Free Wife in the Shadows by Sara Craven

easier to bear.
    He sent her flowers, too. Her sitting room was full of them.
    And he kissed her. Mainly on the hand and the cheek admittedly, but sometimes on the lips—invariably when it was impossible for her to take evasive action.
    Ellie supposed that nine out of ten women would have asked why on earth she would wish to avoid being kissed by one of the most attractive men in Italy, and found it difficult to explain, even to herself.
    After all, she couldn’t say that it was because she knew his kisses were prompted by duty rather than desire, when the last thing she wanted was for Angelo Manzini to desire her. Those brief moments in bed in his arms when she’d suddenly turned into a complete stranger had taught her that. And the memory of them still had the power to dry her mouth and make her tremble in a way that was totally outside her experience.
    Which was where, she thought resolutely, she wished it to remain.
    I must be one of nature’s spinsters, she told herself, and derived no great comfort from this prosaic reflection.
    She had not bargained either for being introduced to his relations. His Aunt Dorotea had been one of their earliest callers, a formidable matron who had given Ellie a searching look from head to toe then given an abrupt nod as if expressing satisfaction. Though what all that was about defeated Ellie entirely.
    On a more positive note, Signora Luccino had brought her daughter Tullia with her, a girl with a sweet, merry face, married to a lawyer the previous year, and Ellie thought with regret that, under different circumstances, they might have been friends.
    The Contessa Cosima, too, was a frequent visitor, alarming Ellie with a gentle flow of chat about churches and wedding dresses. That, she thought, was carrying pretence too far, and wished she had the nerve to say so.
    In fact clothing had become an issue altogether. Herwardrobe might be basic, she thought defensively, but it was perfectly adequate—a view that her godmother clearly did not share. The large
guardaroba
in her room was beginning to fill up with skirts, pants and tops in linen and silk, and a growing selection of evening wear in clear jewel colours and floating fabrics. And each outfit seemed to have its own shoes and bag in softest leather.
    As if, she thought, scowling, it was not the done thing for Count Manzini to see her wearing the same thing twice.
    She had tried to protest more than once that she was not a clothes horse, but the Principessa had waved these contentions away, smiling. It was her pleasure to see her dear Elena looking so lovely—and so happy too, she added brightly as Ellie’s jaw dropped.
    But there was no visit from Silvia. At first Ellie had thought that her cousin was quite understandably steering clear of her, only to be told by the Principessa that Ernesto, presumably in his role as good and caring husband, had taken Silvia for a little vacation on Corfu where his family had a house.
    The days at the
palazzo
became weeks, and as they approached a month Ellie wondered how much longer the negotiations between Galantana and Credito Europa could possibly drag on, and when the deal would finally be done.
    Because until that happened, she couldn’t calculate how soon she’d be able to escape from this gilded cage, no matter how luxurious and loving it might be, and begin to reclaim her own life again.
    More than anything, as the city heat increased, she missed the Casa Bianca and the breezes that blew from the sea, but her suggestion that she should spend some of her weekends there had been kindly but firmly declined. While her supposed engagement endured, it seemed she was going nowhere.
    Surely it can’t last much longer, she told herself each night with increasing desperation as she lay in bed staring up at the painted ceiling where gods and goddesses cavorted with unfeeling cheerfulness at some woodland banquet.
    Worst of all, she’d noticed that one of the gods—probably
    Mars—was black