Bride By Choice

me.’

‘Of course not. And surely Signor Lorenzo has forgotten her and loves only you-it’s just that-’

‘Go on,’ Helen said in a dead voice.

‘They say Signor Renato is very angry and jealous because his wife and his brother are still so fond of each other. Last year-’

She shouldn’t listen to this gossip but she couldn’t help herself. The poison had crept into her ear and there was no escaping it now.

‘What happened last year?’ she whispered.

‘Signor Lorenzo went to England, but the next day I was in her room when the phone rang. She answered it and said, “Lorenzo”, then she ordered me out. As I left the room I heard her say, “It’s all right, I’m alone.” Then later she told me she was going away. She didn’t say where but-well-I heard through the door-’

‘Go on.’

‘She told him that she would be with him that night,’ Sara said in a low voice.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Helen said firmly. ‘You must have misheard.’

If she had to listen to any more she knew she would go mad. Forcing a smile to her face she got to her feet, managed to say goodbye, and fled.

Left alone, Sara finished all the cakes and drank the coffee, relishing every crumb, every last drop. She had fantasised how she would hit back at Heather for her dismissal, but who would have thought the chance would present itself so opportunely? It had been a good day’s work.

Somehow Helen got herself to the villa that was to be her future home, and where she wouldn’t be disturbed. Her head was spinning and she needed time to come to terms with what she’d heard.

Lorenzo and Heather had been in love, had planned to marry.

And he’d left her at the altar.

Perhaps it wasn’t true. Why had she believed Sara so easily? It might all be an invention.

Yet a memory disturbed her; Heather, showing her to her room on the first day, saying, ‘It’s where Angie and I slept when I came out here-’ Then the sudden awkward silence.

She’d asked, ‘Did Renato meet you at the airport?’ Taking it for granted that Renato had been the bridegroom.

But the bridegroom had been Lorenzo. And Heather had swiftly changed the subject, embarrassed to realise that Helen didn’t know the truth.

Because Lorenzo hadn’t told her. That was the worst thing of all.

She’d thought they were close, lovers and best friends. That was the strength of their relationship, that it was built on friendship as well as passion. And friendship meant trust and confidence. Suddenly all trust was blown away.

There had been the suggestion that Heather had never stopped loving Lorenzo, marrying Renato on the rebound, and the unsubtle hint that Lorenzo had regretted his action and continued to pine for the woman who was now his sister-in-law: that together they had betrayed her husband.

Heather and Lorenzo were there in her mind, their heads close, laughing together. How readily she put her arms about him, how eagerly he embraced her back.

It was nonsense, she told herself firmly. They hugged as brother and sister, under Renato’s eyes. But only under his eyes? The question slid into her mind like a snake.

And when Heather lay in the hospital, her life in danger, Lorenzo had wept. Renato, that hard man, had looked like a stone. But Lorenzo had wept.

It meant nothing. Renato closed up, told his feelings to nobody. It was his way. Lorenzo’s emotions were near the surface, and he could talk about things.

But he hadn’t told his intended bride that he’d jilted another bride at the altar.

That was the fact she couldn’t escape. It stood across her path like a monolith, barring her way to her wedding.

CHAPTER NINE

SHE tried twice to call Lorenzo in France, but both times the calls were interrupted, and she realised that this was hopeless. The talk they must have couldn’t be conducted over the telephone.

The time before he returned was terrible. Everything she saw seemed lit up by a livid light. Heather’s smile, once so sweet and friendly, now seemed to have a jeering, cynical twist. And wherever she looked she saw cruel concealment, knowledge hidden from her because she was nothing.

If she hoped that Lorenzo’s return would provide a chance to talk she was soon disillusioned.

‘Cara, I want to be alone with you too,’ he said, swiftly kissing her as they sat in the back of the chauffeur driven car from the airport. ‘But Renato’s going to keep me at it until the last minute. And when I’m not working I’m entertaining. But it’s all in a good cause, so that after the wedding we can enjoy our honeymoon.’

‘Darling, please,’ she begged, her eyes on the chauffeur’s back. ‘It’s important.’

For answer he took her into his arms and kissed her hard. ‘That is important,’ he said. ‘Loving each other is important.’

He was at his most charming as he said it, but suddenly his charm seemed almost frightening. It was such a potent weapon. Was there something a little ruthless about the way he used it? She searched his face, trying to see there the man who could jilt a woman at the altar and take her to bed when she was his brother’s wife. But all she could see was his charm.

Then it was the day for her family to arrive, filling the Residenza’s guest rooms, plus half the nearby hotels. Her parents were beside themselves with joy as Baptista showed them over the splendid house of which they’d heard so much. They basked in the honour shown them by this great lady, and Helen wondered how they would feel if they knew that she was desperately thinking of calling the wedding off.

But that was overreacting, she assured herself. Somehow she would have a long talk with Lorenzo and he would explain everything. Of course he hadn’t betrayed Renato with his wife. Sara’s story had been garbled. As for his behaviour in the cathedral-there must be an explanation. He would tell her, and everything would be all right.

But the days were rushing by in a blur of parties and shopping trips, and suddenly it was the last night, and Lorenzo was being swept off in a tidal wave of male relations, for a final carouse.

‘Darling, please-’ she tried to plead, but Renato intervened.

‘Don’t worry, Elena. We won’t let him get too drunk, and we’ll bring him home safely.’

He was as good as his word. At two in the morning he and Bernardo helped their brother up the stairs, reasonably sober, considering it had been a stag night, but way past talking coherently. Helen watched their progress in despair.

That night she lay awake, wretched, trying to picture the future, seeing only a blank. She dropped into an uneasy doze at six o’clock, and was awoken an hour later by the maid with her coffee. Now the day had to be faced.

Her bedroom was crowded with women all eager to help her on with her bridal gown, made of satin that had been specially woven for extra weight, draped over a wide, crinolined skirt. It wasn’t white, but ivory, a better colour for Helen’s black hair and warm skin. The skirt was heavily embroidered, with tiny sparkling jewels sewn into rosettes, and a diamond tiara to hold the veil in place. It was a romantic dream of a dress, but now its very magnificence filled her with anguish.

‘Where’s Lorenzo?’ she said urgently. ‘I must talk to Lorenzo.’

There was a united scream from every woman in the room.

‘You can’t see the bridegroom before the wedding,’ her mother said firmly. ‘It’s unlucky.’

‘Oh, Mamma, that’s just superstition.’

There was a knock at the door and her father’s voice called, ‘Are you all ready?’ The next moment he was in