Visconti's Forgotten Heir(48)

CHAPTER NINE


SHE HAD SLEPT fitfully on top of the duvet for what had remained of the night.

Rising late, she groped for her cell phone on the bedside cabinet, where she had dumped the contents of her bag, which she had then left with her dress in Andreas’s bedroom. Eventually she found it in the deep pocket of the masculine robe that she was still wearing.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about Andreas?’ she asked pointedly and without any preamble when her mother answered after the first few rings.

There was a long silence at the other end of the line.

‘Why?’ Magenta pressed, staring out across the grounds through one of the windows. A pheasant was wandering peacefully across the middle of the pristine lawn, its coppery plumage striking in the morning sun. ‘Why didn’t you tell me I’d had a relationship with him? And that my baby—my beautiful baby—was his son?’

‘I thought it was for the best.’ Jeanette’s tone was defensive. ‘I knew what that Visconti family thought of you—thought of both of us—and I wanted something better for you,’ she said. ‘I was relieved when you gave him up, but then afterwards, when you moved back in with me in that flat, I heard you crying every night. Sometimes when you were asleep you’d even call out his name. When you had that haemorrhage and you couldn’t remember anything about him I hoped you’d forgotten him for good. I wanted you to make a fresh start. Not to have to rely on any man, or need one in your life as I always did. I didn’t think it mattered if Theo didn’t know who his real father was. After all, it didn’t do you any harm, did it?’

No? Magenta thought with bitter self-derision, thinking of the vain and hedonistic glory-seeking creature she had been.

‘You had no right to do that.’ It was a small cry from the depths of her heart, stinging as it was from all she’d remembered about herself, all she had lost, and now the humiliation of winding up in bed with the man who despised her because of it.

‘I was only thinking of you.’ Her mother had put on her don’t be angry with me—you know I’m not strong enough to take it voice. ‘Why are you asking me all this anyway?’

‘It doesn’t matter now. I’ll ring you later,’ Magenta said wearily, unable to cope with explaining right then how she had met Andreas again, and how last night she’d remembered everything. Later, she thought, but not now. Not when she was hurting so much inside.

She was longing for a shower. She felt so groggy. And after what had happened last night between her and Andreas she didn’t feel up to facing him just yet. Consequently, donning her white track top and matching joggers, and twisting her hair into a topknot, she decided that the best thing was to give herself some breathing space before she made up her mind what she was going to do.

The house appeared to be silent as she went down into the hall.

Spotting the fine gauze at the French windows through the dining room door stirring gently in the morning breeze, she decided to make a quick exit to avoid seeing anyone, and was halfway across the room when Mrs Cox’s voice made her almost jump with fright.

‘If you’re looking for Mr Visconti he went out early,’ the housekeeper told her, from where she was arranging some bright blooms on a table behind the door. ‘Would you like me to prepare your breakfast now or would you prefer to wait?’

‘N-no, thanks,’ Magenta stammered, her gaze on the colourful heads, utterly surprised that Andreas could just get up and go about his business as though nothing had happened. ‘I mean I’ll wait—thanks.’ Somehow she managed a smile before slipping out onto the terrace, her lungs grasping greedily at the sweet scented air.

The morning was as refreshing as only an English morning at the height of summer could be, she thought distractedly—and, grateful for it, she instantly broke into a run.

Across the terrace, down across the lawn—she didn’t ease back until she was over the little bridge that spanned the brook and well on her way through the woods.

The path was soft with leaf mould and her feet made a dull sound as they struck the ground. She thought of the first time she had done this, nearly two years after lying, paralysed, in that coma, and as she so often did, and in spite of how she was feeling, she offered up her silent thanks to everyone and everything that had pulled her through when she had thought she might never even walk again.

She wanted to keep running, but her breasts were too tender after the passion she had shared with Andreas, and with hot colour staining her cheeks at how willingly she had allowed him to use her, she slowed her pace to a brisk walk.