The Impatient Groom

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Authors: Sara Wood

BOOK: The Impatient Groom
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“We've got three weeks to make arrangements before our wedding day.”
 
“Rozzano!” Sophia cried in horror. “We can't get married that soon! It's crazy. Six months would be much more sensible—”
 
“Sensible! Who wants to be sensible?” His eyes glittered.
 
“Marriage is for keeps, Rozzano. It would be awful if we made a mistake.”
 
“Four
weeks, then!” he said forcefully. “You can't possibly ask me to wait any longer! We want to be together, don't we?” He turned her face and lovingly, lingeringly, kissed her mouth. “We'll be perfect together, Sophia. I know we will. So,” he said, smiling fondly at her, “we'd better start planning the wedding of the decade!”
Harlequin Presents
®
invites you to see how the
other half marries in:
They're
gorgeous,
they're glamorous...
and they're
getting
married!
 
In this sensational five-book miniseries
you'll be our VIP guest at some of the
most talked-about weddings of the decade—
spectacular events where the cream of society
gather to celebrate the marriages of dazzling
brides and grooms in equally breathtaking,
international locations.
 
At each of these lavish ceremonies you'll meet
some extra-special men and women—all rich,
royal or just renowned!—whose stories are
guaranteed to capture your imagination,
your hearts...and the headlines! For in this
sophisticated world of fame and fortune you can
be sure of one thing: there'll be no end of
scandal, surprises...and passion!
 
We know you'll enjoy Sara Wood's
The Impatient Groom.
 
Next month, join us in a toast to another happy
couple in:
The Mistress Bride (#2056)
by
Michelle Reid
SARA WOOD
The Impatient Groom
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CHAPTER ONE
 
