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But when Marco took her arm in his, when he leaned in close to whisper yet another outrageous lie, when he caught her eyes, laughter lurking in his, as his mother not so discreetly quizzed Sophie on her future plans and whether those plans involved marriage and babies, then she was pulled away from the room, away from her insecurities and into a world where all she saw was the tilt of his mouth, the warmth of his smile and the promise in his dark eyes. Anticipation flooded through her at the knowledge that when the clock struck twelve her night would only just be beginning... At least she hoped it would; she hadn’t splashed out on a gorgeous new nightie in the New Year sales for nothing. The bits of silk held together with lace would hardly keep her warm after all.
She was aware of Marco’s eyes on her and heat flooded through her as their gazes snagged and held, the rest of the room falling away. No, the other women in the room could do their best to attract his attention—and many of them were—but Sophie knew she wouldn’t be sleeping alone that night.
After drinks and appetisers and a formal, beautifully presented meal for fifty, the party moved into an even grander and bigger room. Here yet more guests joined them, the numbers swelling into the hundreds as a band played at one end and immaculately dressed waiters circled with trays of drinks. Marco’s mother had ‘borrowed’ him to greet an elderly relative and Sophie hovered by the window, unsure where to go or who to speak to—if she could make herself understood, that was. It was all too reminiscent of standing at the back of one of Harry’s gigs, not quite knowing what to say or whether she was welcome in any of the close-knit, self-possessed groups.
‘I’m sorry, it must all be a little too much for you. We are bad enough when it’s just the family, but when all of Venice is here? I wish I could run and hide, so I have no idea how horrifying you must find tonight.’
Sophie turned to see Marco’s sister, Bianca, standing beside her, a sympathetic smile on her heart-shaped face. She was very beautiful in a classically Italian way with masses of dark wavy hair and huge brown eyes fringed with lashes so long they made Sophie gasp with envy, tall and shapely with a generous bosom spilling out of the top of her low-cut strapless dress.
‘It’s a little more than I was expecting. Marco didn’t quite communicate the full scale of the evening. I didn’t expect to meet so many people. As you can see I’m not really dressed appropriately...’ She gestured towards her dress self-consciously, aware that the hand-sewn beads and cheap fabric paled beside Bianca’s ravishing emerald silk gown.
‘Your dress is bellissima,’ Bianca reassured her. ‘I have heard many envious comments. Of course, you have such lovely ivory skin. That pale pink would make me far too sallow. I predict next year half the younger women will break with convention and wear something a little more fun and fashionable.’ Bianca echoed her brother’s prediction.
‘Thank you.’ Sophie didn’t think her skin looked lovely or ivory, more the pale blue an English winter turned her naturally pale complexion. She’d much rather be blessed with Bianca’s gorgeous olive skin and generous curves.
‘And the cut, I love how it is so modern and yet looks so vintage. Who’s the designer?’
‘Oh, well, I am.’ Sophie always felt absurdly diffident when admitting to designing or making her clothes. Her friends were supportive, asking for commissions and nagging her into starting a website to sell to a wider audience, but they were her friends—it was their job to tell her to follow her heart and aim high. Showing her work to other people was exposing. Harry had always told her that she was wasting her time and the problem was she didn’t only believe him then, she still half believed him now.
‘You made this? But, Sophie, it is incredible. No wonder it fits you so well. You are so talented.’
‘Thank you, but it’s not that hard...’
‘Of course it is! I can barely thread a needle. Do you make all your clothes?’
‘Most of them,’ Sophie admitted. ‘Some from scratch, with new material, but many of my clothes are do-overs. I buy them from charity shops or in sales, tear them apart and put them back together again.’
‘How creative.’ Bianca sighed. ‘I tried for years to find my talent, but no matter how many private lessons I had I remained tone deaf, turned into a plank of wood on stage, and I’m still incapable of drawing better than a five-year-old. Antonio tells me not to worry, that handling spreadsheets is a talent in itself, but I’d much rather be a dancer than an accountant.’
