Читать книгу Modern Romance March 2017 Books 1 - 4 - Эбби Грин - Страница 17
ОглавлениеDARCY ALMOST LAUGHED at the pale-faced stranger in the mirror. What would the child she’d once been have thought about the woman whose reflection stared back at her? A woman dressed in clothes which still made her shudder when she thought about the price tag.
Her floaty, cream wedding gown had been purchased from one of Nicoletta’s boutiques in Rome and the dress cleverly modified to conceal her baby bump but nonetheless, Darcy still felt like a ship in full sail. Her curls had been tied and tamed by the hairdresser who’d arrived at the Tuscan villa they were renting now that Vallombrosa had been sold, and from which they had been married that very morning. Darcy had wanted to wear normal clothes for her marriage to Renzo, as if to reinforce that it was merely a formality she was being forced to endure, but her prospective husband had put his foot down and insisted that she at least looked like a real bride...
‘What difference does it make whether I wear a white dress or not?’ she’d questioned sulkily.
‘The difference is that it will feel more real if you wear white and carry flowers. You are a very beautiful woman, cara—and you will make a very beautiful bride.’
But Darcy had not felt at all real as she’d walked downstairs—though she couldn’t deny that the dark blaze in Renzo’s eyes had made her feel briefly beautiful. He had insisted they marry in Italy, presumably on the advice of his lawyers, who seemed to be running the whole show. But that part Darcy didn’t mind. A wedding in Italy was bound to be more low-key than a wedding in England, where the press were much more curious and there was the possibility of someone from her past getting wind of it. With all the necessary paperwork in place, they had appeared before the civil registrar in the beautiful medieval town of Barga, with just Gisella and Pasquale as their witnesses. And just four days later they had been legally allowed to wed.
It had been the smallest and most formal of ceremonies in an ancient room with a high, beamed ceiling and although Gisella had voiced a slight wistfulness that they weren’t having a religious service, Darcy, for one, was glad. It was bad enough having to go through something you knew was doomed, without having to do so before the eyes of the church.
But there had been a point when her heart had turned over and she’d started wishing it were real and that had been when Renzo had smiled at her once they’d been legally declared man and wife—his black eyes crinkling with a smile which had reminded her of the first time she’d met him. With his dark suit echoing the raven hue of his hair he’d made a sensational groom. And when he’d looked at her that way, he’d looked as if he actually cared—and she’d had to keep reminding herself that he didn’t. It had all been an act for the benefit of those around them. She was here because she carried his child and for no other reason. But it had been difficult to remember that when he’d pulled her into his arms in full view of everyone.
She’d felt so torn right then. Her instinctive response had been to hug him back because that was how she always responded and they hadn’t touched one another in any way since he’d turned up at the hospital with his ultimatum of a marriage proposal. But too much had happened for her to ever go back to that easy intimacy. How could she possibly lie in his arms and let him kiss her after all the cruel and bitter things which had been done and said? How could she bear to feel him deep inside her body when he’d been so eager to think badly of her?
She remembered freezing as his hands went to her expanded waist, feeling as if her body had suddenly turned to marble. ‘Please, Renzo,’ she’d whispered, her words a soft protest, not a plea.
But he hadn’t let her go or changed his position. He’d dipped his head and spoke to her in low and rapid English, his fingers spanning the delicate fabric of the dress and increasing the points at which he’d been in contact with her.
‘You are dressed to play the part of my bride and therefore you will act the part of my bride,’ he’d said softly. ‘Let’s show the world that I have married a flesh-and-blood woman and not some pale-faced doll.’
It was then that he’d bent his head to claim her lips and it had been the weirdest kiss of her life. At first her determination had made it easy not to respond, but the sensation of his lips on hers had soon melted away her reservations and she’d sunk into that kiss with an eagerness she hadn’t been able to disguise. She’d felt powerless beneath that brief but thorough exploration. She hadn’t been able to hold back her gasp as she’d felt that first sweet invasion of his tongue. Heat had flooded over her. Her hands had reached up to hold on to him as the beat of her heart had become erratic but suddenly the movement had become about so much more than support. Suddenly she’d been clinging to him and revelling in the feel of all that rock-hard flesh beneath her fingertips. She’d wanted him so much that she hadn’t even cared about his triumphant laugh of pleasure as he’d drawn his lips away because it had felt like for ever since he’d kissed her and it had tasted as delicious as having a drink after a dusty walk. Like the first hint of sweetness on your tongue when you badly needed the boost of sugar.
