It Started With A Lie: A forbidden fake-boyfriend Cinderella romance (The Montebellos Book 5)

by Clare Connelly

  “I can see that,” Bronte whispered. “Not the bit about you being a bastard, but about you breaking her heart. But I don’t think that has anything to do with what happened to Mattia.”

  He was silent.

  “You must have spoken to doctors at the time. Surely they explained.”

  “No one could explain it. Everything was fine, and then it wasn’t.”

  “Sometimes, these things happen,” she said softly, hating that there was nothing more she could offer him. “And it’s awful, completely unfair and tragic, but you can’t keep beating yourself up, blaming yourself, bearing the responsibility for that loss.”

  He made a gruff noise that she took as rejection. She supposed he could do whatever he wanted or needed to do; who was she to try to change the way he lived his life?

  “And somewhere, Katie is out there, hurting, or possibly dead, because I couldn’t even hold the loving fiancé thing together for a few months, until the baby was born.” When he looked at her, she felt the cold anger in his eyes and knew it was all directed at himself. “Do you understand why I tried to warn you away from me?”

  Her heart hammered.

  She shook her head.

  “And why I didn’t want to talk about it?”

  Grief flooded her, but a grief for him, and the baby he’d lost, the woman he’d cared for, and all the pain that had been. A grief that made her want to reassure him, somehow, that she didn’t see him the way he did himself.

  She pushed the sheet back, lifting up so she could straddle him, surprised it didn’t feel strange to do something so intimate. It felt perfect and right, and exactly what she needed to do in that moment.

  Her pyjamas were a soft barrier between them, but that didn’t matter. This was about basic human comfort, a need to connect with him, to be close.

  “You’re a good person, Luca.”

  His eyes shuttered; she felt him pulling away from her.

  She pressed her palms to his bare chest in a gesture of entreaty, silently begging him to listen. “Everything you’ve just said shows me that you’re a good guy.”

  “Then you’re not listening.”

  She shook her head. “Of course I am. So you slept with a girl you liked. And she got pregnant. You didn’t fob her off or offer her money and a place to live, just because that would have been more convenient. You moved her in with you so you could look after her and be a part of her life, so you could give your baby the best chance to know both parents. She fell in love with you and you tried to give her everything she wanted. You proposed because you cared about her, you loved your baby, and you wanted to make her happy. That’s not a horrible thing to do.”

  “I didn’t love her.”

  “You cared about her, and you don’t know you wouldn’t have come to love her.”

  His eyes showed his thoughts on that.

  She bit down on her lower lip. “I can’t see any good comes from you beating yourself up about this.”

  His smile was dismissive.

  She sighed, bringing her face closer to his, her lips brushing his. “You’re a good person.”

  His eyes flicked to hers, but he didn’t say anything to reject her statement.

  “You’re kind, and good.” She moved her palm to his heart, pressing it there. “And you’re hurting.” She kissed his lips lightly.

  “It was a long time ago. Years.”

  She nodded, letting her lips linger against his. “That doesn’t matter. There’s no statute of limitations on grief.”

  9

  “YOU LOOK RADIANT,” Alice smiled as, a scant few hours later, Bronte let herself into her sister’s far more spacious suite.

  “Hey, you stole my line,” Bronte quipped, pushing the door shut behind her.

  “We can both be radiant.” Alice strolled across the room, hands out, so Bronte linked hers with her sister’s, glad that last night’s lack of sleep wasn’t apparent on her face. She was going to need a lot of coffee to get through the day. But it didn’t matter, because she felt a weightlessness she’d never known before, a smile coming easily to her.

  “Happy wedding day.” She kissed Alice’s cheek.

  “Can you believe it’s finally here? I feel as though I’ve been waiting for this forever.”

  “Not quite forever,” Bronte teased. “Just a few months.”

  “A year, at least.” Alice waved to the table behind her. “I ordered coffee. And breakfast.”

