Kate Hewitt - The Brides Awakening

VITTORIO RALFINO, the Count of Cazlevara, stood on the threshold of San Stefano Castle and searched the milling guests for the woman he intended to be his wife. He wasnt certain what she looked like for, beyond a single small photo, he hadnt seen her in sixteen years. Or if he had seen her, she hadnt made much of an impression. Now he planned to marry her.

Anamaria Viale wasnt readily apparent amidst the tuxedo and evening gown-clad crowd circulating through the candlelit foyer. All he remembered from when hed seen her at her mothers funeral was a sad, sallow face and too much dark hair. Shed been thirteen years old. The photo in the magazine gave little more information; she had good teeth. Still, her looksor lack of themdid not interest Vittorio. Anamaria Viale possessed the qualities he was looking for in a wife: loyalty, health and a shared love of this land and its grapes. Her familys vineyard would be an asset to his own; together they would rule an empire and create a dynasty. Nothing else mattered.

Impatiently, he strode into the castles medieval hall. Shadows danced along the stone walls and he felt the curious stares of neighbours, acquaintances and a few friends. He heard the murmur of speculative whispers travel around the ancient hall in a ripple of suppressed sound and knew he was their subject. He hadnt been back in Veneto for more than a day or two at a time in the last fifteen years. Hed kept away from the place and its memories and regrets. Like a hurt little boy, hed run away from his past and pain, but he was a man now and he was home for goodto find a wife.

Cazlevara! Someone clapped him on the back, thrusting a glass of wine into his hand. His fingers closed around the fragile stem as a matter of instinct and he inhaled the spicy, fruity scent of a bold red. You must try this. Its Busatos new redhes blended his grapes, Vinifera and Molinara. What do you think?

Vittorio took a practised sip, swilling the rich liquid in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. Good enough, he pronounced, not wanting to get into a detailed discussion about the merits of mixed grapes, or whether Busato, one of the regions smaller winemakers, was going to give Castle Cazlevara, his own winerythe regions largest and most selectany competition. He wanted to find Anamaria.

I heard the rumours. Youre home then? Youre going to make some wine?

Vittorio glanced at the man who had been speaking to him: Paolo Prefavera, a colleague of his fathers. His round cheeks were already rosy with drink and he smiled with the genial bonhomie of an old family friend, although his eyes were shrewd.

Ive always been making wine, Paolo. Castle Cazlevara produces nine hundred thousand bottles a year.

While youve been touring the world

Its called marketing. Vittorio realized he was speaking through his teeth. He smiled. But yes, Im home for good. Home, so he could rein his grasping brother Bernardo back in, before he squandered the rest of the winerys profits. Home, so he could keep his treacherous mother from taking what was hisand his heirs. At this thought, his forced smile turned genuine, even though his eyes remained hard. Have you seen Anamaria Viale? Paolos eyebrows rose and Vittorio stifled a curse. He was too impatient; he knew that. When he made a decision, he wanted it carried out immediately, instantly. Hed decided to marry Anamaria Viale nearly a week ago; it felt like an eternity. He wanted it done; he wanted her vineyard joined to his, he wanted her joined to him, in his bed, by his side, being a wife.

Paolo smiled slyly and Vittorio forced himself to smile back. Now there would be whispers, rumours. Gossip. I have a question to ask her, he explained with a shrug, as if it were no matter.

She was over by the fireplace, last time I saw her. Paolo gave a small chuckle, more of a guffaw. How could you miss her?

Vittorio didnt understand what Paolo meant until he neared the huge stone fireplace. An alarmingly large stuffed boars head was mounted above the hearth and a few men were gathered underneath, sipping wine and chatting quietly. At least he thought they were all men. Narrowing his eyes, he realized the tall, strong figure in the centre of the group was actually a woman. Anamaria.

His mouth tightened as he took in his intended wife, dressed in an expensive-looking but essentially shapeless trouser suit. Her long dark hair was held back in a clip and looked as thick and coarse as a horses tail. She held a glass of wine as most of the castles guests did; the evening was, after all, a wine-tasting for the provinces premier winemakers and guests. She had, Vittorio saw, strong, even features; pretty was not necessarily a word he would use to describe them. There was something too earthy and bold about her, he decided. He preferred the women he took to his bed to be more delicate, fragile even. Slim.

Not, he amended, that Anamaria Viale was overweight. Not at all. Big-boned was the word he might have chosen, although his mother would have sneered and called her grassa. Fat.

Vittorios mouth thinned at the thought of his mother. He could hardly wait to see the look on the old bitchs face when he told her he was getting married. Bernardo, her precious favourite, fool that he was, would never inherit. Her plansthe plans shed cherished since the moment his fathers will had been readwould come to nothing.

Vittorio smiled at the thought, little more than a bitter twisting of his mouth, and dismissed his brides looks as a matter of no importance. He didnt want a beautiful woman; beautiful women, like his mother and his last mistress, were never satisfied, always finding fault. Hed left his mistress in Rio pouting for more time, money, even love. Hed told her he would never set eyes on her again.