A kiss like that was the inevitable forerunner of intimacy and she must not let it happen again. She dared not...
‘You look miles away.’ Renzo’s low drawl broke into Darcy’s reverie and she watched his reflected body as he strolled in from the en-suite bathroom of their honeymoon suite, wearing nothing but a too-small white towel slung low over his hips. Crystalline droplets of water glittered like diamonds in his ebony hair and, despite knowing she shouldn’t be affected by his near-nakedness, Darcy’s brain was refusing to listen to reason and instead was sending out frantic messages to her pulse points.
It was the first time she’d seen him in a state of undress since the night of the ball, when they’d come home and he’d made rapturous love to her. The night before Drake had visited and the necklace had disappeared and her whole world had come crashing down around her. A necklace Renzo had been prepared to write off in his eagerness to be rid of her. It all seemed like a dream now and yet suddenly all that honed silken flesh was haunting her with everything she’d been missing.
‘So why,’ he questioned, his voice growing sultry as he walked over and stood behind her and wound one long finger around an errant curl, ‘did you let them put your hair up like that?’
Darcy swallowed because, from this position, far too much of his flesh was on show and his skin was still damp and soap-scented from the shower. ‘The hairdresser said loose hair would look untidy.’
‘But perhaps your husband doesn’t like it to look tidy,’ he mocked, pulling out one pearl-topped pin quickly followed by another. ‘He likes it to look wild and free.’
‘Which is slightly ironic given that you’re the most precise and ordered man on the planet. And I don’t remember giving you permission to do that,’ she protested as he continued to remove them.
‘I’m your husband now, Darcy. Surely I don’t have to ask permission to take your hair down?’
Glad for the tumble of curls concealing the reluctant lust which was making her cheeks grow so pink, Darcy stared down at her lap. ‘You’re my husband in name only,’ she said quietly.
‘So you keep saying. But since we’re sharing a room and a bed—’
‘Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that. Tell me again why we’re sharing a bed.’
‘Because I need to keep an eye on you. I promised the midwife and the doctor.’ His black eyes glittered. ‘And that being the case—just how long do you think you can hold off from letting me make love to you when you’re as jumpy as a scalded cat whenever I come near?’
‘I think making love a rather inaccurate way to describe what we do,’ she said, sighing as the last curl tumbled free and he added the final pearl pin to the neat little line he’d assembled on the dressing table. ‘I wish we didn’t have this wedding party tonight.’
‘I know. You’d much rather be alone with me.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I know you didn’t.’ His dark gaze was full of mockery. ‘But a wedding is a wedding and it is fitting to celebrate such a momentous occasion with friends. We don’t want them thinking our union is in name only, do we?’
‘Even if it is?’
‘Even if it is. So why not try playing your part with enthusiasm? Who knows? Sooner or later you might find the feelings have rubbed off.’ He stroked her hair. ‘You won’t have anything to do, if that’s what’s worrying you. The food, the wine and the guests have all been taken care of.’
‘And in the meantime I’m to be brought down and paraded around in my white dress like a cow in the marketplace?’
He gave a soft laugh. ‘Looking at you now, that’s the very last image which springs to mind.’ He leaned forward, his hands on her shoulders, his mouth so close that she could feel his warm breath fanning the curls at the back of her neck. And suddenly his voice was urgent. ‘Listen to me, Darcy. Neither of us wanted this to happen but it’s what we’ve ended up with. I didn’t want to get married and I certainly didn’t plan to be a parent and neither, presumably, did you.’
Her lips folded in on themselves. ‘No.’
In the reflection of the glass their eyes met and Renzo wondered why, even in the midst of all this unwanted emotional drama, their chemistry should be as powerful as ever. Did she feel it too? She must.
He could see her nipples pushing against the silk of her wedding gown and the darkening of her emerald eyes, but the tight set of her shoulders and her unsmiling lips were telling him quite clearly to stay away. Once he had known her body completely, but not any more. Her bulky shape was unfamiliar now, just as she was. She was spiky, different, wary. It was difficult being around her without being able to touch her and, oh, how he wanted to touch her. That had not changed, despite everything which had happened. Her skin was luminous, her eyes bright, and the rampant red curls even more lustrous than before. Didn’t people say that a woman with child developed a glowing beauty all of her own? He’d never really thought about it before now—why would he?—but suddenly he knew exactly what they meant. He noticed the way she kept moving her hand to her growing bump, as if she were in possession of the world’s greatest secret.
Pregnant.