  “That’s so kind of you. Aren’t I meant to be taking care of you?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” Alice murmured. “I’ve been up since dawn.”

  “Why so early?”

  “I was too excited to sleep,” she said with a grin. “Come on. Help me eat something. I can’t believe I still have to wait hours before I can put on my dress.” She gestured to the beautiful creation that was hanging, backlit, against a window.

  “That will go quickly by the time there’s been all the hoopla.”

  “Hoopla?”

  “Hair, make up, mum…”

  “Ah, yes.” Alice twisted her wrist to check the time. “But for the next hour, it’s just you, me, and this delightful breakfast, and I’ve been looking forward to this all weekend.”

  Bronte’s sense of weightlessness increased. She was so lucky to have such a loving sister, a woman who was – and always had been – one of her closest, dearest friends, and biggest supports. Suddenly, knowing that she was lying to Alice, felt like an asteroid from out of left field. It was careening towards earth, and Bronte almost gasped at the force of that potential impact. How could she ever have thought that lying to Alice was a good idea?

  And there was nothing she could do about it now. Bronte sure as hell couldn’t tell Alice what a disaster her life was now – not on Alice’s wedding day!

  Bronte pushed the thoughts aside, focussing instead on Alice. They talked and laughed, reminiscing over when Alice had first met Edward and reported that he was ‘handsome but far too severe’. She had, in fact, had a crush on his best friend for a few weeks but when they’d been driving to Glastonbury one year, the car had skidded off the road, stranding Alice with Edward, and in the midst of a puddly English field, sparks had flown and love was born.

  “Thank goodness for potholes, huh?” Bronte teased.

  “Is that how your speech is going to open?”

  Bronte flashed her eyes. “Oh, I’m not making a speech and you know it.”

  “I’m only teasing.”

  Bronte hated public speaking, and always had done. “But let me say, while it’s just you and me, how happy I am for you. Edward’s such a great guy. I think I’d feel weird to see you getting married to anyone unless they were absolutely perfect; and he is.”

  “He really is,” Alice swooned, so Bronte had to stifle a giggle. It was how a bride was meant to feel on her wedding day, wasn’t it?

  “I’m sorry that Ashton turned out to be such a monumental dick.”

  Bronte almost spat her tea at her sister’s uncharacteristic turn of phrase.

  Alice lifted her hands by way of apology. “Sorry. It’s what Edward called him shortly after it happened and it stuck.”

  “Oh,” Bronte grimaced. “There have been so many shockwaves, haven’t there? His friendship with Edward, his acceptance in our family. Even mum’s friendship with his mum…”

  “I know. But that’s his fault. He ruined everything.”

  Bronte contemplated that. A few days ago, she might have agreed, but something was shifting inside of her, a perception that was altering, lessening her anger and hurt, enabling her to see things differently. “We weren’t like you guys.”

  Alice frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know if Ashton and I ever really loved each other.” She bit into the corner of her toast, mulling it over. Alice was watching her with a look of complete surprise.

  “I mean, we loved each other,” Bronte contradicted with a tight shake of her head. “In that way old f
riends must. But we weren’t in synch in the same way I see with you and Edward. We were comfortable together, and happy enough I guess, but that’s not the stuff of a happy marriage. It’s not everlasting love.”

  Alice shook her head as if to demur.

  “It’s okay.” Bronte reached across the table and put her hand over her sister’s. “I’ve been hurting for a long time but this weekend has really clarified things for me. I didn’t know how I expected to feel, seeing Ashton again. Seeing him with her.” She shrugged. “But I can honestly say I’m happy, without him.”

  Alice watched her for several beats, as though trying to weigh up if Bronte was being serious or not. “And you’ve got your super Hotty McHotface Italian to soften the blow,” Alice said with a wink.

  Heat spread through Bronte. Guilt, too, at the lie, but mostly a sense of warmth when she thought of Luca. In this sense, it wasn’t a lie. He was distracting her and making her feel better, he was making her feel desirable and whole.

