Her Wedding Night Surrender

His laugh was a harsh sound of disbelief. ‘You are grieving, and I am trying to give you the space you need. I do not want to crowd you. And I certainly don’t want to fight with you. But ask yourself this question: What could I have done differently? I spoke to your father weekly, urging him to tell you about his illness. He was adamant that you should not know.’

‘You spoke to him weekly?’ If anything her sense of betrayal yawned wider.

‘He wanted to be reassured you were happy.’

‘Oh, what a good friend you were!’ she snapped, but the indignation of her words was somewhat marred by the sob that strangled them. ‘You went above and beyond to make me happy.’

A frown was etched over his handsome face.

‘You made it so obvious that you weren’t attracted to me, and still you seduced me. You made me think I was very happy.’

‘None of that had anything to do with your father.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘It was all because of him. He pulled the strings—just like he did with me my whole life.’ She stamped her foot. ‘You were supposed to be mine. Rome was meant to be mine.’

‘I didn’t marry you with any expectations that it would become a real marriage. That was all us. I fell in love with you, Emmeline. Not because of Col but because of you and me.’

The words were sucking her in—so sweet, so exactly what she needed to hear that she rejected them instantly.

‘No.’

She held a hand up in the air. To silence him? Or slap him?

‘Lying to me about Dad, keeping his secret—that’s completely incompatible with love. Love is honesty and truth. It’s trust.’

‘In a perfectly black and white world, perhaps. But nothing about this was simple. My loyalties were split from the moment I met you. I made him a promise before I even properly knew you. I felt obligated to stick to it. That’s the man you love.’

She blinked, felt her heart bricking itself up, its walls forming more easily now they had well-worn foundations.

‘I don’t love you,’ she mumbled tightly. ‘I never did. I see that now. I loved Rome. I loved sex. But you? No. I don’t even like you.’

She spun on her heel and walked quickly from the lounge, waiting until she was in her own room before she let out the sob that was burning inside her.

That night, her dreams were terrifying.

Her mother stood behind Emmeline, her face pinched, dressed all in black.

‘See? This is what you deserve, Emmeline. You are alone. All alone. Nobody will be there for you. And that’s as it should be.’

* * *

It was the crying that woke him. Emmeline had been tossing and turning and crying out in her sleep almost nightly for the whole month they’d been at Annersty. But this was different.

Her sobbing was loud, and when she began to say, ‘Go away! Go away! Go away!’ again and again in her sleep he felt a cold ache throb through him.

He’d stayed because he’d believed it to be what she needed. But was it possible he was hurting her more with his presence?

I don’t even like you.

That was possibly more damning than her insistence that she was angry. It was such a cold denial of all that they were.

Torn between going to her and letting her settle herself, he was just standing to move into her bedroom when she went quiet. All returned to normal.

Pietro took up his cramped space on the sofa, his mind an agony of indecision. Torn between what she needed and what he wanted, he knew there was only one option open to him.

If she needed him to go so she could have the space to realise what they were, then he had to give it to her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EMMELINE STARED AT herself in the mirror with a frown. The dress was beautiful. Her hair was neat. Her make-up flawless.

But she looked wrong. Different. Something was missing. The tan she’d acquired in Rome? The smile that had permanently framed her face? The glint she’d become used to seeing in her eyes—one of utter happiness?

No matter.

She wasn’t that girl any more.

She blinked and stepped away from the disappointing image in the mirror. She had no time for maudlin self-reflections. She was late.

Thankfully Sophie was permanently at least fifteen minutes behind schedule, but Emmeline still felt stressed as she lifted her vintage clutch and tucked it under her arm. She pulled her bedroom door inwards, and the lurch of emptiness as she crossed the threshold and stepped into the small area that Pietro had used as a makeshift bedroom was like falling into a pit of quicksand.

There was nothing left of him. Not even the faint hint of citrus and pine that had lingered a day or two after he’d told her he would go if that was what she’d really wanted.