by Hannah Fielding
Genre: Romance, Fiction
Published December 6th 2013 Genre: Romance, Fiction
by London Wall Publishing
Set against the breathtaking beauty of Italy, The Echoes of Love is a passionate, heart-breaking romance to ignite the senses and rekindle your belief in the power of love. Seduction, passion and secrets... Venetia Aston-Montagu has escaped to Venice to work in her godmother's architectural practice, putting a lost love behind her. For the past ten years she has built a fortress around her heart, only to find the walls tumbling down one night of the carnival when she is rescued from masked assailants by an enigmatic stranger, Paolo Barone. Drawn to the powerfully seductive Paolo, despite warnings of his Don Juan reputation and rumours that he keeps a mistress, Venetia can't help being caught up in the smouldering passion that ignites between them. When she finds herself assigned to a project at his magnificent home deep in the Tuscan countryside, Venetia not only faces a beautiful young rival but also a sinister count and dark forces in the shadows, determined to come between them. Can Venetia trust that love will triumph, even over her own demons? Or will Paolo's carefully guarded, devastating secret tear them apart forever?
Excerpt: (abridge as you wish)
The clock struck midnight just as Venetia went past
the grand eighteenth-century mirror hanging over the mantelpiece in the hall.
Instinctively she looked into it and her heart skipped a beat. In the firelight
she noticed that he was there again, an almost illusory figure, leaning against
the wall at the far end of the shadowy room, steady eyes intense, watching her
from behind his black mask. An illusory figure indeed, because when Venetia
turned around he was gone.
Venetia shivered. Nanny Horren’s voice resounded
through her head, reminding her of the strange Celtic superstitions that the
Scottish governess used to tell her. One in particular came to mind. ‘Turn
off the light and look into the mirror by firelight at midnight on Shrove
Tuesday,’ the old woman would whisper to the impressionable and
imaginative teenage Venetia, ‘and if you see a face reflected behind
your own, it’ll be the face of the love of your life, the man you will marry
someday.’
Was this what had just happened to Venetia? Was
this stranger the love of her life?
Rubbish, she
remonstrated, laughing uneasily into her own eyes, you’re mad! Haven’t
you learnt your lesson? Venetia had indulged in such fantasies several
years ago and had only managed to get hurt. Now, she knew better. Still, she
did not move away. Venetia leant closer to the mirror that reflected her pale,
startled face in the flickering light, as tremors of the warm feelings of
yester love suddenly flooded her being. For a few moments she seemed to lose
all sense of where she was and felt as though she stood inside a globe,
watching the wheel of time turning back ten years.
Gareth Jordan Carter. ‘Judd’. It was a diminutive
of Jordan, chosen by Venetia who hated the name Gareth and didn’t care much for
the name Jordan either. Judd had been her first love, and as far as Venetia was
concerned, her last. She had been young and innocent then; only eighteen.
Today, at twenty-eight, she liked to think she was a woman of the world, who
would not allow herself to be trapped by the treacherous illusions of passion,
however appealing they might seem. She had paid a high price for her naivety
and impetuosity.
Venetia tried to shake herself clear of those
haunting phantasms and her thoughts ambled back to the masked stranger – well,
almost a stranger.
Their brief encounter had occurred the evening of
the first night of Il Carnevale di Venezia, ten days before
Shrove Tuesday …
***
It was nearly seven-thirty and the shops were
beginning to shut down for the night. The wind that had blown all day had
dropped, and a slight haze veiled the trees, as if gauze had been hung in front
of everything that was more than a few feet away. The damp air was soaked with
silence.
Venetia tightened the belt of her coat around her
slim waist and lifted the fur collar snugly about her neck. The sound of her
footsteps echoed off the pavement as she hurried towards the Rialto Bridge from
Piazza San Marco, a solitary figure in an almost deserted street. She was on
her way to catch thevaporetto water bus, which would drop her off
at Palazzo Mendicoli where she had an apartment. A few huddled pedestrians
could be seen on the opposite pavement, and there was not much traffic on the
great inky stretch of water of the Grand Canal.
