Carrying His Scandalous Heir Read online

  Cesare di Mondave, Conte di Mantegna, lord of his domain...

  Faintness drummed at her. The effects of her early start that morning—after a night in which the hours had passed sleepless and tormented with confusion, with emotions that had pummelled through her mercilessly, relentlessly—the drive to the airport, the flight to Rome, the disembarking, the hiring of the car, the journey here. Exhaustion weighed her down like a heavy, smothering coat. Her nerves were shattered, her strength gone.

  She sank downwards.

  He was there instantly, with an oath, catching her. Catching her up into his arms, even though she weighed more now than she had ever done, as her body ripened with its precious burden. But as if she were a feather he bore her off. She closed her eyes, head sinking onto his shoulder. Feeling his strength, his warmth, his very scent...

  Cesare.

  His name soared in her head, fighting through the clouds, the thick mist that surrounded her. He was going through doorways, up a marble staircase, all the while casting urgent, abrupt instructions at those whose footsteps she heard running. There were anxious voices, male and female, until at the last she was lowered down upon the softest counterpane. She sank into it and her eyes fluttered. She was lying on a vast, ornate four-poster, silk-hung, and lights were springing up everywhere. Cesare was hovering above her, and there was a bevy of people, so it seemed, behind him.

  ‘Il dottore! Get him here—now!’

  There was command—stern, urgent—in that deep voice. Obedience in the one that answered it.

  ‘Si! Si! At once—at once. He is summoned!’

  She struggled upright, emotion surging through her again, past the tide of faintness. ‘No...no... I don’t need a doctor—I’m fine... I’m fine.’

  Cesare looked down at her. The room, she realised, was suddenly empty. There was only him, towering over her.

  ‘He is on his way, nevertheless,’ he said.

  There was still command in his voice. Then his expression changed. His gaze speared into hers, and in his face Carla saw something that stopped the breath in her body.

  ‘Why did you come? Tell me—Dio mio—tell me!’

  She had never heard him speak like that—with so much raw, vehement emotion in his voice. She felt an answering emotion in herself, yet dared not feel it...dared not.

  Her eyes, so deep a violet, searched his, still not daring to believe.

  Slowly, falteringly, she spoke. ‘When you wrote...what you wrote—I read... I read Count Alessandro’s words...and then yours...’

  Her voice was strained, her words disjointed. Her eyes searched his. She still did not dare to believe. This was the man prepared to marry her out of duty, out of responsibility. So how could he have written what he had? Why? Once before she had allowed herself to hope—hope that his feelings might be starting to echo hers...the very night he’d told her he was leaving her. Destroying her—

  So how could she dare to hope again? Could she dare? She had to know.

  ‘Cesare, why...why did you write what you did? That you would not make the mistake he did?’ Her voice was faint, low. Yet her eyes were wide, distended.

  That same vehemence was in his face—the same emotion that was stopping the breath in her body, that she had never seen before in it. It had not been there—not once—in all the time she’d known him.

  His eyes burned into hers. ‘You read his words,’ he said. ‘He married his contessa from duty, from expectation. Yet she never wanted to marry him. Never wanted to marry at all. Her vocation was to become a nun. But her family forced her to marry, to do her duty, to bear his children as a noblewoman should do. And he—Count Alessandro—he did as a nobleman should do: protective of his honour, taking pride in his ancient name. He did not love her, his contessa—that was not relevant.’

  In Carla’s head she heard again what Cesare had said when he had informed her he was intending to marry—that loving Francesca, his intended wife, was not ‘relevant’. As she remembered, as she gazed at him now, still not daring to believe, she felt the same emotion that had brought her here, to his ancient castello, driven by an urgency that had possessed her utterly.

  ‘And yet...’ She heard the fracture in Cesare’s voice. ‘And yet there was a woman he did love.’ He paused, his eyes still spearing hers. ‘It was his mistress. The mistress he had taken from desire, whom he had never thought to marry. It was his mistress with whom he spent his hours of leisure. And it was the family he had with her—for babies were impossible to stop in those times, as you know—that he loved. Not the solitary son he had with his contessa—the son who grew to manhood hating the father who so clearly had no time for him, no love. Just as he had no time, no love, for the son’s mother, the Contessa.’

  Abruptly he let go her hand, got to his feet. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he strode to the windows overlooking the valley beyond. He spoke with his back to her, gazing out at the night beyond the panes of glass, as if he could see into it, through it, back into a past that was not the youth of Count Alessandro’s heir—but his own youth.

  ‘My father had no time for me,’ he said.

  His voice had changed. Thinned. He was speaking of things he never spoke of. But now he must.

  ‘He thought me oversensitive! Unlike him, I did not think that being a brilliant shot, a hunter of game, of wildlife slaughtered to hang as trophies on his walls, was a worthy accomplishment, fitting for my rank. He despised me for what he called my squeamishness. Judged me for it. Condemned me. Openly told me I was not up to being his heir.’

  He was silent a moment, and his lips pressed together. Then he went on.

