Emmeline was aware of everything in that instance. Miss Mavis’s sweet scent—like lemon and sugar and butter all rolled into one—the sound of an aeroplane droning overhead, the way Pietro stiffened at her side, and the way her own heart lurched and rolled with the certainty that it was too late.
‘I came as soon as I heard. How is he?’
‘Oh, Miss Emmeline...’
Miss Mavis’s face crumpled and Emmeline knew. She just knew. Even the light was different as it glistened across the front of Annersty. The sun was bleak, mourning his loss.
‘When?’
The quiet question came from behind her—a voice as much stained by grief as her heart was. And she didn’t doubt the truth of his sadness. Pietro had loved Col like a father. Had loved him enough to marry her just to give Col some semblance of reassurance at the end of his life.
‘An hour ago,’ Miss Mavis sobbed. ‘We tried to call you, but your phone...’
Miss Mavis, whom Emmeline had known from five years of age, was like family. She ran a hand over Emmeline’s back, holding her tight, comforting her.
‘Can I see him?’ Emmeline whispered, sounding like the little girl she’d been the year Mavis was hired.
‘Of course you can.’
Miss Mavis stepped inwards and Emmeline followed, but then she spun around, her eyes fiercely accusing as they locked to Pietro’s.
‘Don’t.’
She lifted a hand to emphasise her point, then fixed her gaze somewhere over his shoulder. She didn’t want to look at the pallor of his face, the haunted eyes. She didn’t want to think about the fact that he’d lost someone he loved as well. That he was possibly as wrenched apart by sadness as she was.
‘Don’t you dare come into my house.’
He flinched as though she’d hit him. ‘Cara...’
‘No. Don’t you dare.’
Miss Mavis’s hand on her back offered strength and comfort. She was feeling more and more like herself again.
‘If I’d never married you I would have been with him. I would have been with him.’
Pietro braced a hand on the side of the door but otherwise made no effort to move inside. ‘It’s not what he wanted.’
‘He was wrong. You were wrong.’ She shook her head angrily. ‘You should have told me. I should have been here. I’ll never forgive you for this.’
She stepped backwards and slammed the door shut, sobbing as it latched into place.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ON THE THIRD day after her father died—the morning of the funeral—she found a note stuffed in a book. It had fallen beneath his bed, and she’d pulled it out, was unfolding it slowly, when a knock at his door startled her. She spun guiltily, jamming the piece of paper into her vintage Dior clutch.
Pietro stood in the opening, dressed in a black suit, his dark hair styled back from his face, and he looked so strong and handsome, so supportive and sexy, that she wanted to throw herself across the room and take every bit of strength he was willing to give her.
But she didn’t. Because he’d destroyed what they were. Or maybe what they’d never been. The illusion of their marriage seemed like a dream now—one she would never have again. He’d kept his distance since they’d arrived at Annersty, and yet he’d always been there. Dealing with the lawyers, the servants, the mourners who arrived unannounced.
‘It’s time to go,’ he said quietly, his face lined with sympathy and sorrow.
The childish urge to tell him to stay the hell away from the funeral evaporated in the midst of what she knew her father would have wanted and expected. Col had loved Pietro, and she knew her husband well enough to know that it was mutual.
‘I’m not going with you.’ She settled for that instead.
‘Yes, you are.’
He pushed the door shut, leaving him on the bedroom side of it, and walked towards her. She froze like a deer in the headlights—as she had on their wedding night.
She tilted her chin defiantly, remembering all that had happened since that night. Changes had been wrought on her personality and her confidence—changes that couldn’t be undone now.
‘We will go together because if we arrive separately it will cause gossip and scandal.’
‘Oh, heaven forbid anyone should cast aspersions on the great Pietro Morelli’s marriage—’
‘I don’t give a damn what the papers say about me,’ he interrupted firmly, his expression showing grim sympathy, ‘but your father, on this day, deserves the focus to be on him. I will not provide the media with any distraction from the greatness he achieved in his long career of public service.’
‘Oh, God.’ She gripped his shirt for support as her body weakened, a wave of nausea rolling over her at the recognition of what this day was. ‘I can’t do this.’