garden.
Presently, distant but gleeful, Charlie's laughter came to her on the light summer wind, and she stood, staring in front of her unseeingly, her teeth sunk so deeply into her lower lip that she could taste blood.
She wanted to hate Julie Cole, but it was impossible. She was too kind, too tactful, and she thought that Charlie was heaven on legs.
And if she knew that her job was more for security than enjoyment, she kept that to herself.
The creamy scrambled eggs she made for supper were good too, and Charlie loved the triangles of buttered toast that went with them, although Polly could barely force her portion past the sick, scared lump in her throat.
She had wanted to wait at the house to talk to her father, or perhaps just put her head down on his shoulder and cry out her fear, but suddenly there was a car and driver at the gate, and Sandro was insisting quietly but implacably that she should take Charlie home.
She'd begun a protest, but Sandro had simply looked at her, his brows lifted haughtily, questioningly, and the words seemed to stutter and die on her lips.
'You begin to learn,' he had approved coldly.
She had been shaken to find him carrying Charlie down to the car in his arms, and found herself hoping that the little boy would have one of his infrequent tantrums, kicking, screaming and reaching for her as proof that no one else would do.
He didn't; nor did he burst into tears when Sandro had gently but firmly removed his thumb from his mouth.
She had said defensively, 'He doesn't really do that any more. Only when he's tired—or frightened.'
'All the more reason, then, to take him home,' Sandro had retorted unarguably.
She could only imagine the kind of scene that would erupt once her father returned, and her mother had some solid support.
'I'll make your father sell the house,' she'd hissed at Polly as she was leaving. 'Marquis or not, I'm going to fight this man through every court in the land.'
Polly sighed silently. She really doesn't know what she's up against, she thought unhappily. And I'm only just beginning to find out, too.
Only twenty-four hours ago or less, she'd been planning for her life to change, but not to this extreme, catastrophic extent. She'd seen a period of struggle ahead, but never the bleak desert of loneliness that now threatened her.
'He may not win,' she thought. And only realised she'd spoken aloud when Julie said, 'Are you all right, Miss Fairfax?'
Polly jumped, then mustered an attempt at a smile. 'Yes, fine,' she lied.
Julie studied her dubiously. 'I saw some white wine in the fridge while I was getting the eggs. Why don't you sit down and put your feet up, while I do the dishes, and then I'll bring you a glass?'
I don't want a glass, thought Polly. I want a bottle, a cellar, a whole vineyard. I want the edges of my pain blurred, and to be able to stop thinking.
She cleared her throat. 'I know Sandro—the marchese— instructed you to put Charlie to bed, but I'd really like to do it myself, if you wouldn't mind.'
'Sure, Miss Fairfax.' Was that compassion in the other girl's voice? 'Anything you say.'
Charlie was tired, and more than a little grumpy, especially when he realised his usual playtime in the bath was going to be curtailed. By the time she'd wrestled him into his pyjamas, Polly felt limp, and close to tears.
'Let me take him.' Julie spoke gently behind her. 'You look all in.'
Polly submitted, standing in his doorway, while her grizzling son was tucked in deftly and firmly.
He'll never settle, she told herself with a kind of sour triumph, only to be confounded when he was fast asleep within five minutes.
She stood at the side of the cot, watching the fan of dark lashes on his cheek, and the small mouth pursed in slumber. She ached to snatch him up and hold him. To run with him into the night to a place where they would never be found.
But she was crying for the moon, and she knew it. Even if there was such a place,
Presently, distant but gleeful, Charlie's laughter came to her on the light summer wind, and she stood, staring in front of her unseeingly, her teeth sunk so deeply into her lower lip that she could taste blood.
She wanted to hate Julie Cole, but it was impossible. She was too kind, too tactful, and she thought that Charlie was heaven on legs.
And if she knew that her job was more for security than enjoyment, she kept that to herself.
The creamy scrambled eggs she made for supper were good too, and Charlie loved the triangles of buttered toast that went with them, although Polly could barely force her portion past the sick, scared lump in her throat.
She had wanted to wait at the house to talk to her father, or perhaps just put her head down on his shoulder and cry out her fear, but suddenly there was a car and driver at the gate, and Sandro was insisting quietly but implacably that she should take Charlie home.
She'd begun a protest, but Sandro had simply looked at her, his brows lifted haughtily, questioningly, and the words seemed to stutter and die on her lips.
'You begin to learn,' he had approved coldly.
She had been shaken to find him carrying Charlie down to the car in his arms, and found herself hoping that the little boy would have one of his infrequent tantrums, kicking, screaming and reaching for her as proof that no one else would do.
He didn't; nor did he burst into tears when Sandro had gently but firmly removed his thumb from his mouth.
She had said defensively, 'He doesn't really do that any more. Only when he's tired—or frightened.'
'All the more reason, then, to take him home,' Sandro had retorted unarguably.
She could only imagine the kind of scene that would erupt once her father returned, and her mother had some solid support.
'I'll make your father sell the house,' she'd hissed at Polly as she was leaving. 'Marquis or not, I'm going to fight this man through every court in the land.'
Polly sighed silently. She really doesn't know what she's up against, she thought unhappily. And I'm only just beginning to find out, too.
Only twenty-four hours ago or less, she'd been planning for her life to change, but not to this extreme, catastrophic extent. She'd seen a period of struggle ahead, but never the bleak desert of loneliness that now threatened her.
'He may not win,' she thought. And only realised she'd spoken aloud when Julie said, 'Are you all right, Miss Fairfax?'
Polly jumped, then mustered an attempt at a smile. 'Yes, fine,' she lied.
Julie studied her dubiously. 'I saw some white wine in the fridge while I was getting the eggs. Why don't you sit down and put your feet up, while I do the dishes, and then I'll bring you a glass?'
I don't want a glass, thought Polly. I want a bottle, a cellar, a whole vineyard. I want the edges of my pain blurred, and to be able to stop thinking.
She cleared her throat. 'I know Sandro—the marchese— instructed you to put Charlie to bed, but I'd really like to do it myself, if you wouldn't mind.'
'Sure, Miss Fairfax.' Was that compassion in the other girl's voice? 'Anything you say.'
Charlie was tired, and more than a little grumpy, especially when he realised his usual playtime in the bath was going to be curtailed. By the time she'd wrestled him into his pyjamas, Polly felt limp, and close to tears.
'Let me take him.' Julie spoke gently behind her. 'You look all in.'
Polly submitted, standing in his doorway, while her grizzling son was tucked in deftly and firmly.
He'll never settle, she told herself with a kind of sour triumph, only to be confounded when he was fast asleep within five minutes.
She stood at the side of the cot, watching the fan of dark lashes on his cheek, and the small mouth pursed in slumber. She ached to snatch him up and hold him. To run with him into the night to a place where they would never be found.
But she was crying for the moon, and she knew it. Even if there was such a place,
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