An Inheritance of Shame(43)

‘Just the fact that you kept that scrapbook of postcards tells me you’ve wanted something more.’

‘That doesn’t mean I’d shake my fist at the world if I don’t get it.’

‘I’m not talking about shaking your first.’ He glanced down as he slid his fingers along hers, examining each one in turn, and just that simple touch made her heart beat faster and that lovely, languorous warmth spread throughout her whole body. ‘I’m talking about doing something about it.’

‘You’re the only one of us who did something about it, Angelo. You got out, made more of yourself. I never did.’

He glanced up at her, his fingers still twined with hers. ‘Do you regret that?’

‘I don’t see the point of that either.’ She swallowed. ‘I had obligations here.’

‘You mean your mother?’

‘Yes—’

‘And then,’ Angelo said softly, ‘our daughter.’ She felt herself stiffen, and Angelo’s fingers closed gently around hers. ‘What had you planned? To raise her in Caltarione?’

She nodded. ‘I didn’t have anywhere else to go.’

‘You could have moved to Palermo. Even that would have been a bit of a fresh start.’ He didn’t sound accusing or judgemental, just curious. Wanting to understand her.

‘Yes, and I did think of it. But it felt like running away. And I didn’t want—’ She hesitated, not wanting to admit how bad it had been for her then.

‘You didn’t want?’ Angelo prompted, his fingers still linked with hers.

‘I didn’t want people to think I’d been beaten. Or that I was ashamed.’

His fingers tightened over hers briefly. ‘Is that how people acted? Like you should have been ashamed?’

‘An unwed mother in a tiny village? Of course they did.’ She’d meant to sound light and wry, but she knew she hadn’t managed it. Angelo’s face darkened, a frown compressing his mouth.

‘And not just an unwed mother. Another Corretti bastard.’

She clenched her fingers into a protective fist. ‘How did you know?’

‘I guessed. It took me long enough. But I’ve noticed a few looks.…People know, don’t they? Even at the hotel.’

‘Only some. But gossip spreads.’

‘How did they? How did anyone know I was the father?’

‘Oh, Angelo.’ She shook her head, smiling even though a lump had lodged in her throat. ‘Carlo Corretti’s funeral was at the church in Caltarione. You walked all the way from the church down the main street with every old woman—and young too—peeping from behind her curtains. Everyone knew about the funeral, of course. And everyone knew you were there.’

‘And everyone,’ he finished, ‘saw me knock on your door.’

‘And come in,’ she added with a sad smile, ‘and not leave until morning. I’m amazed both our ears weren’t singed by all the gossip.’

Angelo didn’t speak for a long moment. He glanced down at their entwined hands, her fingers still pulled protectively into a fist. A tiny movement, pointless, yet some part of her still reacted in self-defence. Carefully he straightened each clenched finger, then laid his palm flat against hers, a warm, comforting weight. ‘I should have thought of that,’ he said quietly, his gaze still on their pressed palms. ‘Back then. I should have considered how it might look for you. Even if you hadn’t fallen pregnant, the gossip would have flown.’

‘It always does.’

‘I should have—’

‘What could you have done, Angelo? Your life was in Rome. No matter what might develop between us now, it was still a one-night stand back then.’

He looked up at her, his eyes dark and shadowed. ‘Only because I couldn’t imagine anything else.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is new territory for me, Lucia.’ The smile he gave her was crooked, self-deprecating. ‘A relationship of any kind—’

‘You must have had relationships before.’

‘No.’

‘No? None at all?’ She frowned, finding that hard to believe. Angelo was thirty-three years old, a man of experience, wealth and power. Of course he’d had relationships.

‘I’ve had…transactions,’ Angelo said carefully. ‘Of the kind I first suggested to you.’ A faint flush touched his cheekbones, and Lucia almost laughed even as his admission made a fresh sorrow sweep through her.