Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding

He thought of the expensive clothes she had left behind and the coat in Paris she had proudly refused—and he couldn’t think of another woman who would have done that. She had refused his initial offer of marriage, too. And at this, his mouth twisted. His offer of marriage—had he now reached new levels of self-delusion? There had been no offer of marriage—just a snarled demand that she fall in with his wishes, the way he expected everyone to fall in with his wishes, but especially women.

Yet there had been a chance even then for him to redeem himself and their relationship—but he had blown it. Even their honeymoon had been tarred by his cynicism—for he had subjected her to the inevitable hostility of a jealous woman. Why had he done that? Was it a deliberate sabotage? Some innate desire to try and hurt other people, as he had once been hurt himself? Yet the hurt he’d once felt as a twenty-one-year-old student was nothing compared to the terrible pain he was experiencing now.

Looking down at her lovely face, which still managed to be essentially innocent, he found himself swamped by the realisation of another, even greater truth. ‘The love for you which I didn’t acknowledge, not even to myself—at least, not until that night in Rome,’ he said slowly. ‘Because I convinced myself I couldn’t feel any love for you—or for anyone. And that I didn’t want to feel it. Because it brought with it pain—and bitterness.’

She shook her head—because this was hard enough to deal with without him heaping on extra layers of hurt and regret. She had tried hard enough to gloss over the truth—but now she needed to face up to it. Because she was losing her baby and she needed to be strong—not to indulge herself in the stuff of fantasies. ‘I don’t need you to sweet-talk me, Giancarlo—especially now. I’d rather have the truth—not some saccharine version of it. I don’t want you telling me you love me just to try to make me feel better.’

‘But it is the truth,’ he vowed hoarsely. ‘You asked me what I was saying to you in Italian that night I made love to you on our honeymoon. I was telling you that I loved you. I felt daunted by the thought of saying the words out loud and so I tried them in my native tongue to see how it felt.’

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘You love Gabriella.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t love Gabriella. Maybe I did—though it’s so long ago that I can scarcely believe it happened,’ he said savagely. ‘But in many ways, she hurt my pride more than she hurt my heart.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’ve been a fool. A stupid, idiotic fool—and now it’s too late. Because even your sweet and generous heart could never forgive me for what I have done and for what I have failed to do.’

She had never seen Giancarlo looking like this—with his face all ravaged with pain and his black eyes bleak with regret. And in spite of everything that had happened, she wanted to reach out and comfort him and cradle him in her arms and to take those dark feelings away from him. So which of them was the real fool?

‘Giancarlo—’

‘Mrs Vellutini?’ A brisk voice interrupted her painful thoughts and a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a white uniform walked into the room. ‘Hello, I’m the radiographer—and I’m going to give you a scan. Let’s try to see what’s going on.’

At this, Cassie began to cry again—silent tears sliding down her cheeks as Giancarlo gripped her hand.

‘Shh,’ he soothed. ‘Don’t cry.’

‘How can I not cry when I’m losing our baby?’

Never had he felt so powerless as the radiographer began to apply globs of clear jelly to the paddles on the machine and he stared helplessly into the white face of his wife.

And his own utter self-condemnation was followed by a rush of determination that she should know the truth. That somehow it was important that she heard it now—before their world was devastated by what they were about to discover. That there should be no misunderstanding whatsoever. No hiding behind a different language in case what he was about to say was flung back in his face.

‘Cassie, I love you. I know you may not believe me and that it’s all too late, but I do. I love you.’

Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him, her pain even greater now—something which she hadn’t thought possible. ‘No, you don’t love me. Please stop saying that.’

‘I’m not going to stop saying it until you believe me. I’ve been everything a man shouldn’t be. Thoughtless. Stubborn. Arrogant. Proud. Unable to acknowledge what was staring me in the face. That you make my world light up, Cassie,’ he said simply. ‘You’ve become the shining centre of it—and all the time I’ve been closing my eyes to it, and my heart.’