Suddenly Venetia saw two figures spring out in
front of her from the surrounding darkness. They were enveloped in carnevale cloaks,
with no visible faces, only a spooky blackness where they should have been. A
hand materialised from under the all-encompassing wrap of one of the sinister
creatures and grabbed at her bag. Chilled to the bone, Venetia tried to scream
but the sound froze in her throat. Struggling, she hung onto the leather pouch
which was looped over her shoulder and across her front as she tried to lift
her knee to kick him in the groin, but her aggressors were prepared. An arm was
thrown around her throat from the back and the second figure produced a knife.
Just as he was going to slash at the strap of her
bag, an imposing silhouette emerged from nowhere and with startling speed its
owner swung at Venetia’s attacker with his fist, knocking him off balance. With
a grunt of pain the man fell backwards, tripping over his accomplice who gave a
curse, and they both tumbled to the ground. Then, picking themselves up in a
flash, they took to their heels and fled into the hazy gloom.
‘Va tutto bene, are you alright?’ The
stranger’s light baritone voice broke through Venetia’s disoriented awareness,
and he looked down anxiously into her large amber eyes.
‘Yes, yes, I think so,’ she panted, her hands going
to her throat.
‘Are you hurt at all?’
‘No, no just a little shaken, thank you.’
‘You’re shivering. You’ve had a bad shock and you
need a warm drink. Come. There’s a caffeteria that serves the
best hot chocolate in Venice, just a few steps from here. It’ll do you good.’
Without waiting for a response, he took Venetia’s arm and led the way down the
narrow street.
Venetia’s knees felt like jelly and her teeth were
chattering. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured, still trying to catch her breath, her heart
pounding, and let herself be guided by her tall, broad-shouldered rescuer, who
seemed to have taken the situation into his hands.
Thus does Fate cast her thunderbolts into our
lives, letting them fall with a feather-like touch, dulling our senses to the
storm they would cause should we realise their devastating powers.
They sat in silence at a table in a far-off corner
of the crowded caffeteria. There was too much noise to talk and
Venetia was exhausted, so she concentrated on appraising the man sitting
opposite her as she listened to the music playing: Mina’s nostalgic 1960 love
song, ‘Il Cielo in una Stanza’, the unashamedly romantic hit that was so
Italian, and which was therefore still frequently played as a classic all over
the country.
Venetia’s guardian angel looked more like Lucifer
than a celestial being, with his tempestuous blue eyes, curiously bright
against the warm tan of his skin, which slanted a fraction upwards under heavy,
dark brows when he smiled. They were staring intently at her now with an
emotion which puzzled her, and for a few seconds she found herself helplessly
staring back into them. It was like gazing into shimmering water.
Strong, masculine features graced his nut-brown
face beneath a thick crop of raven-black hair, sleek and shining, swept back
from a wide forehead. He wasn’t good-looking in the classical sense, his face
was too craggy for that immediate impact, but he was a striking man who
emanated controlled power, someone used to making decisions who would not be
swayed by any argument or sentiment; a hard man. Still, his steeliness was
tempered by the enigmatic curve that lifted the corners of his generous mouth
into a promise of laughter; this, coupled with the deep cleft in the centre of
his chin, gave him a roguish expression that Venetia found appealing.
The waiter brought over a cup of hot chocolate, a
double espresso and a plate of biscotti which he said were
offered con i complimenti della casa. Her rescuer was obviously a
regular customer.
Venetia took a few sips of the thick, warm brew.
She felt herself revive as it trickled down her throat, becoming a warm glow in
her stomach which reflected on her cheeks.
The stranger smiled at her. ‘Feeling better?’
She nodded. ‘Thank you, you’ve been so very kind.’
His smile broadened. ‘You are welcome, signorina. It
is always a pleasure to come to the rescue of a beautiful lady. My name is
Paolo Barone, at your service.’
Venetia had been working in Italy for over three
years as an architect cum interior designer in her godmother’s architect firm,
and was used to the gallant ways and the charm of Italian men. She found their
smooth repartee refreshing, and sometimes even amusing, but never took them too
seriously. Paolo Barone was different. Maybe it was because she was in shock
and felt vulnerable, but nevertheless her heart warmed to this man, who,
although not that young, was still in his prime – middle to late thirties
perhaps – and she relaxed. Still, even though the circumstances in this case
were unusual, Venetia was not used to accepting invitations from strangers, so
she deliberately made no conversation; and to her surprise neither did he.