  ‘When he died I determined to prove myself—to prove him wrong. Oh, I still never took to his murderous love of slaughtering wildlife, but I immersed myself in the management of all the heritage that had come to me—the enterprises, the people in my employ, the tenants and clients, all those whom the estates support and who support the estates. I did my duty and beyond to all that my name and title demanded and required of me. I gave his ghost, the ghosts of all my ancestors, no cause at all to think me lacking!’

  He turned now, looking back across the room to the figure lying propped up against the pillows on his bed, to the swell of her body visible now in the lamplight limning her features. He felt emotion move within him as he spoke on.

  ‘And the final duty for me to discharge,’ he said, his voice grave now, and his expression just as grave, ‘was to marry. The final duty of all who bear my name and title is to marry and create a successor.’

  His eyes shifted slightly, then came back to Carla. Her eyes were fixed on him, her face gaunt now.

  Cesare took a breath. ‘My father always approved of Francesca—always identified her as the ideal woman I should marry. She was suitable in every way—and he told me I would be fortunate indeed if she would agree to the match.’

  He shut his eyes again, his face convulsing, then opened his eyes once more. Let his gaze rest unflinchingly on Carla.

  ‘And so she would have been.’ He stopped, his jaw tightening. ‘If I had not met you.’

  There was silence—complete silence.

  ‘But when Francesca wrote to me, told me she had gained her doctorate earlier than she’d expected, she said she would need to choose between staying on in the USA and coming home to marry me.’ He paused, his eyes looking inward, his mouth tightening. ‘My first reaction to her letter should have told me.’ His face twisted. ‘Told me that I had changed profoundly. For my first reaction was immediate.’ He paused. ‘It was to cry out in my head, Not yet!’

  His gaze came back to Carla.

  ‘Instead—’ He took a heavy breath. ‘Instead I told myself how ideal marriage to Francesca would be. How entirely suited she was to be my wife...how well she would take on the role of my contessa. She knew all that it wou
ld entail and, unlike my own mother, who made being her husband’s wife the sole reason for her existence, Francesca would continue her academic research here in Italy. When she gave me her decision I knew there was only one thing for me to do.’ He paused again, and when he spoke his voice was heavier still. ‘Remove you from my life’.

  She had shut her eyes. He could see it—see how her fingers on the counterpane had spasmed suddenly.

  His voice was quiet now, and yet she could hear every word as clearly, as distinctly as the space between them would allow.

  ‘But there was a place I could not remove you from. A place I did not even know you had come to occupy.’

  She could hear him now, in the darkness of her blinded vision.

  ‘A place, Carla, where you will always be. That you can never be removed from. Never!’

  The sudden vehemence in his voice made her eyes flare open. She could see his gaze burning at her.

  ‘I did not know you were there, Carla! I did not know it even when I was filled with jealous rage—a rage I knew with my head that I had no right at all to feel. Yet it tore me apart all the same! When I heard that you’d become engaged to Vito Viscari—’ His voice twisted. ‘Madness overcame me that night I came to your apartment, blackly rejoicing that he had not married you.’ His expression changed again, became gaunt and bleak. ‘Even when Viscari told me that you carried my child—even then, Carla, when I knew we would marry, must marry, even then I did not realise.’

  He stood still, hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking at her across the space that was between them.

  ‘All I could think was how I’d never been permitted to choose—how first it had been my duty to marry Francesca, if she would have me, and then...’ he took a ragged breath ‘...it became my duty to marry you instead.’

  She shut her eyes for a moment, feeling the bleakness she had felt at knowing she was forcing Cesare to marry her. But he was speaking still, his voice changing yet again.

  ‘When I came back here I found myself seeking out that Luciezo portrait—thinking how my ancestor had been free to choose whatever he willed, as I had never been. And yet—’

  He broke off, his face working. Carla’s eyes were on him again, wide, distended, and her throat was tightening.

  ‘Yet when I read his journal...’ He exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, filled with a darkness that chilled her suddenly. ‘When I read his final words, then—’

  When he resumed, his voice was raw.

  ‘He cursed himself—cursed what he had done, the choice that he had made in marrying a woman he could not love. He had blighted his whole life—and the lives of both his wife and his mistress, condemning them all to unhappiness. It was a mistake that could never be mended—never!’

  Carla felt her own face work, her throat close.

  Words burst from her, pained and anguished. ‘That is what I felt I would do if I married you! It would be as if I had become both those Caradino portraits—the pregnant mistress becoming the unhappy wife!’

  Her fingers clenched again, spasming.

  ‘I knew you didn’t want to marry me! How could you, when you’d chosen another woman to marry, had set me aside as you had? How could I condemn you to a loveless marriage to me—condemn you to a marriage you’d never wanted?’

  Her voice dropped.

  ‘How could I condemn myself to it? Condemn myself to the kind of marriage my own mother made—and bitterly regretted. Just as my father regretted it. And...’ Her throat closed painfully. ‘Just as you would regret it too. Regret a loveless marriage—’

  She broke off, emotion choking her voice. Her eyes closed, and it was as if she could feel sharp shards of glass beneath her lids. There was a sudden dip in the bed—the heavy weight of Cesare jackknifing down beside her. His hand closed over hers, stilling its clenching.

