Her New Year Baby Secret(24)

'I couldn't understand a word, but that was beautiful.' Sophie gulped as  the crowd burst into enthusiastic applause as Bianca and Antonio  embraced for the first time as husband and wife. 'She looks so gorgeous.  Like the perfect bride. And they look so happy...' Her voice wavered.  Next to her one of Marco's aunts was sobbing, on his other side his  mother was still applying her handkerchief. Marco looked around wildly,  but he was trapped; there was no escape from wet-eyed, sniffing females.

At least no escape until he was crushed into the narrow pew as his  mother elbowed her way past him. 'Oh, Sophie, grazie, cara. You  performed miracles. Hey, Chesca, this is Sophie, Marco's ragazza. Did  you see how she transformed Bianca's dress? Sì, bellissima.'

His mother kept up her chatter as they made their way down the aisle.  She was obviously buzzing from the wedding and wanted everyone to know  how Sophie had helped-binding the English girl ever closer to the  family, he thought wryly. 'Yes, she and Marco are very close, he's quite  besotted,' he heard her confide more than once. 'We expect an  announcement any day now.'

Her whispered predictions didn't surprise him, his lack of anger did.  But she was wrong; there would be no announcement. Things had moved too  fast, so fast he'd barely noticed that they were out of the shallows and  heading towards the deep water. Sophie was going home tomorrow and  perhaps it was for the best. Enjoy the short time they had left, then  put a stop to it before he let her down. He might not mean to, but he  would. It was his hallmark after all.

* * *

Sophie had been aware of the stares before the wedding started. It was  worse than the party at Epiphany. Then, she had been new to the city,  unaware of the subtext. Today she knew all too well that everyone was  looking at her and wondering if she would be the next Santoro bride. She  had been the subject of more than a few cool, assessing once-overs from  expensively clad and groomed women, the contemptuous flicker of their  eyes judging her and finding her wanting.

But the stares intensified once the ceremony was over. Marco's mother  was making it very clear that she considered Sophie one of the family,  introducing her to what seemed like every single one of the three  hundred guests. Even worse, she told everyone she could about how Sophie  had 'saved' Bianca's dress. Sophie knew that if Ashleigh were here  she'd be telling her to milk the situation for all she was worth, think  of future commissions and suck it up, but she felt guilty taking all the  credit-she'd only adapted what was already there after all.

The whole wedding party walked the short distance between the church and  the palazzo where Bianca and Antonio were hosting their wedding  reception. There had, Sophie gathered, been some heated family debate on  the venue, the Santoros wanting to hold it at the family home, but  Bianca preferring a neutral venue-and for she and Antonio to pick up the  tab. 'Mamma wants to control every little detail as it is,' she'd  explained to Sophie. 'The only way I can guarantee having things the way  I want them is to pay for it myself.'                       
       
           



       

And goodness knew what she had paid. The couple had taken over one of  the most illustrious hotels in Venice for the evening, demanding sole  use of the fourteenth-century palazzo for their guests. Sophie had been  intimidated by the faded glory of the Santoro home, but this fully  restored palazzo took her breath away, from the bright frescos adorning  every wall and ceiling to the marble staircase, the huge terrace  overlooking the Grand Canal, furnished with tables, chairs and throws to  wrap around the hardier wedding guests venturing out in the January  chill, to the ballroom in which the reception was being held. This was  an immense room, decorated with elaborate, huge gold frescos, the  ceiling high above adding to the feeling of grandeur and space. She had  waitressed at some glitzy events over the last eighteen months, had seen  some fabulous occasions, but nothing came close to the sheer grandeur  of this wedding, this room, this family.

What on earth was she doing here?

'Signorina Bradshaw?' She jumped at a gentle tap on her elbow, turning  to see a petite brunette with a wide smile, conservatively dressed in a  smart, dark blue suit. 'Hello. I am Flavia, fashion reporter for  Marchesa magazine.'

