Lucy Gordon
The Italian’s Cinderella Bride
A book in the Heart to Heart series, 2008
Dear Reader,
I love the chance to write about Venice. It is like no other place in the world with its freedom from cars, its mysterious silences, its sudden dangers and above all its unique atmosphere of romance. I
know about that atmosphere, having myself fallen under its spell. Some years ago I took a holiday there, met a Venetian, became engaged to him in two days and am now Venetian by marriage. So the Grand Canal and the Rialto Bridge have a special meaning for me, but it is the little places that mean even more-the tiny bridges, the narrow canals with washing strung across them, the backstreets where a couple can lose themselves, hopefully forever.
This is what I have tried to celebrate in my story of Pietro and Ruth, two lost souls who found each other with the help of a magical city.
Warm wishes,
Lucy Gordon
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN lightning filled the room, Pietro went to the window and looked out into the night.
He enjoyed a storm, especially when it swept over his beloved Venice, flashing down the Grand Canal, making the historic buildings tremble. To those who sighed over the beauties of Venice he would say that ‘his’ city was not the gentle, romantic site of legend, but rather a place of savage cruelty, treachery and murder.
Thunder crashed, engulfing him and the whole Palazzo Bagnelli, then dying, so that the only sound was the pounding of the rain on the water.
In the dim light he could just make out the Rialto Bridge looming up to his right, its shuttered windows glaring like blind eyes.
From beside him came a soft whine, and he reached out to scratch the head of a large, mongrel dog.
‘It’s all right, Toni,’ he said. ‘It’s only noise.’
But he kept his hand on the rough fur, knowing that his friend had an affliction that made him nervous, and Toni moved closer.
Now it was dark again and he could see his own reflection in the glass. It was like looking at a ghost, which was apt, considering how ghostly his life was.
Even the building around him seemed insubstantial, despite its three floors of heavy stone. The Palazzo Bagnelli, home of the Counts Bagnelli for six centuries, was one of the finest buildings of its kind in Venice.
For many years its great rooms had been filled with notable personages; servants by the hundred had scurried along its passages. Lords and ladies in gorgeous clothes had paraded in its stately rooms.
Now they were all gone, leaving behind one man, Count Pietro Bagnelli, with neither wife nor child, nor any other close family. Only two servants were left, and he was content with that.
These days he invited nobody to his home, living a solitary life in a few rooms in a corner of the building, with only Toni for company. Even to himself it had a sense of unreality, especially in winter. It was only nine o’clock but darkness had fallen and the storm had driven everyone inside.
He moved away from the window towards another one at the corner, through which he could see both the Grand Canal and the narrow alley that ran alongside the palazzo.
The spectre in the glass moved with him, showing a tall man with a lean, face, mobile mouth and deep set eyes. It was a wry, defensive face, the eyes seeming to look out from a trapped place. He was thirty-four but his air of cautious withdrawal made him seem older.
Beside him Toni suddenly became agitated. He was big enough for his head to reach the window, and he’d seen something outside that made him scrabble to get closer and demand his master’s attention.
‘There’s nothing out there,’ Pietro told him. ‘You’re imagining things.
The exclamation had been torn from him by a flash of lightning, even more blinding than the last, that had turned everything white. By its light he thought he’d seen a figure standing below in the alley.
‘Now I’m imagining things as well,’ he muttered. ‘I must stop this.’
But he stayed there, trying to see through the darkness, and at last the lightning came again, flashing on and off, showing him the figure of a young woman, drenched, her hair plastered to her head, water streaming off her. Then the night swallowed her up again.
Frowning, he opened the window and looked out into the alley, half convinced that she was an illusion. But suddenly the moon came out from behind the clouds and he saw her again.
She was perfectly still, gazing up at the window, apparently oblivious to her surroundings.
He leaned out, calling,
She neither moved nor spoke.
He hated being disturbed but he couldn’t leave her to freeze. In a moment he was heading down the stairs to the side entrance, wrenching open the heavy door.
Pietro had expected her to hurry inside, but she was still standing where he’d left her, so he hauled her forcibly inside, not troubling to be gentle. He would rescue her but he was damned if he was going to get soaked for her.
Holding her suitcase in one hand and her arm in the other, he hurried her up the stairs to his rooms, where she collapsed on the sofa, her eyes closing as she lost consciousness.
He must get her into dry clothes fast, but the thought of undressing her while she was unconscious appalled him. Yet he couldn’t let her get pneumonia. His housekeeper was away for the night. What he had to do must be done alone.
Hurrying into the bathroom, he seized a clean robe and a large towel. Her coat was light and soaked right through. Taking it off was easy, but then he knew he must remove her dress. He worked fast, praying that she might not awake until he was finished. To his relief she stayed dead to the world.
When she was decently swathed in the towel robe he rubbed her hair until it was no more than damp, then got some blankets, laid her on the sofa and placed them over her.
What the devil had happened to her? How had she ended up alone at night, in a thunderstorm, naked in the hands of a stranger? He’d tried not to notice details of her body, but he’d sensed that she was too thin, like someone who’d lost a lot of weight quickly.
‘Wake up,’ he pleaded.
When she didn’t move he became desperate. Taking a glass and a decanter from the cupboard, he poured a measure of brandy, hauled her up and forced it to her lips. Some was spilt, but enough went down to make her sneeze and open her eyes.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now finish drinking this.’
He gave her no choice, holding the glass to her lips until she’d drained it.
‘Who are you?’ Pietro asked in Italian. ‘How do you come to be here?’
‘Excuse me,’ she whispered in English.
He too switched to English to say, ‘Never mind. You need food and rest.’
