come back to him and yet, even so, he didn’t go in search of her. He didn’t even know what he would say.
He thought of how Enrico Viale had stopped him in the middle of the party, one hand on his sleeve. ‘She looked beautiful, our Ana, si?’ the older man had said, pride shining in his eyes. Vittorio had been about to agree when he realized Enrico was not talking about how Ana looked tonight. ‘It was her mother’s wedding dress, you know. I asked her to wear it.’
Vittorio had been left speechless, amazed and humbled by Ana’s selflessness, by her loyalty. And he’d demanded that same loyalty of her for him? When he didn’t even know what to do with her, how to treat her, how to love her?
Love. But he didn’t want love.
As the last guests trickled outside, the cars heading down the castle’s steep drive in a steady stream of light, Vittorio wondered what on earth he’d been trying to accomplish by setting out to acquire a wife like so much baggage. What had been the point, to take another being into his care, another life into his hands? Who was meant to notice, to know?
Who cared?
Of course, most of his neighbours and fellow winemakers were curious about the Count of Cazlevara’s sudden return and even more sudden marriage. He’d felt their implicit approval that he’d returned to where he belonged, was now taking his rightful place, esteemed winemaker and leader of the community.
Yet he hadn’t been trying to gain their approval. At that moment, their approval hardly mattered at all.
‘So, Vittorio. A success.’
Vittorio turned slowly around; his mother stood in the doorway of the drawing room. She looked coldly elegant in a cream satin sheath dress, her expression unsmiling. This was the person whose approval he’d been trying to gain, Vittorio realized, and how absurd that was, considering his mother had not had a moment of interest or affection for him since he was four. When his brother had been born.
He was jealous, Vittorio realized, incredulous and yet still somehow unsurprised by this. All these years, his desire to return to his home and show his brother and mother his success, his self-sufficiency—it had just been jealousy. Petty, pathetic jealousy.
He turned back to the window. The last cars had disappeared down the darkened drive. ‘So it appears.’
‘You’re not pleased?’ she asked, moving into the room. He heard a caustic note in her voice that still made his shoulders tense and the vulnerable space between them prickle.
Go away, Vittorio. Leave me alone.
At that moment he felt like that confused child who had tugged his mother’s sleeve, desperate to show her a drawing, receive a hug. She’d turned away, time and time again, forever averting both her face and her heart. When she’d welcomed Bernardo, adored and doted on and spoiled him utterly, it seemed obvious. She simply preferred his brother to him.
Vittorio made an impatient sound of disgust; he was disgusted with himself. Why was he remembering these silly, childish moments now? He’d lived with his mother’s rejection for most of his life. He’d learned not to care. He’d steeled himself against it, against the treachery she’d committed when his father had died—
Except obviously he hadn’t, for the emotions were still present, raked up and raw, and they made him angry. What kind of man was still hurt by his mother? It was ridiculous, pathetic, shaming.
‘On the contrary, Mother. I am very pleased.’ His voice was bland with just a hint of sharpness; it was the tone he always reserved for her.
She gave an answering little laugh, just as sharp. ‘Oh, Vittorio. Nothing is ever enough, is it? You’re just like your father.’ The words were meant to be an accusation, a condemnation.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
His mother’s lip curled in a sneer. ‘Of course you will.’
Impatient with all her veiled little barbs, Vittorio shrugged. ‘Where’s Ana?’
Constantia arched her eyebrows in challenge. ‘Why do you care?’
His temper finally frayed. ‘Because she is my wife.’ And he wanted to know where she was, he wanted to see her now, to feel her smile, her sweetness—
‘A wife you won’t love.’
Vittorio stiffened. ‘That is no concern of—’
‘Isn’t it?’ She stepped closer and he saw the anger in her eyes, as well as something else. Something that looked strangely like sorrow. It was unfamiliar. He was used to his mother angry, but sad—?
‘You don’t know what it is like to love someone, Vittorio, who will never love you back—’
He