F
ROM the shadows of the musicians' gallery, Rozzano watched his sister-in-law's birthday celebrations and fought a losing battle against the inevitable. He just had to marry. It was an appalling idea—but he couldn't face the alternative. A vicious claw of pain dragged at his stomach.
In the beautiful eighteenth-century ballroom below, high-maintenance mistresses were performing prettily for their well-heeled lovers and dazzling beauties purred in the arms of elderly tycoons. Several guests were roaming around and slyly fingering the antiques in an attempt to price them.
His chest inflated with a tight, angry breath. These were
his
possessions, his palace—and these people were defiling them. He despised the crowd his brother ran around with. Tawdry, the lot of them.
And in the midst of the excited, empty chatter his lying, cheating, work-shy brother swaggered like a peacock, flaunting himself and the wealth of the Barsinis while the birthday girl bitched in a corner and her spoilt children screamed and squabbled and stuffed themselves with expensive delicacies.
Prince Rozzano Alessandro di Barsini allowed himself the rare luxury of a malevolent scowl. He had a reputation for being the perfect, urbane gentleman. It would astonish people if they could ever see him otherwise. But Barsini emotions were not for public display.
‘Have emotions if you must!' his father had said on
one memorable occasion. ‘But have the decency to keep them to yourself!'
So all the consuming hatred and fury he felt for his relations had been kept totally private—but, hell, was it good to let the mask slip for a few moments!
Tonight, being polite to everyone for the last hour had tested his patience to breaking point and he was finding it harder and harder to restrain himself in the face of his brother's excesses. As a child, he had spent painful long hours in isolation, forcing his volcanic passions into the required strait-jacket shaped by his exacting father. After thirty-four years of self-discipline, he had learned his lesson well.
He'd coped by diverting his explosive energies to high-danger, high-energy sports that demanded that he push himself to the limit. But increasingly there were times when Enrico went too far and Rozzano's control was sorely tried.
Contempt tore at his sensual mouth. He found his brother repulsive, vulgar and immoral. Even now, Enrico was caressing a woman's back. She was married, with two children—one of the many mistresses Enrico supported. An impotent fury surged through him like a burning acid that his brother should flaunt the woman in the family
palazzo
!
He thought of the day Enrico had been born and how the tiny, black-haired scrap of humanity had melted his heart. Enrico had seemed like a miracle to him. But he'd been four years old then, and unaware that the innocent gurgling baby would systematically poison the lives of everyone he came in contact with—just for the sheer hell of it.
Rozzano went pale. The poison was in him too. It grieved him to feel such extreme anger and revulsion for
someone of his own Mood—but he could never forgive Enrico for what he'd done. Not ever.
He set his jaw in determination, knowing he had no choice but to take drastic action. Otherwise he didn't know what the devil he was going to do about Enrico—how to curb him, help him, and ensure he did no more damage to the unwary.
Only yesterday he'd tried to talk some sense into him. Enrico had laughed and said that life was for living and who but a fool wanted to work in an office all day? He fumed at the memory. Did his brother imagine that a publishing empire ran itself?
Turning away in rage when some drunken guests collided and knocked over a valuable medieval candle-stand, Rozzano hardened his heart.
As the elder son of one of the most ancient and noble Venetian families, he had a duty to protect the honour—and the survival—of the Barsini name. Enrico and his loathsome brats must not take the title in the event of his death.
He needed an heir. There was no escape then. He had to find a wife. Rozzano drew in a harsh breath, shaken by the finality of the decision he'd made.
Slowly his fingers curled, shaping his finely shaped hands into belligerent fists. He swallowed back the bile that had risen to his throat and groaned. What he did for this family!
Turbulent emotions battled for his heart and mind. He'd vowed not to become involved with a woman ever again. Four years, three months and four days ago, to be precise. He knew that moment of his wife's death almost to the hour! His even white teeth savaged his lower lip as he struggled for self-control.
A searing black venom blazed in his eyes as bitter
resentment fuelled his loathing. Because of the part Enrico had played in his wife's death, he would have to throw himself on the marriage market again. He'd be forced to choose a woman he didn't love—couldn't love—and he'd have to play the doting husband for the rest of his life. What a sentence!
Grim-faced, he thought of the women he knew, the ones who adored him, the many who flirted and were more than willing. He'd give none of them house room.
‘Damn you, Enrico!' he ground out through his teeth. Happiness would continue to evade him. He had everything—and he had nothing. Except the fatherly affection of an old man.
He groaned. D‘Antiga! He'd almost forgotten!
The church clock chimed and he checked his Cartier watch with a sharp exclamation. First things first. He must leave.
Somewhere in southern England, a solicitor waited with news of D‘Antiga's fortunes—and this alone had intrigued him enough to draw him half-way across Europe. Maybe they'd found D'Antiga's runaway daughter! If so, he would not be obliged to run the D‘Antiga estates any longer, on behalf of his late father's friend.
His expression became smooth and implacable again. His passionate anger was ruthlessly suppressed. Thoughtfully, Rozzano began to descend the gilded stairway. Maybe he could take back the reins of the Barsini publishing house from his brother and get it running smoothly again!
Exhilarated at the prospect, he headed for the water-gate. A nod of his head brought the waiting servants to life, one hurrying to alert his boatman, one passing him his long wool coat, briefcase and gloves.
As always, others smoothed his path for the whole of
the tedious journey. When he left his
palazzo
he travelled by motor launch to Venice's airport for the flight to London. After a night in his suite at the Dorchester, a chauffeured car took him to the private plane, which conveyed him to an airport on the south coast of England. From there he was driven to a small village in Dorset called Barley Magma.
 
