The Bride's Awakening (13 page)

Ana didn’t dare look in the mirror. She wasn’t afraid, precisely, but neither did she want to be disappointed.

‘Uno minuto…’
Feliciana muttered, surveying her, her hands on her hips. She reached out and tugged the clip from Ana’s hair; it cascaded down her back in a dark swirl. ‘Ah…
perfectto
!’

Perfect? Her? Ana almost shook her head, but Feliciana steered her towards the mirror. ‘Look. You’ve never seen yourself in something like this before, have you?’

No, she hadn’t. Ana knew that the minute she gazed at her reflection, because for a second at least she couldn’t believe she was staring at herself. She was staring at a stranger, a woman—a gorgeous, confident, sexy woman. She shook her head.

‘No…’

Feliciana clucked in dismay. ‘You don’t like it?’

‘No.’ A bubble of laughter erupted, escaping through her lips as Ana turned around. ‘I don’t like it. I love it.’

Feliciana grinned. ‘
Buon
. Because I have at least six other gowns I want you to try.’

By the time Ana left the boutique, she’d purchased four gowns, several skirts and tops, three pairs of shoes, including a pair of silver stilettos that she’d balked at until Feliciana had told her sternly, ‘Your husband must be almost five inches taller than you. You can wear heels.’

She’d never worn heels in her life. She’d probably fall on her face. Ana giggled; she wasn’t used to making such a girlish sound. Yet right now she felt girlish, feminine and frivolous and
fun
. She’d enjoyed this afternoon and, best of all, she couldn’t
wait
until Vittorio saw her in the lace gown on Friday night.

Yet, when Friday night actually came and she stood at the top of the sweeping staircase that led down to the castle’s foyer and its waiting master, Ana didn’t feel so confident. So
fun
. She felt sick with nerves, with a queasy fear that Vittorio wouldn’t like how she
looked or, worse, that he wouldn’t even care how she looked. They’d barely seen each other outside meals and Ana spent her nights alone. She was a wife in name only, and she longed to change that tonight.

From the top of the stairs she could see him waiting at the bottom, could feel his impatience. He wore a perfectly cut suit of grey silk and he rested one long tapered hand on the banister railing.

‘Ana?’ he called up, a bit sharply. ‘Are you ready? The guests will be here very soon.’

‘Yes,’ she called, her own voice wavering a little. ‘I’m ready.’

Vittorio heard Ana coming down the stairs behind him, but he didn’t turn around right away. He needed to steel himself, he realized, for however his wife might look. So far he had not been impressed with her clothes; her wedding dress had been an unmitigated disaster. She’d told him she knew the difference between a designer gown and a bin bag, but Vittorio had yet to be convinced. Not, he reflected, that he’d taken Ana’s dress sense into consideration when he’d chosen her as his bride.

Why
had
he chosen her as his bride? Vittorio wondered rather moodily. All the businesslike reasons about merging wineries and knowing the region seemed utterly absurd to base a marriage on. Of course, when his mother had spoken to him about heirs, his logical mind had not thought about a
marriage
; it had simply fastened on the one necessity: wife. Object. Then he’d seen the vulnerability in Ana’s eyes, had felt her softness against him, had breathed in the earthy scent of her desire and known that
wife
and
object
were not two words ever to string together.

Ana was a person, and not just a person, but his
wife
. His beloved. The person he should protect and cherish above all others. The person, he realized bleakly, he was meant to love. And he had no idea what to do with her.

It was why he’d avoided her since their wedding; why he still had not come to her bed. He’d thought he could live with a
business arrangement. That was what he had wanted. Yet now, bizarrely, he found the cold-blooded terms of their arrangement to be…distasteful. Yet he didn’t love Ana, didn’t know if he was even capable of such an emotion. He hadn’t loved anyone in years. His entire adult life had been focused on
not
loving, on building Cazlevara Wines, maintaining his reputation and influence as Count, trying to forget the fractured family he’d left behind. The women he’d involved himself with hadn’t even come close to touching his heart.

Yet
Ana
…Ana with her blunt way of speaking and her soft grey eyes, her brash confidence and her lurking vulnerability, her tall, lush figure and her earthy scent…Ana somehow slipped inside the defences he’d erected around himself, his heart. He’d prided himself on being logical, sensible, perhaps even cold. Yet now he wouldn’t even go to his wife’s bed for fear of—what? Hurting her?

