Broken Bride

This must be the proverbial British stiff upper lip. I expected some resistance, but she gives me none. I expected panic, drama, screaming. Female dramatics, in other words.

They do not happen.

I admire her immediately. Her composure. Her ability to be quiet. These are not common traits in the young of either gender these days. I am surprised I don’t see a cell phone in her hand. Most people her age have to be physically separated from them.

She is a girl disconnected. From the world, from her family, and from herself. She’s perfect.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Today, I am going to take you home. I live in the United States for the moment, so you will join me there. Before we leave, there is a small legal matter to attend to.”

“Oh?”

“We need to be married.”

She gives a little shrug, as if what I just said meant nothing to her. I am aware that her father was murdered before her eyes rather brutally just a matter of hours ago. It may be that she is in shock. But that is not my problem.

I take her by the hand and lead her to the chaplain who is waiting in what the British call a drawing room. The license has already been prepared. It just needs our signatures.

“Would you like to say some vows?” The chaplain asks the question with cold, detached annoyance. He might not approve of what is going on here. I couldn’t care less.

“Sure,” I say as I pen my name on the line above the word HUSBAND. “Why not.”

The chaplain begins with my bride.

“Do you, Matilda Braybrooke, take Angelo Vitali to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do.”

There’s not a moment of hesitation, or even a note of reluctance in her voice. It wouldn’t matter if there was, but it is worth noting that she sounds willing.

She is a timid little bird, a soft spoken, even gentler-mannered young woman. Bobby’s comment about her not lasting a day in our home comes to mind.

Women rarely interest me. It is a matter of physicality. A man can take so much more punishment than a woman, and he has the potential to fight back and make it interesting. Tilly seems intent on making this as boring as possible. She may have mistaken me for a man who enjoys obedience. I expect obedience. I command, and indeed, demand it. But I don’t enjoy it. It is one of the many contradictions of my life.

“Do you, Angelo Vitali…”

“Yes,” I say, interrupting him. She has already bent her hand to signing the license. It is duly presented and the chaplain makes his pronouncement.

“I pronounce you husband and wife.”

I smile down at her. She’s so short. Five foot six, so I’m told, but compared even to Bobby, she’s a small, sparrow-like thing. This is usually the part where a man would kiss his bride. What I have in mind for this young lady does not involve much in the way of typical affection.

Chapter 4

Angelo

“Why me?”

It is the first question she has asked since we met. It is a good question, and also one I have no intention of answering.

We have boarded my private plane and are somewhere over the Atlantic. She is sitting in the chair opposite me, her hands scrunched in her lap. She’s avoiding my gaze, looking at the floor, out the window, around the cabin. Everywhere but me. When she asks that question, she risks a glance at me.

“Why not you, Tilly?”

“If you’re trying to take my father’s fortune, there’s not much of it left.”

“Good to know.”

The look she gives me is nothing short of venomous. She’s small, and she’s afraid, and though she’s numb right now, I can see that there’s fire inside this perfect little blonde Englishwoman.

I can’t wait to get her home. To unwrap her, show her off to the boys. I want to peel back all the layers she’s built up around herself and I want to see the core of her, all that pain which is still swaddled in layers of British stiff upper lip control. I’m going to lay it all bare.

* * *

Tilly

His lips curl up into what might be a smile, if he were truly capable of such an expression. I have known men like Angelo Vitali all my life. They are rich, and somewhat powerful, and they think it excuses them from the burden of having to be human.

I hate him, but that is obvious and not worth saying. It is barely worth mentioning. I hate him, but I am married to him. And there is no escaping him. I know that without him needing to say it. There is never any escaping any of the men in my world but for one way, and I am not ready for a coffin.

I hope he loses interest in me quickly. My father had such a string of lovers he forgot which one was my mother. If not for the marriage license, and my existence over a lifetime of silent breakfasts, he might have forgotten me completely.