Il Principe Rozzano Alessandro di Barsini stepped from his hire car looking as immaculate and composed as if he'd just woken and dressed ten minutes earlier.
But even before breakfast he'd dealt with yet another crisis of Enrico's making, spoken at length to his broker and taken several calls from his publishing outlets around the world. In the car he'd dealt with urgent papers, switching his mind with alacrity from his own affairs to those of D‘Antiga's perfumeries.
‘Yup, that's it,' encouraged the hire driver when he hesitated.
They'd stopped outside a tiny grocer's shop on the end of a terrace of houses whose golden stone was glowing softly in the September sunshine. A perplexed frown fleetingly dared to spoil the smoothness of Rozzaao's high, broad forehead and irritation tightened his jaw. A fool's errand, then. A mistake. He felt the disappointment keenly.
Abruptly he turned back to the car. ‘I have no business with a grocer.'
‘Nah! The solicitor rents rooms above,' the driver told him cheerfully. He knew wealth when he saw it and anticipated a fat tip. ‘Door round the corner.'
Still doubtful, Rozzano nevertheless thanked him politely. This didn't look hopeful. ‘Come back for me, if you please. Say...an hour?'
He thought he'd be out before that, but he could always sit beneath the large oak tree and work on his papers. Quickly he strode to the open door at the side of the building. His face showed no hint of his thoughts, which were that there was surely a mix-up.
How, he wondered, as his hand-stitched leather shoes trod each uncarpeted step upwards, could a small-time solicitor in a rural backwater have any connection with the Venetian aristocracy? Let alone solve a thirty-threeyear-old mystery!
His hopes fading, he entered the poorly appointed of fice. A young woman at a desk seemed to be trying to type and gossip on the telephone simultaneously. Without looking up she covered the mouthpiece and snapped a scratchy, ‘Yes?'
His dark eyes narrowed but his tone remained civil and very—perhaps ominously—quiet as he approached her desk.
‘Good morning. I have an appointment. Rozzano Barsini—'
‘Oh! The prince!' The woman dropped the phone in shock, blushed scarlet and knocked over a pile of files and a mug of coffee, causing Rozzano to step back quickly before his sharply tailored jacket was ruined. ‘Blast! Oh, I'm sorry, Your—um—Highness!' In confusion, she tried to mop up the mess, apologise and stare in awe all at the same time.
He handed over his soft linen handkerchief, hoping wryly that she wouldn't curtsey. Her knees looked alarmingly poised to do so.
‘Please calm yourself,' he said, wearied with the effect his name invariably produced.
He was an unwilling celebrity. Since his wife's death, the media had been obsessed with his life, reporting every
minor detail—and the partying extravagances of his brother. Rozzano controlled the urge to say bitingly that column inches in a newspaper didn't make someone a god.
‘I'll wait till you're ready to announce me,' he said instead, his voice stiff with restraint.
The secretary cleared up, then flapped and fluttered her way to an inner office from where he could hear an excited conversation developing.
Suppressing a sigh, Rozzano cast a doubtful eye over a rather tired-looking sofa and, easing the knife creases of his dark navy trousers, made himself as comfortable as possible on a rickety wooden chair. Wishing he hadn't wasted his valuable time, he reached for his phone, to make a few calls.
Only then did he notice the woman sitting by the window. ‘Excuse me! I thought I was alone. Good morning,' he said politely, tucking his mobile phone back in its slimline holster at his waist
She acknowledged him with a smile that softened her sooty grey eyes. ‘morning,' she replied easily.
Her voice was so low and lyrical and warmly welcomeing that it immediately had the effect of soothing his irritation.
She must have been aware of who he was, because the secretary had screeched it to the Four Winds, but she seemed relaxed and apparently unimpressed. It was a pleasant change. He looked away out of habit, because up to now he'd avoided possible entanglements with women like the plague, but her reaction had been so surprising that he gave her a second glance.
An amused smile lifted the corners of his mouth and softened his stern features. He'd been forgotten—or dismissed!
It was such a novelty that he found himself both intrigued and enchanted.
She was looking out onto the street, her blissful expression suggesting she was dreaming of something delightful. With some regret, Rozzano remembered his manners and turned away again, but not before he'd been deeply struck by the gentle repose of her face and body.
Unlike the fashionably tiny and bean-thin young women he knew, she was quite tall, large-boned and curvaceous—a kind of homely earth-mother type. And yet...
Pretending to flick through an ancient bridal magazine, he tried to work out what was puzzling him. Her clothes, maybe? He'd retained an impression of an ill-fitting gentian-blue polyester dress that sagged at the hem, and a caramel brown cardigan of an uncertain age and style. He hadn't missed those incredible legs, though—long, slender and bare, tanned to a gleaming, smooth gold and with ankles so shapely that he could pleasurably imagine his hands curving around them. Yet she wore oldfashioned and poorly made shoes—although, he conceded, they'd been well polished. And her rich toffee-coloured hair had been dragged back from her face into a tight, thick plait as if she disapproved of frivolity.
Nothing there, then, other than those legs, to make the heart beat faster. In that case, what had caught his attention, what was so utterly fascinating? Riveted, he put his mind to the conundrum.
Allora
. He had it! Excitement glittered in the depths of his shadowed dark eyes. Incongruously, an air of refinement pervaded her whole body. It revealed itself in her perfect posture—the ramrod-straight back, the graceful carriage of her head with its delicate, almost fragile features, and the demure arrangement of those staggeringly beautiful legs.
Interesting. Perhaps he'd strike up a conversation, he thought with idle curiosity...
‘Mr Luscombe's ready for you now, Your Highness!' the secretary announced loudly, too loudly, her eyes shining with excitement.

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