  Her eyes flared open, diamond tears within.

  Emotion was in his face, strong and powerful, sending a sudden surge to her pulse, a tightening of her throat. There was a searing in her heart against what he might say next.

  ‘It would not be loveless.’ Intensity infused his voice. ‘It would not be loveless,’ Cesare said again. ‘When I read Alessandro’s cry of despair and remorse for the mistake he had made, the mistake that could never be amended, I knew—finally knew—what I had blinded myself to! I realised, with a flash of lightning in my eyes, that I could leave you, or you could leave me, and it would make no difference—none at all. For you were lodged in that place from which you could never be removed.’

  He paused. Eyes resting on her. The truth was in them, as he knew it must be now.

  ‘In my heart, Carla. Where you will always be. You are the woman I would choose for my wife. Whether you carry our child or not.’ He took a breath. ‘I would choose you—because I love you.’

  She heard his words—heard that one most precious word that was more to her than all the world—heard it and felt her heart fill with an emotion she could scarcely bear. Did she see the same emotion in his eyes?

  She felt Cesare’s strong hand press down on hers. Another ragged breath broke from him.

  ‘That is what I wanted you to know. Needed you to know. You may not love me, Carla, but I needed you to know my heart. So that whatever choice you make now—whether to marry me or not—you know that you are in my heart for all time. And that you always will be.’

  He took a shuddering breath. Poured all that he was into his next words.

  ‘The choice is yours—it always will be—but if you feel...if you can feel even a fraction of what I feel for you, will you accept my hand, my heart, my life, my love?’

  Carla felt her hand move beneath his. Curl into his. Hold his fast. Those diamond tears were still glittering in her eyes and she could not speak. She started to lift her free hand and in an instant he had caught it. Raised it slowly to his lips.

  She saw his expression change, grow sombre again.

  ‘Alessandro is dust,’ he said. ‘As are his wife and the woman he loved. For them all, his regret, his remorse, came too late. But we—’ And yet again he broke off as strong emotion worked in his face. ‘We live now—and we can make our future what we will. We can seize it, Carla—seize it and make it our own!’

  His hands pressed hers.

  ‘My most beloved preciosa, will you accept my hand in marriage? Will you stand at my side all my life, as my beloved wife—my contessa? Will you give me the priceless gift of your heart, your love? Will you let the precious child within you be the proof and symbol of our love, our life together? Will you be...’ his voice caught ‘...in one person, both my wife and the woman I love?’

  His voice changed, became overwrought with emotion.

  ‘Will you unite the triptych—not, as you feared, as an unhappy mistress becoming the unhappy wife, but in the way it should have been united? So that there is no division between wife and love—united in the same woman. United in you.’

  She felt her heart turn over and fill to the brim with a joy she had never thought to feel.

  Cesare, oh, Cesare—my Cesare!

  He leant forward to kiss her tears away, then kissed her mouth. Her fingers clutched his as he drew away again.

  ‘I tried not to fall in love with you,’ she said, her voice low and strained. ‘Right from the first, when we began our affair, I knew that that was all it could ever be. I knew all along there could be no future for us. That one day you would set me aside to make the kind of marriage I knew you must make. But I could not stop myself. I fell in love with you despite my warnings to myself. And when you ended it...I went into a kind of madness.’

  Her face shadowed.

  ‘I behaved despicably to Vito. I nearly ruined his life. That’s why—’ She took a ragged breath. ‘That’s why I realised I could not ruin your life when you di
d not love me. When you wanted to marry Francesca—’

  She broke off, her expression changing suddenly.

  ‘Francesca! Cesare—?’ Concern was open in her voice.

  He smiled. A wry, self-mocking smile. ‘Francesca,’ he said, ‘has gone to California! It seems,’ he went on, half rueful, half relieved, ‘that she, too, did not wish to make a loveless marriage—or any marriage at all! She wrote to tell me that out of the blue she has been invited to join an ultra-prestigious research team on the West Coast, led by a Nobel laureate, and it is her heart’s desire to take up the post. She is beside herself with excitement, and knows I will understand why she cannot marry me now after all.’

  He smiled again, and Carla could see relief in it, as well as a self-deprecating ruefulness.

  ‘Astrophysics is her love—not being my contessa!’

  Carla’s expression changed. ‘Count Alessandro’s wife wanted to be a nun...’ she mused. ‘That was her true calling.’

  Cesare nodded, seeing the analogy. ‘And scientific research is calling Francesca. For which—’ he dropped a kiss on Carla’s forehead ‘—I am profoundly grateful.’ He smiled again. ‘You will like her, you know, if she makes it to our wedding. But you will have to accept that you won’t understand much of what fascinates her so.’

  The wry look was back in his face again, and then his expression altered a little, and he frowned slightly.

  ‘Maybe that was a warning to me—the fact that I found it hard to communicate with her about her work. Although I know she would always have discharged her responsibilities as Contessa, her heart would not have been in it. I think,’ he said, ‘it took our betrothal to make her realise that what she had grown up with—the expectation she’d always had of what her future was to be—was not, after all, what she wanted.’ His voice grew sombre again now. ‘Just as did I.’