  “Yes.” Bronte squeezed Alice’s hand. “But today is definitely not about me, or Luca, or Ashton, or anyone but you.”

  Alice pouted. “And Edward.”

  “Ehhh,” Bronte quavered her hand in the air, to indicate ‘maybe’.

  Alice laughed. “I like your thinking.”

  Alice had three bridesmaids, and six children in the wedding party – a combination of page boys and flower girls, all adorably dressed in old-fashioned party wear, the girls with hair in ringlets and the boys’ styled to the side, like film stars from the fifties. As for the bridesmaid dresses, Alice had shown her kindness in the selection of dresses that were the last word in flattering. Not a hint of puffed sleeve or bouffant skirt in sight, the dresses were a pale pink and svelte, with a v-neck at the front and back, a nipped in waist and pencil skirt to just above the knees. Teamed with heels, the effect was a team of bridesmaids who looked like they could be strolling the runway at New York fashion week.

  Alice’s dress was similarly flattering. She’d eschewed the big, fluffy skirts and opted for a class A-line dress in the finest cream silk, her veil secured with a crown of flowers rather than any pretence at a tiara.

  “Darling, you’re perfect,” Clara enthused, tears in her eyes, as Alice prepared to leave the hotel room.

  Alice blinked her lashes, her cheeks naturally pink. “I know.”

  Bronte smiled, and winked at her dad. He walked towards Bronte, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “As are you, poppet.”

  In the grounds of Athlestone Park stood an eighteenth century stone church, only a short walk from the house. While most of the wedding party made their way there on foot, several sleek white Jaguars with creamy leather interior had been sent for the bridal party. The cacophony of butterfly wings in her stomach intensified as their car drew closer to the church, and not just because she was excited for her sister.

  Ancient oak trees formed a guard of honour, leading the car to the church, and all Bronte could think about was seeing Luca again. Soon. Within minutes. She swallowed past a cluster of nerves at the base of her throat, smiled at one of the little flower girls, then tried to blot him from her mind and focus on the duties at hand.

  It was impossible. The whole time she was corralling the small participants into order, running her hands over her sister’s skirt to remove the few fine creases that had formed during the short drive, her mind was focussed on Luca with a singular intensity. She was working on autopilot, directing the children just as they’d rehearsed, but her mind was counting down until she saw him again.

  “Ready?” Alice asked, squeezing Bronte’s hand. Bronte turned to her sister and smiled, a sheen of tears filling her eyes for what was about to happen, and the enormity of it all.

  “You stole my line, again.”

  Alice laughed. “I am more than ready. And please don’t cry because you’ll make me cry and I don’t want that to be my wedding day look.”

  “Sorry, you’re right. You just – you’re stunning, Ally.”

  “Aw, shucks. Thanks. Now, get going.”

  Bronte nodded, looking down the long aisle. The other two bridesmaids had gone ahead, it was just Bronte then Alice to follow.

  Bronte’s smile encompassed her mother and father, and then she turned, breathing in deeply, and slowly, as she entered the church.

  It was this moment in particular she’d dreaded the most. Most of the guests in attendance, certainly on the bride’s side of the church had only known Bronte as one half of Ashton and Bronte. She’d hated the idea of walking down the aisle and that even a single one of them might be pitying her for the suddenly single state in which she found herself.

  In the actual moment, that fear felt absurd and selfish. No one was focussed on her love life except herself. This was Alice’s day, and happiness abounded. The only thoughts were good and kind. She walked to the beat of the classical music, just as she’d been instructed, more than confident in the sky-high heels she’d selected for the day. As she neared the front of the church, her eyes were caught by a pair that were intimately familiar to hers, a pair that sent a blade of ice down her spine. She looked away from Ashton again immediately, not even bothering to offer him the ghost of a smile.

  Her eyes – as though they knew what she needed – bounced straight into Luca’s. Her heart skipped a beat. Her step faltered. Her smile was instinctive. Wide. Genuine.

