Bianca’s expression shadowed for a moment. She knew that she must tell Matteo what her aunt had so shockingly disclosed about her paternity, but she and Luca had agreed not to do so until they were married. After all, their marriage would take place whoever’s daughter she was.
Another wash of wonder and of happiness went through her. To know, with absolute and total certainty, that Luca loved her, and could not care less what her background was, or who she was, was a reassurance beyond measure to her. He cared only that she was the woman he loved, and always would.
Yet it was a grief to her, all the same, to know that Matteo was not her uncle—that she was not his brother’s daughter. Discovering her existence, as he had thought he had, had brought comfort to him at a time when there had been little to comfort him, and she grieved in advance that she would have to take that from him. For all that, though, she hoped that it would not sever their relationship. Because she knew, with a lift of her heart, that she would always feel for Matteo what she had come to feel for him, even without any link of blood between them.
And after all, she consoled herself, she would still be the wife of his beloved godson—dear to him, surely, for that reason alone.
She took a breath, filled with resolve. Dimly, she could hear the faint strains of organ music echoing along the marble floors from the chapel at the far end of thepalazzo.It was time to go down.
Gathering her full skirts, her vision slightly blurred by the veil over her face, she started her careful descent. As she gained the final step Matteo stepped forward, arm outstretched. She slipped her hand from her satin skirts, placed it on his sleeve. She turned towards him. Smiled through the lace veiling.
‘Oh, my dearest, dearest treasure…’ Matteo’s voice was warm and full, his eyes alight. ‘How beautiful you look!’
He pressed her hand to his sleeve and she felt her ring finger heavy not with the ring Luca had bought for her that day in Pavenza, but with the huge, antique heirloom ring—the betrothal ring every D’Alabruschi bride wore on her wedding day.
Its weight was considerable, and Bianca would indeed revert to the smaller version for everyday wear, returning this one to the family vault after the wedding. But she had asked Luca to take her back to the little jeweller’s in Pavenza, wearing the heirloom ring, to show it off. The jeweller had been delighted to see it again, and had examined it closely, exclaiming at the workmanship, the perfection of the stones and the setting, thanking her and Luca for the opportunity to do so.
She had been glad to do it—and she was glad now to let her eyes fill with all the warmth that was in Matteo’s.
‘And how wellyoulook!’ she said.
‘How could I be otherwise on this happy, happy day? I am fulfilling my dreams!’
‘And fulfilling mine, too.’ She smiled.
‘And Luca’s,’ Matteo said. ‘Never have I seen a man more smitten!’ He took a breath, patted her hand once more. ‘Andnow,’ he said, ‘I shall take you to him. Bestow you upon him. Come.’
He started forward and Bianca went with him down the long, marbled passageway, pausing a moment at the far end, where two ushers threw open the double doors to the chapel. As they did so the music swelled, the congregation rose to its feet and there at the far end, by the altar rail, Bianca beheld the figure of the man she was to unite her life with, unite her heart with.
The man she loved.
Luca—always and only Luca.
He turned at her entrance, looking so handsome in his light grey morning dress that she thought she must die from beholding him as she walked towards him. His eyes went to hers, his face transfixed.
At his side, his best man, Pietro, murmured something to him. With a jolt, Luca stepped forward, ready to take her hand when she reached him, still looking dazed, transfixed. Skirts rustling, veil trailing behind her, she came to him. Matteo lifted her hand from his sleeve, placed it in Luca’s waiting clasp. Then stood aside.
Luca’s fingers were warm around hers, his gaze warmer. He stepped with her up to the altar rail, where the priest was raising his hands. The organ music died away and the congregation sat.
The priest waited a moment, holding Luca and Bianca’s eyes. Then he lifted his gaze to the congregation beyond in the little chapel. His sonorous words were addressed to them all.
‘Dearly beloved…’
And the wedding began.
* * *
The guests had departed. Evening darkened the sky. It was autumnal, but not cold. Luca took Bianca’s hand. They wouldspend their wedding night here at hispalazzo, but tomorrow they would set off on their honeymoon. It would not be a long honeymoon, for neither of them wanted to leave Matteo for long, and it would be in Italy. A touring honeymoon, with Luca driving them wherever the fancy took them. The coast, the hills, the mountains and the lakes, the historic cities, the woods and forests, the peaceful countryside… Then they would return to thepalazzo.
They would make their home here, he and his beloved Bianca, his bride, his wife, his peerless and most beautifulviscontessa.A home for themselves and for Matteo too—for it had been agreed that he should move here from the Villa Fiarante to keep company with them. They would split their time between thepalazzoand the villa, especially when Luca was required in Rome, or for brief and occasional foreign trips abroad. He had already arranged to work largely from home.
And as soon as Nature proved co-operative he and Bianca would start a family. New life to encourage Matteo…to give him yet another reason to retain his own life for as long as it was possible. He was determined upon it, Luca knew, and had been open in his avowal that he would see his godson’s son.
‘It might be a daughter first,’Luca had warned him smilingly.
‘Another Bianca,’ Matteo had approved.
And Luca would be just as approving—son, daughter, whatever they were blessed with, it would be a joy and a privilege.