He saw a wry expression cross Matteo’s face.
‘Nor did I believe it, at first,’ he concurred.
He let go both their hands, turning away, gesturing as he did so towards the double doors that led through to the dining room.
‘I will explain over dinner how it came to be, for I cannot believe there is not the hand of Providence in it. At the very time when my spirits were brought as low as a man’s can be, after receiving my own death sentence, the good Lord saw fit to lighten my final months.’
Luca could hear the emotion thick in Matteo’s voice. His godfather was speaking Italian, with emphasis and insistence. The depth of his emotion almost echoed Luca’s own—but his had an utterly different cause.
Disbelief—incredulity. Dismay.
Dismay that this long-lost niece, of whose existence Luca had never heard, should be Bianca.
Bianca, raised on an East London council estate, is Matteo’s niece? How can she be? It is impossible…surely impossible!
‘That is quite remarkable,’ he heard himself say, keeping his voice studiedly level with an effort as they went through into the dining room, took their places.
Giuseppe and one of the manservants went into the rituals of serving dinner—pouring water, then wine, and then serving theprimo.Only when they had withdrawn could Luca bring himself to look at the woman sitting opposite him.
She was not looking at him, nor at anyone. Her eyes were cast down and she was looking at her plate of artistically arranged scallops, lapped by a saffron sauce withherbes garnisand slivers of artichoke, apparently transfixed by the artistry of its presentation. Luca was glad of it. He needed to be able to look at her—look in her direction in a way that as far as his godfather was concerned would seem normal for the situation Matteo assumed this to be.
When it was nothing like that in the least.
Because how could it be? How could there be anything ‘normal’ in what was happening?
He felt emotion threaten to spike up from the depths into which he’d ruthlessly crushed it. But Matteo was speaking, lifting his wine glass.
‘I wish, this evening, to drink to both of you,’ he announced. His voice was warm, and Luca could hear the note of satisfaction in it… The note of relief. Of achievement. ‘And I wish,’ he went on, ‘to drink to what this means to me.’
His smile went from one of them to the other and back again. Mechanically Luca reached for his glass of wine, seeing Bianca do the same.
Then Matteo spoke again, tilting his glass slightly to each of them.
‘To you, Luca, who has been so important a part of my life for so long. And to someone who, by the hand of Providence, hasbeen granted to me in my hour of need. To my brother’s child—Bianca.’
Luca’s eyes went to her again as he took a mouthful of wine.
Can she really be Matteo’s niece?
It seemed too extraordinary for it to be true. Yet that was better, surely, than the conclusion he’d jumped to on seeing her here. Relief speared in him. Relief that Matteo, in his illness, had not succumbed to anything sordid. And nor had Bianca.
He went on letting his eyes rest on her as she took a careful sip from her own glass in response to Matteo’s imprecation to taste the wine. Two images collided in his mind. Bianca—then. Bianca—now.
So different, Bianca then. When he had known her she had been wearing tight-sheathed, low-cut outfits, designed to reveal her plentiful physical attractions. Her face had been fully made up, with sculpted cheekbones, deep-shadowed eyes, her eyelashes heavy with mascara, her lips lush and rich. Her glorious hair had been sleek and curved around her shoulders. She’d worn gold-coloured faux gem earrings, necklaces and bracelets. She had been packaged and presented to him for desire and seduction…for the pleasures to come once she was in his arms, in his bed…
Bianca now—his godfather’s niece—was at home in his home in her beautifully cut, long-sleeved, elegantly draped designer number, with her hair drawn back into a low-set chignon, the soft glow of pearls around her throat and at the lobes of her ears, her make-up minimal for the evening’s formality. Elegant, sophisticated, soignée…
So very, very different…
Only her beauty is the same…
But he must not think of that. Must not think of anything, right now, except getting through this ordeal. He must not lookat her any more than social necessity required. Must behave as though he’d never set eyes on her before.
She did not meet his gaze, lowering her glass again and making a start on herprimo.
His godfather looked at him. ‘You must be wondering how it came to be,’ he started. ‘How Providence bestowed so precious a gift upon me. I will explain.’
He took another mouthful of his wine before continuing.