That was another unexpected facet to today's wedding. She had known the  Santoros were rich, had known that the family was old Venetian blue  blood, but it simply hadn't occurred to her that there would be outside  interest in the wedding. It came as a shock when she realised several  newspapers and magazines had been waiting outside the church and the  high society Marchesa magazine had permission to cover the early part of  the reception. Sophie resisted the urge to smooth down her dress and  did her best to smile. 'Hi, yes, I'm Sophie Bradshaw.'

'You are here with Signor Santoro?'

'Erm...yes.' That wasn't exactly privileged information and Marco's  mother had already announced it to pretty much the whole of Venice. The  reporter looked at her expectantly and Sophie struggled to find  something else to say. 'It was very kind of him to ask me along to such a  beautiful occasion.'

There, she knew her role was to act as a buffer between Marco and his  family's expectations, but at least she wasn't publicly staking her  claim. The journalist didn't look convinced, raising a sceptical eyebrow  before plastering on her smile. 'The big news is, of course, the  wedding dress. Everyone has been raving over it and I hear you are  responsible for making some big last-minute changes?'

Sophie paused. She didn't want to say that Bianca had put on weight and  she certainly wasn't going to mention the pregnancy. 'I...'

'Sophie saved me.' The bride swooped down upon them, kissing Sophie  exuberantly. 'My dress was beautiful, yes, but too plain for such an  occasion, not entirely appropriate for a church wedding. And she took  this beautiful dress and made it unique and special.' She twirled round,  allowing the accompanying photographer to take pictures. 'Look at the  stitching, and these beautiful buttons, and how she took it in here and  here. She made the dress she's wearing too. Don't be fooled by how  simple it looks. It is truly elegante.'

To Sophie's relief, once her photo had been taken, one with the bride  and one posing self-consciously by herself by one of the three huge  windows, the journalist moved away. Sophie scanned the crowds but  couldn't see Marco anywhere and she couldn't face another round of being  introduced as the new member of the family. It was probably a little  futile checking her hair and make-up after the magazine had taken her  photo, but she knew she needed a few moments to ready herself for the  rest of the event.

She'd always found large social events intimidating, much preferring  quiet evenings to a big crowd. Make the crowd larger, wealthier and  effortlessly chic, add in a language she didn't speak and she was  officially way out of her depth.

Luckily it didn't take her long to find the ladies' room. The door led  into a large sitting area, filled with inviting-looking seats and sofas  and several dressing tables, each piled high with cotton wool, hair  spray and even straighteners for maximum primping. A door at the other  end led to toilets and sinks and, as another guest came through, Sophie  noted the opulence of the marble sinks and the gilt fittings. She  suspected the individual toilet stalls might be bigger than her own  shower room back in London-not that difficult: most cupboards were  bigger than her shower room.

Sinking onto one of the sofas with a sigh of relief, Sophie told herself  sternly she had five minutes to get herself together before heading  back in. Things were coming to a head, that was all. She was leaving  first thing tomorrow-really going this time-and she had to tell Marco  about the baby before she did so. He hadn't mentioned anything about  seeing each other in London, so she couldn't assume that there would be  an easy opportunity to tell him once she was back.                       
       
           



       

She closed her eyes and wished, just for a moment, that things were  different. That she and Marco really were as together as his mother  assumed, that she would be joining this loud, overbearing, terrifyingly  opinionated, loving, inclusive family. Not once had Sophie felt not good  enough. Not when she hadn't known how to address the maid. Not when she  couldn't follow the conversation, not when she admitted she made most  of her clothes, not when Marco had realised she was worrying about  money.

She'd never once felt good enough for Harry. Which was ironic because now she could see she was far, far too good for him.

If she weren't pregnant, would she act any differently? Be more honest  about how she felt? It was too difficult to know; she was pregnant and  although that made everything infinitely more complicated she couldn't  be sorry. Besides, Marco's mother was right: she and Marco probably  would make a beautiful baby.