Her Wedding Night Surrender

‘Hmm, I saw the way you guys kissed. I know passion when I see it.’

Emmeline practically choked on her champagne. She coughed to cover it, lifting a hand to her mouth.

‘Trust me—that’s not what this is.’

‘Then you need to get to a hospital, because if you can be in the same room as that guy and not need CPR then you are some kind of cold fish.’

‘Or just a very sensible woman,’ she said quietly.

* * *

The formalities seemed to last forever. Speeches. The cutting of the cake. Their first dance as a couple...

Emmeline stood in Pietro’s arms, trying her hardest to pretend not to be affected by her husband’s touch when a single look had the power to turn her blood to lava.

‘So...’ he drawled, the single word imbued with more cynicism than she’d known was possible. ‘You are my wife.’

The sentence brought a smile to her face, but it wasn’t a smile of pleasure.

‘Don’t sound so thrilled about it.’

He slowed the movement of their bodies, his eyes scanning the crowd. ‘I can name three people who are beside themselves,’ he said coldly.

She followed the direction of his gaze. Her father and his mother stood to one side, each of them beaming with obvious pleasure.

‘Yeah, I guess this is a dream come true for Daddy,’ she said with a small shake of her head.

There was a look of frustration in her eyes that Pietro thought about probing. But the last thing he wanted was to get to know his inconvenient bride any better.

‘And for my mother,’ he said simply. ‘I’m sure she’s imagining a lifetime of calm now that I’ve apparently hung up my bachelor shoes.’

‘Apparently.’ She repeated the word, rolling it around in her mouth, wondering about the practicalities of what they’d agreed to. The idea that he’d be free to see other women so long as he was discreet.

It didn’t bother her. At least that was what Emmeline told herself. And yet a pervasive sense of confusion filled her.

They would be living under the same roof, seeing each other in the hallways, the kitchen, the lounge, the pool. Despite her protestation that they’d be like flatmates, was it possible that she would be able to ignore her husband at such close quarters?

From the first moment she’d seen him she’d found him worryingly distracting, and the years hadn’t stilled that awareness.

And now they were married...

‘You are as stiff as a board,’ he complained. ‘Did you never learn to dance?’

Her cheeks flushed pink and the look she cast him was laced with hurt. ‘I was lost in thought,’ she mumbled, making an effort to pay attention to her husband.

‘Dancing does not require your mind. It is something you feel in your body. It is a seduction.’

He rolled his hips and colour darkened her cheekbones. His body was every bit as fascinating as she’d imagined. All hard edges and planes, strong and dominating, tempting and forbidden in equal measure.

It would be playing with fire ever to touch him in earnest. This was different—a dance at their wedding was unavoidable. But Emmeline had to keep her distance or she’d risk treading a very dangerous path.

‘Relax,’ he murmured, dropping his head towards hers. ‘Or I will kiss whatever it is you are thinking out of your mind.’

She started, losing her footing altogether. She might have fallen if he hadn’t wrapped his arms more tightly around her waist, bringing her dangerously close to his body.

‘Don’t you dare,’ she snapped.

His laugh was like gasoline to a naked flame.

‘Then smile. Relax. At least pretend you are enjoying yourself.’ He dropped his mouth to her ear and whispered, ‘Everyone is watching us, you know.’

She swallowed, her eyes scanning the room over his shoulder. The room was indeed full of wedding guests dressed in beautiful clothes, all smiling and nodding as he spun her around the dance floor.

Emmeline’s heart sank.

Pretending to be married to Pietro Morelli was going to require a hell of a lot more patience and performance than she’d envisaged.

* * *

It was late in the night and Emmeline stifled another yawn. Sophie had found a group of friends—as always—and was charming them with her wit and hilarity. Emmeline listened, laughing occasionally, though she knew all the stories so well they might as well have been her own. Still, sitting with Sophie and pretending to laugh at her hijinks was better than watching her husband.

Her eyes lifted in his direction unconsciously.

He was still talking to her. The redhead.

Emmeline’s frown was instinctive—a response to the visual stimulus of seeing a stunning woman so close to the man she, Emmeline, had married only hours earlier.