The Italian Count's Defiant Bride
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‘Big rush.’ Alicia leaned across to smile at Meg’s husband. ‘Hi, Rhys.’
‘Are you all right, love?’ he said, reaching to pat her hand.
‘Fine.’ Or she would be in a minute.
‘You don’t look it,’ Gareth told her.
Alicia’s reply was drowned by the roar from the Italian supporters as their team ran onto the pitch. Then the entire arena erupted as Billy Wales, the famous ram mascot of the Welsh Guards, was led out from the players’ tunnel. The big Welsh captain came next, holding a tiny red-shirted boy by the hand as he led his team to line up for the royal presentation.
The smiling prince went along the line, shaking the hands of players on both teams, saying a word here and there. Once he was escorted back to his seat the band of the Welsh Guards struck up the first bars of the Italian national anthem, and the Italian fans in the arena roared out the words to encourage their team. There were cheers as it ended, but a hush fell as the band played the first chords of the Welsh national anthem and every Welsh man, woman and child in the stadium—including those in the home team line-up not too choked with emotion—sang in one voice. Hairs rose on every patriotic neck present as the sound filled the stadium.
The band marched off to cheers, the referee blew the whistle, and from the moment the first ball was lofted to start the match excitement wound the crowd to fever pitch. Alicia cheered and gasped with the others as the tide of play went first one way, then the other. Like everyone else she screamed encouragement when a long pass from the Welsh scrum-half began a running movement which brought the crowd to its feet as Welsh backs surged towards the line, dodging the tackles of their Italian opponents as they passed the ball from hand to hand. The noise from the crowd mounted to a frenzied crescendo when the quicksilver Welsh wing caught the final pass from the full back, danced his way through the chasing Italian defenders and dived over the line to score. Alicia applauded wildly, then after a moment’s hush joined in the cheers as the outside half sent the ball sailing over the bar, plum between the posts, to convert the try.
But through it all, even as she hugged Meg in triumph, one part of Alicia’s brain was still numb with shock from the confrontation with Francesco da Luca. She had known only too well that he might come here to support his country in such an important match. But in the throes of the Six Nations season there was no way she could have taken time off from her job today purely on the off-chance that he might turn up, even less explain why. None of her colleagues knew about her connection to Francesco.
When the final whistle blew at last to confirm Welsh victory, the crowd went wild. Not a soul in the stadium moved to leave, and the crowd cheered and yelled as the euphoric Welsh squad saluted their supporters.
‘How absolutely wonderful! But duty calls. I’ve got to go now, folks,’ said Alicia, getting up. ‘You stay here and enjoy the celebration.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Gareth, torn between seeing her out safely and wallowing in national euphoria.
‘Of course. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.’ As Alicia leaned down to kiss Meg, her friend gave her an anxious look.
‘I hope you’re not too late to bed tonight, Lally. You look tired.’
‘I’m fine, Mother Hen. Cheers, boys.’
Alicia made her way up the tiers of wildly cheering fans, returning the jubilant smiles on all sides as she went. But her smile vanished when she spotted the elegant, raincoated figure waiting just outside the exit. For a split second she considered racing back down to the others. Instead she stiffened her spine and mounted the remaining steps, head high. She ignored the hand Francesco held out, but in silent, icy acquiescence accompanied him down to ground level and outside to the entrance of the stadium. As silent as Alicia, he put up a large black umbrella and put an arm round her rigid waist to draw her under its shelter as the first of the exultant Welsh crowd began streaming past them on their way to begin celebrating their team’s magnificent victory.
‘I must talk with you,’ said Francesco at last, dropping his arm as he leaned close to speak in her ear.
‘No,’ she said flatly.
‘I understand your hostility—’
‘No one better!’
His eyes blazed. ‘You know very well how many, many times I have tried to contact you, Alicia, but you do not return my calls; my letters come back to me unopened. And appeals to your mother have been useless. She would tell me nothing.’
‘Of course not. She was acting on my instructions.’ Her chin lifted. ‘And you can’t have appealed to her lately. She moved from Blake Street ages ago.’
He drew her aside to avoid being buffeted by the crowds. ‘Dio, this is impossible. Come with me to my hotel.’
She gave him a look like a thrown dagger. ‘After what happened last time we were in a hotel room? In your dreams, Francesco!’ She tried to thrust his arm away, but he held her fast.
‘Dreams of you are all I have!’ His eyes locked with hers. ‘I felt hope when I finally received a letter from you, but it was merely your—your condoglianze for the death of my mother.’
‘And you only had that because my mother insisted I write it after your letter was forwarded to her.’
His eyes darkened. ‘Do you hate me so much then, Alicia?’
She gave him a pitying smile. ‘Good heavens, no. I feel nothing at all for you any more, Francesco. This urgent talk you want,’ she added briskly, ‘I assume it’s a divorce you’re after? If so you don’t need me to agree to it after all this time, unless the law’s different in your part of the world. And to set your mind at rest, Signor Conte, I don’t want a single thing from you, legally or any other way. So go ahead, get on with it. I’ll sign whatever papers you want. As far as I’m concerned you’re a free man.’
He shook his head slowly, a look in his eyes she didn’t care for at all. ‘You and I were married by a priest in the sight of God, Alicia. You are still my wife. And I,’ he added, in a tone she cared even less for, ‘am still your husband.’
‘Only on paper! As a bride I fell disastrously short of your requirements. Something you made cruelly plain to me.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Surely you can just get the marriage annulled?’
‘And make public what is personal between us?’ He shook his head, and bent nearer under cover of the umbrella. ‘After all this time I doubt that you are still a virgin. And if you are not—’ he shrugged in the way she remembered only too well ‘—there is no proof that our marriage was not consummated.’