the marriage, everyone thought it was a great match. Arturo never said he didn’t love me, of course. And on the surface he was considerate, kind. Just like Vittorio, si? Yet here—’ Constantia lightly touched her breastbone ‘—here, I knew.’
Tua cuore. Sudden tears stung Ana’s eyes and she blinked them away. She was not going to cry. ‘Consideration and kindness,’ she said after a moment, ‘count for much.’
Constantia laughed once, the sound sharp with cynicism. ‘Oh, you think so? Because I happen to believe those agreeable sentiments make you feel like a puppy that has been patted on the head and told to go and lie down and stop bothering anyone anymore. Not a nice feeling all these years, you know? To feel like a dog.’ She paused, and something hardened in both her face and voice. ‘You would be amazed to know the things you can be driven to, the things you do even though you hate them—hate yourself—when you feel like that.’ She drained her espresso and rose from the table, giving Ana one last cool smile. The haughty set of her shoulders and the arrogant tilt of her chin made Ana think Constantia regretted her moment of honesty. ‘Perhaps it is different for you, Ana.’
‘It is different,’ Ana replied with sudden force. ‘I don’t love Vittorio either.’
Constantia’s smile was pitying. ‘Don’t you?’ she said, and walked from the room.
Constantia’s words echoed through Ana’s mind all morning as she tried to focus on work. She couldn’t. She argued endlessly with herself, trying to convince herself that she didn’t love Vittorio, she didn’t love the way his eyes gleamed when he was amused, the way they softened when he spoke quietly, the broad set of his shoulders, the feel of his lips—
Of course, those were all physical attributes. You couldn’t love someone based on how they looked. Yet Ana knew there was more to Vittorio than his dark good looks. When she was in his presence, she felt alive. Amazed. As if anything could happen, good or bad, and the good would be wonderful and even the bad would be all right because she still would be with him. She wanted to know more about him, not just to feel his body against hers, but his heart against hers also. She wanted to see him smile, just for her. To have him whisper something just meant for her.
She wanted him to love her. She wanted to love him.
She wanted love.
‘No!’ The word burst out of her, bounced around the walls of her empty room. ‘No,’ she said again, a whisper, a plea. She couldn’t want love. She couldn’t, because Vittorio would never give it. She thought of Constantia, her face a map of the disappointments life had given her. Ana didn’t know all the history between Constantia and Vittorio, or Constantia and her own husband, but she knew—it was plain to see—that the woman was bitter, angry, and perhaps even in despair. She didn’t want that. Yet, if she wanted Vittorio’s love—which she was still trying to convince herself she didn’t—it seemed like only a matter of time until she was like Constantia, unfulfilled and unhappy, pacing the rooms of Castle Cazlevara and cursing other people’s joy.
That afternoon Ana left work early—a rare occurrence—and drove to the Mestre train station that crossed the lagoon into Venice. As she rode over the Ponte della Libertà—the Bridge of Liberty—Ana wondered what she was doing…and why. Why had she summoned all her courage and rung the boutique Vittorio had taken her to before their marriage, why had she made an appointment with the pencil-thin Feliciana to be fitted for several outfits, including a gown for the party on Friday night?
Ana told herself it was because she needed some new clothes, now that she was the Countess. Part of her arrangement with Vittorio was that she would dress appropriately to her station, as he’d said. Naturally, it made sense to visit the boutique he’d chosen above all others for this purpose.
Yet, no matter how many times Ana told herself this—mustering all her logic, her common sense—her heart told her otherwise. She was doing this—dressing this way—because she wanted Vittorio to see her differently. She wanted him to see her as a wife, and not just any wife, but a wife he could love.
The thought terrified her.
‘Contessa Cazlevara!’ Feliciana started forward the minute Ana entered the narrow confines of the upscale boutique. Ana smiled and allowed herself to be air-kissed, even though she felt