The Bride's Awakening - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,1

dressed in an expensive-looking but essentially shapeless trouser suit. Her long dark hair was held back in a clip and looked as thick and coarse as a horse’s tail. She held a glass of wine as most of the castle’s guests did; the evening was, after all, a wine-tasting for the province’s premier winemakers and guests. She had, Vittorio saw, strong, even features; pretty was not necessarily a word he would use to describe them. There was something too earthy and bold about her, he decided. He preferred the women he took to his bed to be more delicate, fragile even. Slim.

Not, he amended, that Anamaria Viale was overweight. Not at all. Big-boned was the word he might have chosen, although his mother would have sneered and called her grassa. Fat.

Vittorio’s mouth thinned at the thought of his mother. He could hardly wait to see the look on the old bitch’s face when he told her he was getting married. Bernardo, her precious favourite, fool that he was, would never inherit. Her plans—the plans she’d cherished since the moment his father’s will had been read—would come to nothing.

Vittorio smiled at the thought, little more than a bitter twisting of his mouth, and dismissed his bride’s looks as a matter of no importance. He didn’t want a beautiful woman; beautiful women, like his mother and his last mistress, were never satisfied, always finding fault. He’d left his mistress in Rio pouting for more time, money, even love. He’d told her he would never set eyes on her again.

Anamaria, he was sure, would take what she was given and be grateful, which was exactly what he wanted. A wife—a humble, grateful wife—the most important accessory a man could ever possess.

Surveying her tall, strong form, Vittorio was quite sure a woman like her was unused to male attention; he anticipated her stammering, blushing pleasure when the Count of Cazlevara singled her out.

He stepped forward, straightening his shoulders, and adopted an easy-going, self-assured smile whose devastating effect he knew well.

‘Anamaria.’ His voice came out in a low, suggestive hum.

She turned, stiffening in surprise when she saw him. Her eyes widened and a smile dawned on her face, a fragile, tremulous gesture of joy, brightening her whole countenance for the barest of moments. Vittorio smiled back; he almost laughed aloud. This was going to be so easy.

Then she drew herself up—her height making Vittorio appreciate Paulo’s comment once more—and raked him with one infuriatingly dismissive glance, that amazed smile turning cool and even—could it be?—contemptuous. He was still registering the change in her expression and mood—his smug satisfaction giving way to an uneasy alarm—when she spoke.

‘Hello, Lord Cazlevara.’ Her voice was low, husky. Almost, Vittorio thought with a flicker of distaste, like a man’s. Although, he noted, there was nothing particularly unpleasing about her features: straight brows and nose, dark grey eyes, the good teeth he’d noticed before. She was not, at least, ugly; rather, she was exceedingly plain. He let his smile deepen to show the dimple in his cheek, determined to win this plain spinster over. A woman like Anamaria would surely appreciate any charm thrown her way.

‘Let me be the first to say how lovely you look tonight.’

She raised her eyebrows, the flicker of that cool smile curling her mouth and glinting in her eyes. They had, he saw, gold flecks that made them seem to shimmer. ‘You will indeed be the first to say so.’

It took Vittorio a moment to register the mockery; he couldn’t believe she was actually making fun of him—as well as of herself. Feeling slightly wrong-footed—and unused to it—Vittorio reached for her hand, intending to raise it to his lips even as he cursed the way he’d phrased his flattery. For flattery it was indeed, and she knew it. She was not stupid, which he supposed was a good thing. She let his lips brush her skin, something darkening her eyes—those gold flecks becoming molten—before she quite deliberately pulled her hand away.

The crowd around them had fallen back, yet Vittorio was conscious of avid stares, intent ears and, even more so, his own mounting annoyance. This first meeting was not going the way he’d anticipated—with him firmly in control.

‘To what do I owe such a pleasure?’ Anamaria asked. ‘I don’t believe we’ve seen each other in well over a decade.’ Her voice caught a little, surprising him. He wondered what she was thinking of, or perhaps remembering.

‘I’m simply glad to be back home,’ Vittorio replied, keeping his