His mouth dried. It was still hard for him to get his head around that. To believe that a whole new life was about to begin and he must be responsible for it. He’d meant it when he told her he never wanted a family and not just because he recognised all the potential for pain which a family could bring. He had liked his life the way it was. He liked having to answer to no one except himself. And if every female who’d fallen into his arms had thought they’d be the one to change his mind, they had been wrong. He’d managed to get to the age of thirty-five without having to make any kind of commitment.
Had Darcy done what nobody else had been able to do—and deliberately got herself pregnant? But if that had been the case then he must take his share of the blame. He’d been so blown away by discovering she was a virgin that he couldn’t wait for her to go on the pill. He remembered the first time he’d entered her without wearing a condom and the indescribable pleasure he’d felt. It had been primitive, powerful and overwhelming but it hadn’t been wise. He had allowed sexual hunger to blind him to reason. He’d allowed her to take sole responsibility for birth control and look what had happened. His heart clenched tightly with an emotion he didn’t recognise as he stared into her green eyes.
‘Did you mean to get pregnant?’ he demanded.
He saw her flinch and compose herself before answering.
‘No,’ she answered quietly. ‘I had some sort of bug just before we went to Tuscany and I didn’t realise...’
‘That sickness would stop the pill from working?’
‘Apparently.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You weren’t warned that could happen?’
‘Probably—but with all the excitement about the holiday, I forgot all about it. It wasn’t deliberate, Renzo—if that’s what you’re thinking.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘No woman in her right mind would want to tie herself to a man with ice for a heart, no matter how rich or well-connected he might be.’
And he believed her. He might wish he didn’t but he did. His pale-faced bride in the floaty dress was telling the truth. ‘So it seems we have a choice,’ he said. ‘We can go downstairs to our guests with good grace or I can take you kicking and screaming every inch of the way.’
‘I won’t embarrass you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have no desire to make this any more difficult than it already is.’
‘Good.’
Turning away, he dropped the towel and Darcy was treated to the distracting sight of his bare buttocks—each hard globe a paler colour than the dark olive of his back. She could see the hair-roughened power of those thighs and hated the way her stomach automatically turned over when she was doing everything in her power to fight her attraction.
‘Tempted?’ His voice was full of sensual mockery—as if he had the ability to read her expression even with his back turned. And she mustn’t let him realise the accuracy of his taunt. If she wanted to protect herself, she mustn’t let him get close to her—not in any way.
‘Tempted by what—our wedding feast?’ she questioned, sniffing at the air as if trying to detect the rich scents of cooking which had been drifting through the downstairs of the house all morning. ‘Absolutely! To be honest, I do have a little of my appetite back. I could eat a horse.’
He gave a low laugh as Darcy scuttled into the bathroom where she spent a long time fiddling with her hair, and when she returned to the bedroom it was to find him dressed in that head-turning way which only Italian men seemed able to pull off. His dark suit emphasised his broad shoulders and powerful physique and he’d left his silk shirt open at the neck to reveal a sexy smattering of dark hair.
Uncertainly, she skimmed her hand down over her dress. ‘Won’t I look a little overdressed?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ he said drily. ‘But probably not in the way you imagine.’
Her cheeks were still pink by the time they walked into the formal salon, which had been transformed with bridal finery by Gisella and a team of helpers from the nearby village. The cold winter weather meant they couldn’t venture out into the huge grounds, but instead enormous fires were blazing and dark greenery festooned the staircases and fireplace. There were white flowers, white ribbons and sugar-dusted bonbons heaped on little glass dishes. A towering croquembouche wedding cake took pride of place in the dining room and on a table at the far end of the room—a pile of beautifully wrapped presents which they’d expressly stated they didn’t want!
A loud burst of applause reached them as they walked in, along with cries of ‘Congratulazioni!’ and ‘Ben fatto, Renzo!’ The guests were all Renzo’s friends, and although he’d told her he would pay for anyone she wanted to fly out to Tuscany for the celebration, Darcy hadn’t taken him up on his offer. Because who could she invite when she’d lived her life a loner—terrified of forming any lasting commitments because of her past and the very real fear of rejection?
But she was pleased to see Nicoletta and not just because the glamourous Italian had helped with her trousseau. She’d realised that Renzo no longer had any lingering feelings about the woman he’d once had a ‘thing’ with. Darcy might have had an innate lack of self-confidence brought about by years of neglect, but even she couldn’t fail to see the way her husband was looking at her tonight—a sentiment echoed by Nicoletta.
‘I have never seen Renzo this way before,’ she confided as Darcy sucked limonata through a straw. ‘He can barely tear his eyes away from you.’
