaello merely stilled a moment, then said something dismissive. Sylvia patted his arm approvingly, and disappeared again.
Rafaello turned to Magda. ‘Lucia has turned up. Do not be alarmed. She will have no opportunity to insult you.’
But it seemed that insulting the female who had snatched her prospective husband from under her nose was not, after all, Lucia’s intention. Instead she glided forward, wearing an excruciatingly figure-hugging gold tissue gown, and her dark eyes widened as she took in the unbelievable transformation of her cousin’s wife.
‘A Sonia Grasci gown, no less, and diamonds, too! Quite a tribute.’
Her voice was honeyed, but Magda stayed tense. Lucia gave a light laugh.
‘Oh, don’t look like that. What’s done is done. And I don’t hold grudges. Besides, it isn’t me you have to win over, but Rafaello’s father. He was set on me becoming his daughter-in-law.’
There wasn’t anything Magda could say to this, and Rafaello simply replied, thought tightened lips, ‘My father should have known better than to try and play with my life, Lucia. And now, if you will excuse me, we must circulate.’
He whisked Magda away and promptly introduced her to yet more friends who, like everyone else, seemed to see nothing exceptional about her—only that she had arrived so suddenly on the scene.
Only one was bold enough to comment on it—and on Lucia’s disappointed expectations.
Rafaello merely smiled silkily. ‘As you can see—’ he pulled Magda a little more closely to him to make his point ‘—I was busy elsewhere.’
The other man grinned. ‘So that’s why you were forever disappearing to London!’
Rafaello’s smile deepened. ‘Who could blame me?’ he murmured, as if confirming the other man’s assumption that his acquaintance with his English bride was long standing.
Magda’s breathlessness at being held so close to him precluded any possibility of her saying a word.
As they circulated yet again, Rafaello, who did not relinquish his hold on her, with a continuing effect on Magda’s ability to speak coherently, paused and looked down at her.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked.
She nodded dumbly. Then managed to say, ‘Everyone is very nice.’
He smiled indulgently. ‘You are being much admired,’ he went on.
Magda coloured. ‘It’s very kind of you to say so,’ she answered quietly.
He gave a laugh. ‘Kind? Is that what you think, cara? I can see I shall have to persuade you otherwise.’
He looked down at her, and there was something in his eyes that made her breath catch.
They did not stay much longer. Magda had no idea what time it was, but soon they were climbing into Rafaello’s car, being bade farewell by Paolo and Sylvia. Both, she saw, had knowing smiles on their faces.
Rafaello caught her embarrassed expression as he started the engine.
‘They know we are newly-weds,’ he said. ‘We are being permitted to leave early on that account.’
‘Oh,’ said Magda, and busied herself with her seat belt.
The journey back seemed to take no time at all. Perhaps, thought Magda, it was the result of the champagne singing in her bloodstream.
Back at the villa, as Rafaello helped Magda out of the car, her heel caught on the gravel slightly. The steadying arm that Rafaello put around her shoulder seemed to invite her to lean back into him, finding that she fitted very snugly against the smoothness of his tuxedo jacket. They walked indoors.
‘Do you want to check on Benji?’ Rafaello asked. ‘I expect Gina will be glad to go off duty.’
‘Oh—yes,’ she answered. She headed upstairs, carefully gathering the narrow skirt of her dress in one hand, conscious of Rafaello’s regard as she ascended.
In her room, having thanked and said goodnight to Gina, she went to gaze at Benji, fast asleep in his lordly cot. Gently she dropped a silent kiss on his forehead, her heart filled with love for him, then turned away, unfastening the diamonds at her throat.
A sadness seemed to fill her at knowing the evening was over. More than sadness—a restlessness she could not name. On impulse she pulled back the heavy curtains and opened the window. She leant against the sill, chin on the heels of her hands, gazing out, letting the warm night air sift over her face, scented with flowers.
She gave a little sigh. The shadowed garden, shot with a dim pool of light from her own window and one, she assumed, from Rafaello’s, beyond hers, spread mysteriously below. The sounds of the night came soft to her ears.
