Claiming My Bride of Convenience

I had never been a quitter, and the fact remained that I still needed an heir. I still wanted a wife. But it would have to be on my terms. Always.

And, I decided grimly, I knew just how to make that happen.

CHAPTER TEN

‘TRÈS BELLE, MADAME, très belle!’

I smiled nervously at my unfamiliar reflection. For the last few days I’d been pampered, primped, and petted to within an inch of my life by a veritable army of stylists and beauticians. I didn’t look anything like myself, but I supposed, considering the gala tonight, that was a good thing.

Since waking from his nightmare a few days ago Matteo had been intentionally remote, keeping conversation to a polite, brusque minimum. Strangely, I found I didn’t mind. Once I would have let it hurt me. I would have assumed it meant he felt indifferent. But the experience of the last few days in his company had made me think, or at least hope, otherwise. It wasn’t indifference; it was fear. Fear of being vulnerable, of being real—the kind of real he didn’t want in our so-called ‘real’ marriage.

It had taken both careful thought and time for me to conclude that Matteo didn’t want compassion or understanding from me; they were anathema to him, and I almost understood that. Feeling vulnerable was hard enough—having someone know it and respond accordingly was even worse. So I didn’t. I played by his rules and I kept to the game, meeting his courtesy with a careful composure of my own, although sometimes it felt like no more than a mask.

Was it even working? Was I doing the right thing? Trying to slip under his defences, win his trust and, yes, even his heart without him realising? Or was I just continuing to be the naïve and deluded greenhorn I’d been all along? Hoping for something better when nothing good was coming my way?

I took a deep breath and met my reflection full-on. This was the course I’d chosen and I was set on it...at least for the next two weeks. After that, who could say? I didn’t want to think about what might or might not happen then.

A quick tapping sounded at the door. ‘Are you ready?’ Matteo called. ‘We need to leave for the gala in fifteen minutes.’

I glanced back at the team of stylists and make-up artists who had turned this ugly duckling into an uncertain swan. ‘Am I ready?’

‘Mais oui, ma cherié!’

I smiled, nervousness making my heart skitter like a marble in a pinball machine, and then, taking a deep breath, I reached for my bag and headed out to the sitting room of our enormous penthouse suite in the heart of Paris, where Matteo was waiting for me.

I’d barely seen him these last few days; he’d been working and I’d been a lump of clay being pounded into sophisticated shape. We’d spent the nights together, however. Despite his nightmare, Matteo continued to sleep by my side. But he never even tried to touch me. I told myself I didn’t mind, even as I ached.

Now I paused on the threshold of the room. His back was to me as he gazed out at Paris on a starry night, the Eiffel Tower a beacon of light in the distance.

‘Matteo...’ I said quietly.

Slowly he turned around. His pupils flared as he took me in from top to bottom—my hair in a loose chignon, with tendrils framing my face, my face expertly made up in a way the beautician had assured me was ‘natural’, my nails manicured and polished, my skin exfoliated and buffed and lotioned to a golden sheen. And, of course, the dress...

I’d tried on six dresses before Monique, my personal stylist, had insisted on this one—a shimmering column of topaz silk that flowed from one shoulder, nipped in at the waist, and then puddled in gold around my ankles.

Now I stood there, waiting for his verdict. ‘Do I pass muster?’ I asked as lightly as I could. I was terrified about what was ahead—hobnobbing with socialites and entrepreneurs, people who intimidated me without even trying.

‘Pass muster?’ Matteo came towards me, his hands outstretched to capture mine and draw me to him. ‘You look stunning, glykia mou. You will be the most beautiful woman in the room.’

I laughed shakily. ‘I think that might be spreading it a bit thick.’

‘Not at all.’

Smiling, he brushed a kiss across my lips that felt like a promise—of what, exactly, my stomach fizzed at considering. For the last few days Matteo had kept his distance, both physically and emotionally, but with my hands in his and the touch of his lips making my own tingle I was beginning to have hope that was changing. That he was. That we were.

‘Your outfit is perfect,’ Matteo said, ‘save for one thing.’

I looked down at my silk gown, eyebrows raised. ‘And what is that?’

‘This.’

From the pocket of his tuxedo he took a small black velvet box that made my heart judder.

‘Matteo...’

‘I should have given it to you before...at the beginning.’ He opened the box to reveal two rings—one was a diamond flanked by two sapphires, the other a simple platinum band. Engagement and wedding rings. ‘May I put them on you?’

Wordlessly, I nodded. It felt more sacred than the ceremony three years ago, having him slip on those rings. They were heavy on my hand, winking in the light.