The Marriage He Must Keep

“Sorcha,” she replied, spine stiffening defensively. “Why?”

“Sorcha? The woman from the hospital?” He subtly recoiled. His shame over how his cousin’s subterfuge had affected the stranger was only eclipsed by his remorse over the damage done to his wife and marriage.

“We’ve stayed in touch,” Octavia said with a cool click of the button to blacken her screen, setting the phone facedown on a side table.

“Why?” He couldn’t see any sense in it.

“Because she’s a new mother like me. I can ask her about rash creams and growth spurts, things no one else wants to talk about.”

“Bree knows about those things. Ask her.”

“She doesn’t have a baby. It’s different. And I like hearing how Enrique is doing,” Octavia stated, setting her chin stubbornly. “Why do you disapprove?”

He heard the frost in her tone and realized he had to tread carefully. “I didn’t say I don’t approve, only that I don’t understand,” he prevaricated.

“Exactly. She does. We’re in the same boat. I was telling her that I had this party to go to, but that I was tired because it was another rough night with Lorenzo. She’s supposed to be organizing a gala, but isn’t up to starting because she’s tired, too.”

“And you were laughing about that?”

“Not exactly. I asked her if it was too late for her to take Lorenzo so I could get a good night’s sleep. She texted at the same time, wondering if I still wanted Enrique because he’s been so colicky. Perhaps it’s bad taste to make jokes about what happened, but...” She sighed and flipped her hair. “It’s nice to have a friend with a baby the same age. I’m not going to stop talking to her. She needs me as much as I need her.”

Beneath her defiance was a disturbing hint of loneliness. It twisted Sandro’s insides.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he assured her, moving across in a deliberate effort to close the distance. “I’m not ready to laugh about the baby swap,” he admitted darkly. “But I take your joking as a sign that you’re putting it in the past and I’m glad.” He rubbed her arms, admitting, “I was of the mind that we’d never have to face her again, which suited me. Those days at the hospital were not my finest hour. If I sounded disapproving, that’s where it was coming from.”

She regarded him solemnly before she said, “I can appreciate that, but I wouldn’t feel right cutting ties. I...had a friend at boarding school. We didn’t really have much in common except we were both going through a spell of defying our parents.”

He lifted his brows, curious about that, but she cut her gaze away and shrugged off providing details.

“She wound up expelled and her parents disowned her. I tried to help, brought her home for the holidays, but my parents strongly encouraged me to end that friendship if I wanted to continue enjoying the limited freedoms I had.” Her smile was bitter. “I still gave her money when she asked, but I know she wound up taking lovers just to have a bed at night. I’ve never felt right about not making more of an effort to help her.”

She lifted her thick lashes so her gaze came up while her chin stayed down, framing her abashed mink brown eyes.

He wanted to ask more about her own acts of defiance, but stayed on topic. “Sorcha needs your help?” he surmised.

She shrugged one bare shoulder. “I’m not sure. She hasn’t said much except that Cesar didn’t know about Enrique. It’s been quite hard for her, I think. Don’t be judgy,” she added swiftly.

“Of course not,” he murmured, dismissing the other woman from his mind as the one before him, the one that mattered, was confiding in a way that was deeply encouraging. He closed his hands on her waist and drew her against him. “I’m sorry you haven’t been sleeping. I’m here now to get up with him and you know Bree’s always happy to help. We’ll make your excuses as early as we can tonight, even though I’ll be sorry to let you go. You look beautiful.” He leaned to kiss her.

“Lipstick,” she said, averting her mouth from his. “Putting on my makeup took twice as long as it should have. Don’t make me start again.”

He picked up her hands, smiling through his disappointment while an odd sensation moved through him. Admiration and warmth at what a loyal person she was, but something deeper and brighter. He kissed her fingers, habitually trying to resist whatever that rush of emotion was simply because it was stronger than he liked to allow.

“Come,” he said with a tug of her hand toward the door. “I want to dance with my wife.”