Never Underestimate a Caffarelli

‘No, I saw him at the ceremony, but not to speak to.’

‘Don’t go near him. He’s out for blood. I can handle most people, but he scares the living daylights out of me.’ She gave a little shudder and then smiled widely as Rafe came over. ‘Hello, darling.’

Rafe planted a kiss to her mouth. ‘Hello, ma chérie. Is it time to leave? Please tell me it is. My face is aching from smiling so much.’

Poppy grinned as she linked her arm through one of his. ‘We’re not going anywhere until we’ve done the bridal waltz. I think I can hear the band warming up.’ She turned and smiled at Lily. ‘Will you excuse us? I think that’s our cue.’

* * *

Raoul was on to his third glass of wine when the bridal waltz started. He wasn’t interested in getting drunk or even tipsy. He wasn’t trying to mask his pain. He just wanted to block out the smiling faces.

Everyone was so damned happy.

Rafe and Poppy took the floor. They moved together like poetry in motion. Rafe looked so strong and in control, Poppy so feminine and dainty. Their footwork was in perfect tune. No toes were being crushed. No legs were suddenly collapsing.

His stomach clenched.

He would never be able to do the bridal waltz. It was like a boulder hitting him out of nowhere. It crashed against his chest, almost making him double over in pain.

He hadn’t been able to be a proper best man. How could he ever be a proper groom?

Raoul was wheeling his chair further away from the dance floor when he overheard two women talking behind one of the pillars. He stopped pushing and went very still, every muscle in his body tensing. Even his scalp pulled tight, making every hair stand up on end.

‘Is that slim dark-haired girl Raoul Caffarelli’s new mistress?’

‘Quite a change from the last one.’

‘I heard she’s his physical therapist,’ the first woman said. ‘He must be more like his grandfather than the other two boys, eh?’

Raoul felt his stomach roil. He could not think of anything worse than being compared and likened to his grandfather.

The other woman made a sound of cynical assent. ‘Sleeping with the help. Such a Vittorio thing to do. Mind you, that girl is obviously after Raoul for his money. I mean, he’s good-looking and all that, but would you really want to spend the rest of your married life pushing him around in a chair?’

Raoul’s stomach pitched again and a sickly sweat broke out over his brow.

‘It would depend on whether he could still get it up.’

The two women shared a ribald cackle that grated on Raoul’s nerves until he thought he would be physically sick.

‘For that amount of money I wouldn’t care if he couldn’t get it up. Think of the other compensations: unlimited money to burn, jewellery, designer clothes to wear and luxury holidays to indulge in, not to mention that amazing château in France. What a life.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ the other woman said. ‘No wonder she’s got her claws in him so quickly. But how would he know if she loved him or not? Mind you, he probably doesn’t care. Better to be with someone than no one when you’re disabled. Got to feel sorry for him, though. I always thought he was the nicer of the three, didn’t you?’

Raoul turned away in disgust. It was already happening. People were discussing him, talking about him, gossiping, conjecturing about him. It would be a thousand times worse once the press released all those photos of him from the ceremony.

The tragic invalid; the impotent, invalid brother.

He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth would crack. How could his life have come to this?

People mocking him, feeling sorry for him, pitying him.

Remy swaggered over with a glass of whiskey in his hand. ‘You’re not out there to see their first dance. What’s wrong with you?’

Raoul gave him a look that would have felled a three-hundred-year-old tree. ‘You’re not out there burning up the floor, either. No one taken your eye?’

‘One of the bridesmaids is cute. I think her name is Chloe, but Poppy has warned her about me. I’m not making any inroads.’

‘I feel your pain.’

Remy grinned. ‘What’s going on with you and your therapist?’

‘She’s not my therapist.’

Remy reared back as if Raoul had suddenly lunged at him with a sword. ‘Whoa there, bro. Was that a raw nerve or what?’

‘She’s going back to London the day after tomorrow.’