As she raised the warm cup to her lips with both
hands, she was aware of him looking at her directly with unabashed interest.
Was he trying to decipher her, she wondered? Relieved that the hot drink’s
effect on her cheeks was hiding the slight confusion she felt beneath, she
sipped a little too quickly and cooled her lip with the tip of her tongue. Then
realising what she had done, she glanced up to see his expression deepen into
something else, which made her instantly lower her eyes.
When she had finished her chocolate, Paolo smiled
at her. ‘Andiamo? Shall we go?’ he asked, cocking his head to one
side and looking at Venetia with curiosity.
Sparkling hazel eyes flecked with gold smiled back
at him through long black lashes that somehow did not belong with her chestnut
hair. ‘Yes. Thank you for the hot chocolate. It is really the best chocolate
I’ve had in Venice.’
He helped her with her coat, lifting her glorious
long locks over the fur collar. At five foot seven inches, Venetia was tall but
as he faced her and began buttoning the garment himself, she noticed again how
he towered over her. His hands were strong and masculine; she had a curious
sensation of warm familiarity, as though he had performed this act with her
several times before. Yet mingled with that feeling came one of embarrassment;
his touch seemed a rather intimate gesture instead of the impersonal
indifference of a stranger, and she drew away with a little nervous laugh.
‘Thank you, that won’t be necessary.’
He held her gaze intently for a moment, as if
surprised at what she had said, and she looked down again, for some reason
unable to meet those midnight-blue eyes and their burning intensity. Then he
smiled and held the door open.
‘By the way, I don’t know your name,’ Paolo said as
they stepped out into the misty night and began walking towards the Grand
Canal.
‘Venetia. Venetia Aston-Montagu.’
He quirked a black eyebrow. ‘A very romantic name,
Venetia, like our beautiful city. But you’re not Italian? You speak Italian
like a native.’
She laughed. ‘Thank you for the compliment. No, I’m
actually English, but I was named by my godmother, who is Venetian. She was my
mother’s best friend and she insisted I learn Italian.’
‘So you’re on holiday here?’
‘No, I live here.’
‘Nearby?’
‘No, in the Dorsoduro district. I need to catch
the vaporetto, as the entrance to the building where I live is
on the Grand Canal.’
‘My launch is moored across the street. Dorsoduro
is on my way. It would be a pleasure for me to drop you off.’
‘No, thank you. You’ve already been very kind.’
‘It’s late and snow has been forecast for tonight.
The vaporetto is bound to be almost empty. I wouldn’t want you
to come to any harm, signorina. I will give you a lift.’ He spoke
quietly with an air of command, his hand coming up to her elbow, but she
avoided it hastily.
It was very tempting to accept, but Venetia would
not let herself. This stranger was a little too attentive, she thought, and
though she had been grateful for his kind invitation to a hot chocolate when she
was in distress, and could still recall the feel of his hands buttoning up her
coat, she was not in the habit of being picked up by men.
‘No really, thank you very much. I’m used to
travelling by vaporetto. It’s quite safe.’
Paolo did not insist, and for the rest of the way
they walked in silence through the narrow, tortuous alleys, Venetia conscious
of his nearness in every fibre of her being.
It was bitterly cold. The wind was whistling and a
bank of threatening cloud hung over Venice like a white cloak. As they arrived
at the waterbus stop, a few snowflakes started to come down. A couple of
gondolas, their great steel blades looming dangerously out of the soft velvety
mist, glided by swiftly over the gently lapping waters.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?
It looks as though there’ll be a blizzard and the vaporetto may
be delayed.’ He looked at her with a polite, but guarded smile and she felt a
momentary pang of regret at her determination to escape him.
Paolo’s pride was spared a new refusal as they
heard the croaky purr of thevaporetto announcing its lazy approach.
‘Here comes my bus,’ Venetia said cheerfully. ‘I’ll
be home in no time.’
The boat appeared and presently drew up at the
small station, bumping the landing stage as it did so.
