The Forced Bride by Sara Craven

had died, quite peacefully, only a week after she’d become engaged. And the wedding had taken place just
    over a month later, a quiet register office ceremony with Leonard Henshaw and his wife as the only witnesses.
    Afterwards, they had flown to Italy for what was supposed to be their honeymoon.
    ‘It is the convention,’ Raf said simply when she tried to protest. ‘And anyway, I would like to show you my home.’ He
    paused. ‘Is that—agreeable to you’
    She swallowed. ‘Won’t it be very hot in Rome at this time of year’
    ‘There is a pool,’ he said. ‘Do you like to swim’
    She had a sudden vision of the pool at High Gables and Simon splashing her, laughing in the sunlight.
    She turned away. ‘I used to. Not any more.’ And thought she heard him sigh.
    But she had to admit that the house just outside Rome was beautiful, if a little gloomy, with its marble floors and
    old-fashioned furniture. It was older even than the Manor and larger too, with a labyrinth of passages and rooms, many of
    them with ornamental ceilings and frescoed walls, and most of them in need of attention.
    It also required a considerable staff to run it and, to Emily’s embarrassment, they were all lined up waiting to welcome her
    in high excitement.
    If they only knew, she thought bitterly, that their new Contessa is a total fraud.
    And a worried fraud at that, for she seemed to have been assigned the most enormous bedroom, with the largest
    canopied bed she’d ever seen, and the maids who unpacked for her were exchanging conspiratorial smiles as they
    arranged her prettiest white nightdress across the embroidered coverlet.
    Emily felt her throat tighten in fright. In spite of Raf’s assurances, it seemed obvious that the scene was being set for the
    ritual deflowering of the latest Di Salis bride.
    And her nervousness increased when she discovered that, as well as doors to a dressing room and a large bathroom,
    there was also direct access to an adjoining and equally imposing room, which bore all the signs of male occupation. And
    realised that, although this door had an ornate lock, there was no key to go with it.
    Dinner was served much later than she was accustomed to and, while the food was delicious, she had little appetite for it
    and none at all for the wine which accompanied it.
    She needed, she thought, to stay very, very sober.
    And, even if she wasn’t hungry, to make the meal last as long as possible.
    ‘You look tired,’ Raf commented, as the cheese course was being cleared.
    ‘A little,’ she returned cautiously. She was actually dead on her feet but she wasn’t going to admit as much.
    ‘It has been a long day,’ he said, confirming all her worst fears by adding, ‘I suggest you go to bed.’ He paused. ‘Can
    you find your way back to your room’
    ‘Of course,’ she said too quickly, in case he offered to escort her.
    ‘If you get lost, call out and eager rescuers will immediately appear.’ He smiled at her. ‘You are an object of fascination
    for the entire household, you understand.’
    ‘Yes,’ she returned tautly. ‘I—gathered that.’
    Raf was leaning back in his chair, his lean fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass.
    ‘You looked very lovely today,mia cara ,’ he said quietly. ‘Your dress was charming.’
    ‘It—it wasn’t new. I wore it when Daddy took me to Ascot one time.’ She remembered with a pang how joyously she’d
    chosen the slender cream silk shift just skimming her knees.
    She added stiffly, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
    ‘If you had worn it a hundred times, you would have looked no less beautiful.’
    The conversation was taking altogether too personal a turn, she decided, and pushed back her chair, pretending to yawn.
    ‘I think maybe you’re right and I should call it a day.’
    He rose too. ‘Then I wish you goodnight.’
    She murmured something in reply and went, trying not to hurry too obviously. At least he hadn’t attempted to kiss her,
    she