Claiming My Bride of Convenience

‘They’re beautiful,’ I whispered.

‘And you’re beautiful. But you need something just a little bit more.’ With a smile, he took another black velvet box, this one long and slender, from his other pocket.

I let out an uncertain laugh. ‘How many jewels have you pocketed?’

‘Just this.’ He opened the box for my inspection, and I drew a sharp breath at the diamond-encrusted topaz pendant that nestled amidst the ivory silk.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Let me put it on you.’

I turned around for him to fasten the necklace. The stones were cool and heavy against my skin and his fingertips brushed the nape of my neck, each barely-there touch making me shiver.

Then, even more electrifying, I felt Matteo kiss the back of my neck, his warm lips lingering on my skin, his hands on my bare arms.

‘You are so lovely, glykia mou. I look forward to tonight.’

I didn’t think I was imagining the import in his words—something beyond mere innuendo. He wasn’t thinking of the party, and neither was I. After days of barely any physical contact, and a more worrying emotional remoteness, my heart and my body both craved this intimacy. I was ready.

Paris was strewn with stars as we took a limousine to the party that was being held in a private ballroom at the Louvre. The night wrapped like dark velvet around us. Nerves jumped and writhed in my stomach—not just for the party and the intimidation factor of mingling with well-heeled guests, but being on Matteo’s arm.

‘I’m so nervous,’ I admitted. ‘What if everyone thinks I’m a country bumpkin?’

‘They won’t—and even if they do I don’t give a toss about their opinion,’ Matteo replied. ‘They’re nothing but pretenders and parasites. Bottom feeders.’

I drew back a little at his utterly dismissive tone. ‘But they’re the cream of society. And they’re who you’ve socialised with all the time.’

He shrugged. ‘Needs must.’

‘You don’t like any of them? Or respect them?’

I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for the faceless mass he’d just dismissed or

for the man who was so clearly alone. Lonely. More and more I was realising that Matteo’s hard exterior hid a core of vulnerability, glimpses of which made me both ache and yearn—but I knew better than to show him that.

When Matteo saw my compassion, my care, he withdrew. Perhaps he wasn’t used to it; perhaps he simply hated being vulnerable. Perhaps, unlike me, he wasn’t longing for another person to connect with, to understand and, yes, to love.

But I was staking everything—my heart, my hope, my life—that he was. I just wasn’t going to let him know. Yet. When I would feel brave enough—when he might want me to—I wasn’t ready to consider. In the meantime I’d decided to gamble.

‘I think,’ Matteo told me curtly, ‘it is more a matter of them not liking me. But that is utterly beside the point because I am completely indifferent to them.’ He turned his head away to stare out of the window. ‘We’re almost there.’

* * *

I was determined to keep my emotional distance from Daisy, as I had been doing these last few days, and yet somehow she drew emotion from me, like siphoning off poison. Why had I spoken about the people at the party that way?

It was true enough: the women might want to warm my bed and the men might be awed by my wealth and power, but I was still the bastard child who hadn’t been good enough until my grandfather had had no recourse but to accept me. Everyone knew it, even if they knew better than to speak of it.

Still, I hadn’t meant to say as much to Daisy. I’d been so careful these last few days—keeping myself distant, trusting that the lack of physical contact would make her ache. It was certainly making me ache. I’d spent three sleepless nights staring gritty-eyed at the ceiling while Daisy lay curled up and sleeping just a scant few feet from me. Not reaching for her had taken all my self-control.

But tonight was going to be different. Tonight I was going to show Daisy to the world, stake my claim in public, and then stake it again in private. Tonight we would finally become man and wife, as we were always meant to be. And there was going to be nothing emotional about it.

The limo pulled up to the Louvre and a valet hurried to open the door, taking Daisy’s hand to help her out. There was a scattering of paparazzi, as there always was at events like these, and flashbulbs began to pop as I emerged from the limo and took her hand.

‘I wasn’t expecting cameras...’ Daisy murmured, her hand small and icy in mine.

‘For the gossip tabloids,’ I dismissed.

‘They’re all going to be wondering who I am...’