‘Thanks again for all your help, signore,’
she went on, smiling as she held out her small, perfectly manicured hand to say
goodbye. The young man took it in his own, which was large and warm, and held
it a trifle longer than would be usual. Venetia stood there with waves of heat
passing over her, her senses suddenly heightened at this contact. She abruptly
withdrew her hand.
His blue hawk eyes gazed down at her, intent though
unfathomable, and he paused uncertainly. ‘Will you dine with me tomorrow
night?’ he uttered in a low voice.
It would be exciting to dine with Paolo, she
thought, but you must run from him, urged the echo of an
insistent voice within her; this man has the power to hurt you.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I’m afraid
I’m busy.’
‘That’s a pity.’ He sounded as if he meant it, but
did not insist, leaving her feeling curiously disappointed. He held out his
hand again, silently, and she took it, also without a word. There was nothing
lax or vague in his firm grasp. Like many people, Venetia was swift to gauge
character by the quality of a handclasp and had known many apparently vigorous
men whose fingers were like limp fish. Once more, she was aware that Paolo’s
large, sensitive hands held a strength and vitality that stirred her deeply.
She hurried onto the vaporetto, suddenly
eager to flee, but as the waterbus pulled away from the quay, she watched him
go up the stairs and disappear into the snow-white night with a strange sinking
of the heart, wondering if she would ever see him again.
What
the reviewers are saying
‘The book makes the reader want to visit
Italy, as the descriptions of the sights and sounds evoked such beautiful
images.’ – Associated Press
‘A very well written, and different
kind of romance… an exceptionally riveting romance… I would certainly
recommend this to fans of the intelligent and suspenseful romance.’
– Amazon review
‘Classic romance fiction… with all the
right “s” ingredients – seduction, shall-we/shan’t-we, secrets, steaminess.’ –
Amazon review
‘A haunting, poignant
romance… immerses you in a truly heartwarming and stirring tale of deep
passion, love, forgiveness, and healing.’ – Book Bag Lady
‘A beautifully crafted book, the echoes of
which will remain with you for a long time.’ – Amazon review
‘I absolutely adored the depth of the love
story… It reads like a film, indeed I can totally imagine it as a Baz
Luhrman epic with glorious costumes and elaborate settings.’ – Books with Bunny
Message
from the author
I first visited Venice
as a young child. Then, as now, I was wide-eyed and enchanted by the beauty of
the city. I distinctly remember standing in the main square, the Piazza St
Marco, gazing up at the stunning architecture of Saint Mark’s Basilica, and
feeling I had somehow entered another world – a fairytale world. Then I looked
down, at the square itself, which was overrun by hordes of pigeons. There was
nothing beautiful about those birds. They were quite spoiling the place. And it
struck me then that Venice
is a city of two faces: that which the tourists flock to admire, that makes the
city the capital of romance, that breathes new life into the imagination and
leaves a permanent, inspirational impression. And the other side, the darker
side, that which is concealed in what Erica Jong called ‘the city of mirrors,
the city of mirages’.
When I returned to the city as an adult, I became
quite fascinated by the concept of Venice
– what it means to be Venetian; what the city really is beneath the layers of
history and grandeur and legend. Frida Giannini wrote ‘Venice never quite seems real, but rather an
ornate film set suspended on the water.’ I understand this quote – there is
something fairytale about the place, and with that comes some reluctance, perhaps,
to see the realism beyond.
I very much hope that readers will enjoy my
new novel, and will fall in love with its romantic Italian setting, as I did.
Guest Post:
Three of the most romantic settings
Beautiful, interesting places inspire my muse. I write my books at
desks with a view: looking over the green garden in Kent and the blue Mediterranean
in France (or, indeed, in the garden when the weather permits). But in order to
find the inspiration for book concept, I need more than a view – I need to
really experience the place in which I am situating my love story.
Today I’m sharing with you three places to which I have travelled that,
I think, are among the most romantic settings in the world – perfect backdrops
for passionate, evocative romance novels.
