Bride in a Gilded Cage

‘Your hair, Isobel,’ her mother wailed shrilly on the day of the wedding. ‘How could you have cut it all off like that?’

Isobel didn’t answer, knowing her mother didn’t really expect her to. And anyway, she wasn’t sure if she could speak as she took in her reflection in the mirror. About three people hovered around her, making last-minute tweaks to the wedding dress. Isobel felt slightly removed from it all, but hyper-aware at the same time.

The dress was exquisitely simple. It had been her grandmother’s. At first Isobel had protested, feeling far too much of a fraud because her grandmother had been so in love when she had got married. But of course her mother wouldn’t be swayed. After a few adjustments to update it, it was now strapless, and fell in a simple fitted silken sheath to the floor. Tiny diamonds sewn into a lace overlay sparkled and shone when she moved. And on the back of her head was an antique silver comb which held the long veil in place.

Isobel looked at her reflection in the mirror now and saw the colour surge into her cheeks. She was very much afraid that on some deep, secret level Rafael was affecting her in a way that had nothing to do with logic and common sense. How could it when her disgust at his business ethics was having no effect on her physical reaction to him?

She chastised herself for thinking like that. Her reaction was purely to do with the extreme circumstances of their situation, and the fact that Rafael’s sheer masculinity resonated with something in her. She’d never thought she’d react to such an alpha male, but that was all it could be.

She could never develop feelings for a man like him—not in a million years. Her main concern in this marriage would be to seek a way out of it as soon as possible.

Thirty minutes later, with that assertion sill ringing in her head, Isobel stood on her father’s arm just outside the open doors of the church. This was it. But instead of the barrel full of nerves that Isobel had expected, that she’d hoped would give her the impetus to tear off her veil and run, her reactions confounded her again. A weird calm acceptance was her dominant emotion. And then her father was moving, and she had to move, too.

They stepped into the back of the church and people turned to look. People Isobel recognised vaguely but didn’t know. Society. The ‘Wedding March’ was playing, and there at the very top of the aisle stood a tall, broad figure in steel-grey, with thick, wavy, black hair.

Why was it that in this moment of all moments she found herself curiously moved by the thought of the ritual ahead?

Her hand unconsciously tightened on her father’s arm, and she didn’t see him wince slightly. All she could focus on was Rafael’s broad back at the top of the church. With every beat of her heart as she drew closer she superstitiously begged him silently not to turn and look. Because that way she could hate him for being so coolly arrogant and vow to make their marriage as uncomfortable as possible for him. She repeated it like a mantra: don’t turn around, don’t turn around.

But since when had her prayers or wishes been answered? When she was halfway down the long aisle Rafael turned—and not just his head. His whole body turned to face her. Isobel nearly stumbled, and her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. Her blood flowed heavy in her veins. And all she could see was him, and those dark eyes boring right through her veil…seeking all her answers. Seeking her soul.

And then her father was handing her over to Rafael, who took her hand to lead her up the steps beside him. He lifted the veil up and over her head, looking down into her eyes with an unmistakable glint of triumph and something very hot. In an instant Isobel was thrown back in time to the study that night, and how she’d felt when she’d looked up into Rafael’s eyes for the first time.

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to it, and Isobel’s brain melted in a puddle of heat and sensation and shock heaped on shock. Because right now the last thing she felt like doing was running away.

The ceremony passed in a blur. Somehow Isobel knew she must have said everything required of her, but she couldn’t recall. She was aware of the cool band of gold on her finger.

‘…you may now kiss the bride.’

Isobel looked up in shock. They were there already? Rafael had moved closer and brought a hand to the back of her neck. His head was descending, and Isobel could do nothing but let her eyelids flutter closed. Her heart had stopped beating. When the touch of his mouth came to hers she couldn’t help a violent tremble, and as if sensing her reaction Rafael put his other hand around her waist, pulling her even closer.

Isobel sensed dimly that Rafael had probably intended the kiss to be a socially suitable chaste touching of his lips to hers, but as soon as they made contact it was as if something bigger took control and they couldn’t move apart.

His mouth moved over hers hungrily, as if starved of contact, and to Isobel’s shame she felt the same. Her mouth clung with wanton eagerness, lips opening to invite him in, tongue seeking and searching.

It was a discreet cough from the priest that finally broke through the wave of heat that was consuming Rafael. Reluctantly he pulled back, and held in a groan when he saw Isobel’s upturned face, so lovely, with a bloom of pink in her cheeks, lips soft and pouting and moist. It took a long second for her to open her eyes, and he read the reactions in their dark chocolate depths: shock, confusion and something much more potent—anger. She hated that she’d reacted to him.

Triumph surged through his body. Isobel would make him a good wife. He knew it deep in his bones. She would match him, stand up to him, and he couldn’t wait for tonight when he could get her into his bed

. But before the conservative Buenos Aires congregation could read the carnal nature of his thoughts, Rafael turned to lead his wife back up the aisle.

Isobel seethed inwardly as she walked slowly on Rafael’s arm. But she managed to paste a fake smile on her face, nodding to people she knew were smiling to her face, but already dissecting every minute of the ceremony, and her dress and the prospects of success for this marriage. They would be the topic of coffee mornings all over the capital for days, weeks to come.

She couldn’t believe she’d betrayed herself so badly with her reaction to that kiss. She couldn’t believe that at the mere touch of his mouth to hers all her iron-clad intentions had dissolved to dust. This was going to be a lot harder than she’d anticipated because she was so vulnerable to his touch.

She couldn’t deny any more that what she felt was not just antipathy to Rafael. What she felt was violent attraction mixed with antipathy, and Isobel knew herself well enough to know that if that intimacy was breached she’d be lost. She’d always believed that physical attraction would be conveniently tied into falling in love with someone. She’d never counted on the fact that it could happen independently of her feelings.

She was terrified now that intimacy with Rafael might result in her deluding herself into thinking that she felt something for him. One thing was paramount as of that moment: she needed to protect herself at all costs, and maintain a distance between them until she knew how to cope with these feelings and not betray herself.

When they emerged from the church, all Isobel’s thoughts scattered. A barrage of press awaited them, the camera flashes almost blinding her. And a huge cheering crowd had gathered across the road. Instinctively, her hand tightened on Rafael’s arm.

He looked down at her and grimaced slightly before saying, ‘I should have expected this. Just smile and look happy. They’re all here to see you.’

Isobel was beyond shocked at the reception. After a few minutes Rafael led her down the steps of the huge cathedral and to a waiting car, handing her carefully into the back before joining her.

As they pulled away Isobel saw the rest of the wedding guests start to spill out of the church into the heaving crowds. She realised she was shaking like a leaf. Rafael noticed and took one of her hands in his; to Isobel’s dismay her shaking started to subside. Her body was a traitor.

‘The reception will be at my house. It’s not too far from yours in Recoleta.’