Page 18 of Her New Year Baby Secret

‘Sophie,’ he said, striding over to her and kissing her on both cheeks in welcome. ‘Welcome. Did you have any trouble finding us?’

‘No, no, even I would find it hard to get lost when a boat delivers me straight to the door.’ Bianca and his mother laughed, but Marco’s eyes narrowed. There was a tartness in her voice he hadn’t heard before, the blue eyes icy and cold. Was she cross because he hadn’t met her at the airport? He hoped not. Maybe a decoy was going to be as much trouble as a real girlfriend.

‘Mamma, Bianca, please excuse us, I would like to make my apologies to Sophie properly for not being here when she arrived,’ he said, smoothly drawing Sophie’s arm through his. The pre-party drinks were being held in the reception salon, the largest sitting room on the first floor. Like most of the public rooms it overlooked the Grand Canal. Marco walked Sophie over to the furthest window, away from prying ears. ‘I hope Gianni found you all right. I’m sorry I was detained.’

‘No, that’s fine.’ But she was still staring out at the canal, her face set. ‘I just wish you’d warned me, that’s all.’

‘I didn’t realise until yesterday...’

‘No! Not about being met, for goodness’ sake! About this...’ She looked around and he realised with a stab of compunction that her lips were quivering. ‘Marco, every woman here is in a full-on ballgown. They look like they are going to a coronation, not a family party. And me? I’m wearing a little party dress I made myself. I look so underdressed.’

‘You look beautiful.’ And she did. Although she was right, all the other women were in floor-length, brightly coloured silk and chiffon gowns.

‘And this house! Family party, you said. You forgot to mention that the family is the Borgias! I’ve never been anywhere like this. My bedroom is like a five-star hotel.’

‘You don’t like it?’ Marco was struggling to understand the point she was making. So the family home was big and the party formal? Women usually loved the palazzo, and they loved knowing he was the future owner—owner, he supposed, not that he had any intention of setting up home here even more.

‘Like it?’ She made a queer noise, part gasp, part sob, part laughter. ‘It’s not the kind of place you like, is it? It’s magnificent, beautiful, incredible, but it’s not the kind of place I know as home. I don’t fit in here, Marco. Not in this house, not with this kind of wealth. Your mother is wearing a diamond tiara that’s probably worth more than my parents’ house.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, God, listen to me. I sound like the worst kind of inverted snob. I just didn’t expect any of this. I’m more than a little thrown.’

Marco had never heard this kind of reaction before. True, most women who walked into the palazzo knew exactly who he was, briefed by their mammas just as he was by his. But even the wealthiest and most well-bred visitor got a covetous look in their eye when they realised the whole of the building still belonged to the family and therefore, by extension, to Marco. This kind of appalled shock was new, but it was also a relief, like a long sip of cold water after a lifetime of rich, creamy milk.

And she did have a point. He’d brought her here for his own selfish reasons; it hadn’t occurred to him to warn her just what a Santoro party entailed.

‘Just be yourself, Sophie. I promise you, everyone will love you—and they will adore your dress. I’m sorry, it didn’t occur to me that this would all be a little overwhelming, but I promise to make it up to you. Tomorrow I’ll show you Venice, not a tiara in sight. What do you say?’

She didn’t answer for a long moment, indecision clear on her face. Then she turned to him, eyes big with a vulnerable expression in them that struck him hard. ‘Are you sure I look all right? I’m not letting you down?’

‘Not at all,’ he assured her. ‘In fact I predict next year most of the younger women will be glad to break with tradition and wear shorter dresses. Come, let’s go and mingle and I will tell you three scandalous secrets about every person we meet. I promise you won’t be intimidated by a single one by the end of the evening.’

CHAPTER FIVE

ALTHOUGH MARCO WAS true to his word and did indeed tell Sophie such scandalous secrets about every person she met—she refused to believe they could be true; surely that regal lady over there wasn’t an international jewel thief?—she was still a little intimidated. Intimidated by the glitter and the air of self-possession displayed by every well-dressed guest, by the rapid flow of Italian all around and the familiarity with which each guest greeted each other. She felt too English, too parochial, too poor, too self-conscious, and although Marco was a charming and attentive host Sophie couldn’t help thinking longingly of the city outside the old palazzo, ready to be explored and discovered.

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