Venice, Italy
Venice was my main
inspiration for my novel The Echoes of
Love. I first visited the city as a young child. Then, as now, I was
wide-eyed and enchanted by the beauty of the city. I distinctly remember
standing in the main square, the Piazza St Marco, gazing up at the stunning
architecture of Saint Mark’s Basilica and feeling I had somehow entered another
world – a fairytale world. Here’s an extract describing that same square from
the point of view of my heroine, Venetia:
The
square was very nearly empty. The sun was setting and an intense pink blush in
an explosive sky was lighting up the Campanile, the Doge’s Palace, and all the
wonderful group of buildings surrounding the Piazza San Marco. They stood
splendidly in that curious half-light, with the last rays of the day slanting
in on their rounded sides, and making them cast huge brown shadows on each
other. The Grand Canal had the dramatic, blinding brilliance of a purple
mirror. Far over it, the golden orb seemed to set in a flood of vaporous colour
which appeared to surge up from the land and become reflected in the glimmering
pools created by the broken shadows of the building. Waves of burning light
spread all over the western sky and the boats, the palazzi, and the water were
dyed a deep rose by the glow.
The Rift Valley, Kenya
I can think of few
places I have visited on earth that have such breathtaking natural beauty. It
was while watching a sunrise over the valley that I decided I must set my first
romance novel in Kenya – the colours were spectacular. Here is Kenya at its
wildest and most awe-inspiring. In my novel Burning
Embers I sent the characters up in a hot-air balloon so that they could
take in the full scene:
Gradually the mist had lifted, and the sun burst forth, a ball of
fire radiating the sky with unnaturally incandescent hues. Coral was reminded
of the strident brushwork and wild colors of the Fauvist paintings that filled
her mother’s gallery, which Coral had always loved. The scene was now set for
the show to begin: the drama in which the broad, breath-taking landscapes of
Africa were the stage and the animals the actors.
They see blue
waters and verdant vegetation, and amid them the most wonderful array of
animals: elephants, antelopes, flamingos, pelicans, impalas, hippos, buffalo,
zebras, giraffes.
The Alhambra, Granada, Spain
My forthcoming
book, which will publish in April, is set in Andalucia – a tale of love, treachery, deceit and revenge set against the
fierce and blazing Spanish land, which is governed by savage passions and cruel
rules.
I especially love
Granada in Andalucia. In Spanish Granada means pomegranate, a luscious round
red fruit that appears on the city’s coat of arms. That is just how one of the most magnificent
heritage cities seems – with a little stretch of the imagination – as you
approach it at dusk by a twisting road down the mountains.
Granada is home to the Alhambra, the amalgam of fabulous Arabesque
palaces and fortress complex built by the Moors on a steep wooded hill during
the mid-fourteenth century. Shadowed in the evening light, rising upon its
reddish crag as though poised on a vast stage dominating the city, with its
green peaked parks, its pink marble spires and domes guarded by the snow-capped
peaks of the Sierra Nevada, the Arabian Night’s palace is startling in its
beauty and in its impact on the imagination.
There, within the silent walls, where the ghosts of emirs, slaves
and beautiful princesses still move through the corridors with silent
footsteps; there, in the wonderful and mystery-laden atmosphere, dwells much of
the romance of an exotic age.
Author Bio:
Hannah Fielding is a novelist, a dreamer, a
traveller, a mother, a wife and an incurable romantic. The seeds for her
writing career were sown in early childhood, spent in Egypt, when she came to
an agreement with her governess Zula: for each fairy story Zula told, Hannah
would invent and relate one of her own. Years later – following a degree in
French literature, several years of travelling in Europe, falling in love with
an Englishman, the arrival of two beautiful children and a career in property
development – Hannah decided after so many years of yearning to write that the
time was now. Today, she lives the dream: she writes full time, splitting her
time between her homes in Kent, England, and the South of France, where she
dreams up romances overlooking breathtaking views of the Mediterranean.
Her first novel, Burning Embers, is a vivid, evocative love story set against the
backdrop of tempestuous and wild Kenya of the 1970s, reviewed by one newspaper
as ‘romance like Hollywood used to make’. Her new novel, The Echoes of Love, is a story of passion, betrayal and intrigue set
in the romantic and mysterious city of Venice and the beautiful landscape of
Tuscany.
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