She looked…breathtaking. And so much more.
He was dazed with it…with the undeniable truth. It was possessing him entirely. Knowing there was only one reason for it, he heard himself murmur in Italian…words that were superlatives of superlatives…expressing his reaction to the vision he was beholding.
As for her reaction—she, too, had stopped dead. He saw the hand with his ring on her finger tighten over the gossamer shawl around her elbows. And there was something in the way she was staring at him—something he didn’t bother to put a name to because he knew perfectly well what it was. Because he had seen it in her eyes a hundred times before…six years ago…
He stepped forward. Made his eyes move over her, his lashes sweeping down, appreciating every centimetre of her.
He was not hiding it from her…
Not even trying to.
Nor wanting to.
* * *
Bianca saw his reaction. It hollowed her out. His eyes were washing over her, doing things to her that swept her back six long years… Things she had spent the last two weeks wanting never to feel again, wanting to arm herself against.
But his single glance was sweeping all that away, like a surge tide demolishing a puny barrier of sand. And it was impossible—impossible—for all her anguished resolve since he had left the villa for her to withstand it. Weakness drenched through her, and she felt herself almost sway, disastrously aware that a pulse was throbbing in her throat, that colour was flaring across her cheeks, heat flushing in her veins like a warm, sensuous tide.
Her eyes were locked to him, standing there immaculate in his evening dress. And as she stood helpless, motionless, she knew with a dismay that it was impossible to dispel that all her defences were no more. That her resistance to what she saw now in his eyes, felt inside herself, was futile. Impossible to sustain.
From somewhere within, using some last vestige of control, she made herself speak. Made her voice sound nothing more than neutral.
‘Is it time to go down?’ she made herself ask, wanting only that her voice should not tremble.
It was time to take up her role as Luca’sfidenzata—his bride-to-be, his chosen futureviscontessa. The woman chosen to be his wife, chosen to share his life.
Emotion stabbed in her, but she refused to recognise it. Bad enough to feel what she could not deny—the helpless weakness sweeping through her under Luca’s sweeping, melting gaze.
‘Yes.’ His answer sounded staccato. ‘I am sent to summon you.’
Luca held the door open for her and she nodded, walking forward, conscious as she passed him of the scent of his aftershave…tangy, with citrus notes, and an underlying ultra-masculine undertone that caught at her senses.
She stepped out onto the broad landing, heard the sound of the band tuning up—for there would be dancing later on, out on the terrace, after a lavish buffet had been served in the dining room.
The practical organisation of the party had fallen on Giuseppe’s apparently infinitely capable shoulders, and hehad reassured her, with smiling enthusiasm, that such events had been frequent when her uncle’s wife, thesignora, had been alive. He had told her that the household could easily accommodate what Matteo had in mind, and how good it was to see thesignorso happy. His smile had deepened. And for so good a reason…
There had been nothing she could say to that—any more than she could say something to her uncle. All she could do now, as she descended the stairs, Luca a pace behind her, was remain supremely conscious of his presence, of her helpless response to him.
She walked into thesaloni, where Matteo was awaiting them. The furniture had been pushed back, to provide more room for guests to mingle, but Matteo’s chair was in its customary place by the marble fireplace. He got to his feet as she walked in, just ahead of Luca. His face broke into a smile of the warmest welcome and delight.
He came to her, taking both her hands in his, his eyes glowing as they beheld her. ‘Oh, my dear—how beautiful you look! I knew that gown was perfect for you!’ He turned to Luca. ‘Do you not agree, my boy? Our treasured Bianca could not look more exquisite! She is radiant with beauty!’
‘She is indeed. Without question.’
Luca’s voice had a note in it she could not recognise. Nor did she wish too. All she could wish was that this evening was over. The ordeal would be agonising.
Giuseppe appeared in the open doorway to thesaloniand made the announcement that their guests were starting to arrive.
Matteo’s face lit up again. He patted Bianca’s hands, slipping his from them. ‘And now,’ he said, delight in his voice, ‘the evening begins!’
* * *
Luca’s eyes were on Bianca. She was in another man’s arms. It happened to be Pietro’s father, and Pietro himself was standing beside Luca, grinning as he watched them dance out on the softly lit terrace.
‘He may be pushing sixty, and he may still love my mother like she was twenty, but I’ve got to admit he’s bowled over by your Bianca! And who wouldn’t be? She is, to use the vernacular, an absolute total knockout!’
Pietro cast a sly look at Luca, who was still looking at Bianca, dancing sedately with Pietro’s father, smiling at him courteously and engaging him in whatever chitchat they were exchanging.