He’d told his bride very plainly that he never intended to love her. Love, he had said, was a destructive emotion. And perhaps that was what made him afraid now; he was afraid that his love would destroy Ana, would ruin their marriage.

His
love was destructive.

‘Vittorio…?’ He felt Ana’s hand on his sleeve, her voice no more than an uncertain whisper. She must have been standing there for some moments, waiting for him to notice her while he was lost in his gloomy reflections. Vittorio turned around.

‘Good even—’ He stopped, the words dried in his mouth, his head suddenly, completely empty of thoughts. The woman in front of him was stunning, a vision of ethereal loveliness in white lace. No, he realized distantly, she wasn’t ethereal. She was earthy and real and so very beautiful. And she was his wife. ‘You look…’ he began and, though she tried to disguise it, he saw Ana’s face fall, the disappointment shadowing her eyes and making her shoulders slump just a fraction. He let himself touch
her, holding her by the shoulders. Her skin was warm and golden. The dress clung to her figure; he’d never realized how perfectly she was proportioned, the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. He’d once considered her mannish; the thought was now laughable. He’d never seen a more feminine woman. ‘You look amazing,’ he said, his voice low, heartfelt, and Ana smiled.

She had the most amazing smile. He’d noticed her teeth before, straight and white, as one might notice a piece of workmanship. Now he saw the way the smile transformed her face, softened the angles and made joy dance in her eyes in golden glints.

Amazing. His wife was amazing.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice just as heartfelt, and Vittorio did the only thing he could do…He kissed her. As he drew her close, he was conscious of her generous curves fitting so snugly against his own body, amazed at the way her length lined up to his. How had he ever stooped to kiss a shorter woman before? His back ached just to think of it.

And Ana’s lips…They were soft and warm and as generous as the rest of her, open and giving and so very sweet. Vittorio had meant only to kiss her briefly—something between a peck and a brush—but once he tasted her he found he couldn’t get enough. The kiss went on and on, her arms snaking up around his shoulders, her body pressing against his—she’d never been shy—until someone behind him cleared his throat in a pointed manner.

‘Pardon me for breaking up this rather touching scene,’ Bernardo drawled, ‘but the guests are starting to arrive.’

‘Good.’ Vittorio stepped away from Ana, his arm still around her waist. She
fitted
against him, nestled near him in a way that was neither cloying nor coy. It was, he knew, as genuine as the rest of her was.

Bernardo eyed Ana with obvious surprise. ‘You cleaned up rather well.’

‘Bernardo,’ Vittorio said sharply, ‘that is no way to speak to my wife the Countess.’

Bernardo turned back to Vittorio, his eyebrows raised. ‘Isn’t it what you were thinking?’ he countered. Vittorio pressed his lips together; he didn’t want to argue with his brother now. He wouldn’t spoil this evening for Ana. Bernardo turned to Ana and made a little bow. ‘Forgive me, Ana. I meant no insult. You look very beautiful.’

Vittorio said nothing. This was how his brother always acted; he’d deliver the sting with one hand and the sweetness with the other. It made it impossible to fight him, or at least to win. Vittorio had learned this long ago, when his parents had drawn the battle lines. Constantia got Bernardo and his father took him. They had been his parents’ most potent weapons. It had, Vittorio reflected, been a long drawn-out war.

‘No offence taken, Bernardo,’ Ana said, smiling. ‘I was thinking the same thing myself.’

Bernardo gave her an answering flicker of a smile and bowed again. Vittorio squeezed Ana’s waist and the first guests came towards them before he could thank his wife for being so gracious.

Ana moved through the party in a haze of happiness. She never wanted to forget the look on Vittorio’s face when he’d turned around and seen her. She’d expected the disbelief, of course, but not the joy. He’d been
happy
to see her. He’d wanted her by his side. And when he’d kissed her…Every secret hope and latent need had risen up inside her on newly formed wings, and she hadn’t suppressed them or forced them back to the ground. For years she’d refused to entertain such dreams, knowing they could only lead to disappointment, yet when Vittorio had looked at her, she’d felt like the woman she’d always longed to be. The woman she was meant to be. It was a wonderful feeling.