  He was wearing a stunning tuxedo – dark grey with a lighter grey waistcoat and tie – he looked unbelievably handsome. His dark hair had been brushed back from his brow, drawing attention to the symmetrical angles of his features, and he’d shaved, so her fingers itched, even then, to run over the smooth square of his jaw.

  She lifted three of her fingers in a small wave as she passed, and he matched the gesture, lifting his fingers off the back of the pew, his smile sending ripples of something delightful through her body. She took her position and tried not to look at him again.

  It was impossible not to be aware of his eyes on her, though. She felt his gaze the whole time she was standing beside her sister, listening to Alice and Edward recite their vows and pledge their lives to each other, a frisson of awareness was rushing through her. Once, she risked looking towards him and sure enough, found that his eyes were trained on her as though she were the only person in the room. There was a fierce look of possessive intensity on his features. Her stomach squeezed.

  The ceremony wasn’t long – perhaps thirty minutes. Once Edward and Alice were announced as ‘husband and wife’, the crowd erupted in delighted cheers. They began to make their way down the aisle, guests reaching out to congratulate them as they passed. Bronte smiled from ear to ear as she walked behind them, finding it impossible not to be carried away by the euphoria of the moment. As she approached Luca, he extended his own hand, and she moved towards it quickly.

  “You look good enough to eat,” he said, without smiling, that same burst of possessive heat in his eyes sending a blade of desire through her body. She winked at him, with difficulty – her insides were melting and all she wanted to do was slide into the seat beside him, to be near him. But her job wasn’t yet done.

  She pulled her hand away and re-joined the procession, accidentally catching Ashton’s eyes as she passed. He smiled at her and this time, her lips were already locked in a smile, so she inadvertently returned it.

  A feeling of joy was pervasive, even in the perfect summer’s afternoon that enveloped the ancient grounds. A gently sloping hill ran away from the chapel, carpeted by bluebells and snowdrops.

  Guests pushed out of the chapel, surrounding the couple. ‘Congratulations’ were abundant. Bronte watched, smiling, standing close to her parents, until a hand captured hers and pulled her away without warning. She looked up to see Luca guiding her from the crowd, his face averted from hers, his body radiating – tension? She frowned.

  Was something wrong?

  Around the corner from the church there was a formal garden, paved paths f
ramed by box hedges, and in the centre of the paths, at the point where they bisected, a large stone urn covered in moss.

  “Luca? What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” He finally stopped walking, abruptly turning to face her, his body hard against hers. “What’s wrong is that I don’t think I can go another minute without doing this.”

  He captured her face in his hands and kissed her, with no regard for the delicate make up an artist had spent the better part of an hour applying to Bronte’s face that morning. He kissed her as though it was all he’d been thinking of all morning; he kissed her as though his life depended on it.

  She trembled against him, her body surrendering to him, to this – the heady fragrance of the summer garden, his total possession and command of her, the sound of bees in the air, and the warmth of sunlight on her back. She lifted up onto her toes, not because she needed to but because she wanted to be as close to him as possible, because her surrender was complete.

  “You looked so goddamned beautiful up there.” He groaned into her mouth, his hands moving around to her hair.

  She shook her head, pulling back for the briefest moment. “Don’t destroy the hair. Alice will kill me. I still have to do photos.”

  His eyes sparked with hers and she could tell he was tempted to pull it loose anyway, but he didn’t. He dropped his hands to her waist instead, holding her where she was, his breath punching from his lungs.

  “How long will photos take?”

  “Um, I don’t know,” she said, apologetically. “I suspect at least an hour.”

  He padded his thumb across her lower lip, shaking his head once.

  “There’s champagne being served on the lawn somewhere.”

  “I don’t care about champagne,” he muttered. “Meet me in our room as soon as you can.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “Are you –,”

  “Yes, Bronte. I’m very serious. I’m not waiting until tonight to be with you again.”