Darcy put her glass down. Because he was one of life’s winners, that was why. He would want his marriage to succeed in the way that his business had succeeded and because his own parents’ marriage had failed. That was why he was suddenly being so nice to her. And that scared her. It made her want to fight her instinctive attraction and to pull away from him. She didn’t dare sink into a false state of security which would leave her raw and hurting when their marriage hit the skids. Because it would. Of course it would. How long would it take before her brilliant husband tired of her once reality kicked in? Had he even stopped to consider how a wife at the mercy of fluctuating hormones might fit into his calm and ordered life, let alone all the change which a new baby would bring?
But the evening fared better than she would have imagined. Renzo’s obvious appreciation—whether faked or not—seemed to make everyone eager to welcome her into their midst. His friends were daunting, but essentially kind. She met lawyers, bankers and an eminent heart surgeon and although each and every one of them spoke to her in perfect English, she vowed to learn Renzo’s native tongue. Because suddenly, she caught a glimpse of what the future could be like if she wasn’t careful. Of Renzo and their son speaking a language which the new mamma couldn’t understand, with her inevitably being cast into the role of outsider.
And that could also be dangerous. Renzo had been reasonable before the marriage, but now she had his ring on her finger there was no longer any need for him to be. If she didn’t watch her back she would become irrelevant. She looked around at the elegant room her new husband was renting for what she considered an extortionate amount of money. Could she really envisage their son willingly accompanying her back to an unknown England and an uncertain future if the marriage became unbearable, and leaving all this privilege and beauty behind?
But she ate, chatted and drank her limonata, waiting until the last of their guests had gone before following Renzo up to their suite, her heart rattling loudly beneath her ribcage. She undressed in the bathroom, emerging wearing a nightgown Nicoletta had insisted on gifting her. It was an exquisite piece for a new bride to wear and one designed to be removed almost as soon as it had been put on. Despite the hard curve of her baby bump, the ivory silk-satin coated her body as flatteringly as a second skin. Edged with ivory lace, the delicate fabric framed the skin above her engorged breasts and the moment she walked into the bedroom Darcy saw Renzo’s eyes darken.
Her own answering tug of lust made her reconsider her decision to distance herself from him, because surely physical intimacy would provide some kind of release and lessen the unmistakable tension which had sprung up between them. But sexual intimacy could also be dangerous, especially in their situation. Something was growing inside her which was part of him and how could she bear to cheapen that by having sex which was nothing but a physical release?
She sat down heavily on the side of the bed, not realising that she’d given a little groan until he glanced across at her.
‘You must be tired.’
She nodded, suddenly feeling as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of her. ‘I am. But I need to talk to you.’
‘About...?’
‘Stuff.’
His smile was slow, almost wolfish. ‘Be a little bit more explicit, Darcy. What kind of stuff?’
She shrugged. ‘Where we’re going to live. Practicalities. That kind of thing. And we need to decide soon because I won’t be allowed to fly once I’m past thirty-six weeks.’
His self-assured shake of his head was tinged with the arrogant sense of certainty which was so much a part of him. ‘I have my own jet, Darcy. We can fly when the hell we like, provided we take medical support with us.’
She nodded as she pulled back the covers and got into the king-size bed, rolling over as far as possible until she had commandeered one side of it. ‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘But we still need to discuss it.’
‘Just not tonight,’ he said, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he joined her. ‘You’re much too tired. We’ll talk in the morning. And—just for the record—if you lie much closer to the edge, you’re going to fall off it in the middle of the night and, apart from the obvious danger to yourself, you might just wake me up.’ She heard the clatter as he removed his wristwatch and put it on the bedside table. ‘Don’t worry, Darcy, I’m reading your body language loud and clear and I have no intention of trying to persuade a woman to make love if she has set her mind against it.’
‘Something which has never happened to you before, I suppose?’ she questioned waspishly.
‘As it happens, no,’ he drawled. He snapped off the light. ‘Usually I have to fight them off.’
Darcy’s skin stung with furious heat. It was a lesson to never ask questions unless you were prepared to be stupidly hurt by the answer you might receive. Lying open-eyed in the darkness, almost immediately she heard the sounds of Renzo’s deep and steady breathing and fearfully she foresaw a restless night ahead, plagued by troubled thoughts about the future. But to her surprise she felt warm and cosseted in that big bed with a brand-new wedding ring on her finger. And, yes, even a little bit safe.
As the keen Tuscan wind howled outside the ancient house Darcy snuggled down into her pillow and, for the first time in a long time, slept soundly.