She stayed by Vittorio’s side for most of the party. He wanted
her there, kept his arm around her, her hip pressed against his. She laughed and chatted and listened and nodded, but none of it really penetrated. The need—the desire—was building within her slowly, a force rising up and needing to be reckoned with. To be satisfied.

Tonight, she told herself.
Tonight, he will come to me.
As the evening wore on, her certainty—and her happiness—only grew.

Vittorio had been so proud, so happy to have Ana by his side. He’d drifted through the party in a haze, on a cloud. He couldn’t wait to get Ana alone, to touch her—

Yet now she’d gone to see her father off and, alone, he felt strangely flat, indifferent to all he’d achieved. He wanted her to come back to him and yet, even so, he didn’t go in search of her. He didn’t even know what he would say.

He thought of how Enrico Viale had stopped him in the middle of the party, one hand on his sleeve. ‘She looked beautiful, our Ana,
si
?’ the older man had said, pride shining in his eyes. Vittorio had been about to agree when he realized Enrico was not talking about how Ana looked tonight. ‘It was her mother’s wedding dress, you know. I asked her to wear it.’

Vittorio had been left speechless, amazed and humbled by Ana’s selflessness, by her loyalty. And he’d demanded that same loyalty of her for
him
? When he didn’t even know what to do with her, how to treat her, how to
love
her?

Love. But he didn’t
want
love.

As the last guests trickled outside, the cars heading down the castle’s steep drive in a steady stream of light, Vittorio wondered what on earth he’d been trying to accomplish by setting out to acquire a wife like so much baggage. What had been the point, to take another being into his care, another life into his hands? Who was meant to notice, to know?

Who cared?

Of course, most of his neighbours and fellow winemakers
were curious about the Count of Cazlevara’s sudden return and even more sudden marriage. He’d felt their implicit approval that he’d returned to where he belonged, was now taking his rightful place, esteemed winemaker and leader of the community.

Yet he hadn’t been trying to gain
their
approval. At that moment, their approval hardly mattered at all.

‘So, Vittorio. A success.’

Vittorio turned slowly around; his mother stood in the doorway of the drawing room. She looked coldly elegant in a cream satin sheath dress, her expression unsmiling. This was the person whose approval he’d been trying to gain, Vittorio realized, and how absurd that was, considering his mother had not had a moment of interest or affection for him since he was four. When his brother had been born.

He was jealous, Vittorio realized, incredulous and yet still somehow unsurprised by this. All these years, his desire to return to his home and show his brother and mother his success, his self-sufficiency—it had just been jealousy. Petty, pathetic jealousy.

He turned back to the window. The last cars had disappeared down the darkened drive. ‘So it appears.’

‘You’re not pleased?’ she asked, moving into the room. He heard a caustic note in her voice that still made his shoulders tense and the vulnerable space between them prickle.

Go away, Vittorio. Leave me alone.

At that moment he felt like that confused child who had tugged his mother’s sleeve, desperate to show her a drawing, receive a hug. She’d turned away, time and time again, forever averting both her face and her heart. When she’d welcomed Bernardo, adored and doted on and spoiled him utterly, it seemed obvious. She simply preferred his brother to him.

Vittorio made an impatient sound of disgust; he was disgusted with himself. Why was he remembering these silly, childish moments now? He’d lived with his mother’s rejection for most of
his life. He’d learned not to care. He’d steeled himself against it, against the treachery she’d committed when his father had died—

Except obviously he hadn’t, for the emotions were still present, raked up and raw, and they made him angry. What kind of man was still hurt by his
mother
? It was ridiculous, pathetic, shaming.

‘On the contrary, Mother. I am very pleased.’ His voice was bland with just a hint of sharpness; it was the tone he always reserved for her.

She gave an answering little laugh, just as sharp. ‘Oh, Vittorio. Nothing is ever enough, is it? You’re just like your father.’ The words were meant to be an accusation, a condemnation.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

His mother’s lip curled in a sneer. ‘Of course you will.’

Impatient with all her veiled little barbs, Vittorio shrugged. ‘Where’s Ana?’

Constantia arched her eyebrows in challenge. ‘Why do you care?’