‘I think you can be assured that if I were using the doctor as my mouthpiece, then I could think of more satisfying commands to give than an early-morning run,’ he murmured.
Lucy blushed, hot colour creeping all the way up her bare neck. ‘That was unnecessary!’
‘Really?’ he questioned innocently. ‘You don’t know to what I was alluding.’
No, but she had a pretty good idea. Apart from Guido’s one brief comment, during the run-up to the wedding they had not spoken of the physical side of their marriage. In the flurry of arrangements there had simply not been time nor the inclination—certainly not on Lucy’s part. Besides, it was actually quite a difficult thing to discuss.
When you were a couple having sex you didn’t discuss it—unless you were erotically describing your likes and dislikes. It was a subject which did not bear scrutiny or analysis. But they had stopped being a couple and stopped having sex a long time ago—it was only the baby which had prompted this bizarre wedding. Of course they were going to ignore it.
And when a subject was deliberately ignored and not spoken about, then it became huge inside your head. Lucy found herself tortured with memories of just how good it had been…and how much had changed. It could never be the same, could it? Not now.
She turned to the squealing crowd with a wide smile which threatened to split her face in two.
‘Are you intending to make this a proper marriage, Lucy?’ he questioned quietly.
She moved her head back to face him. Wasn’t there still some remnant of the schoolgirl idealist inside her, who did not want harsh words to mar what should have been the happiest day of her life? So that, no matter what happened in the future, she could one day say to her son—or daughter—that it had been a happy day.
What did he want? A submissive yes while they clip-clopped their way through the streets of Mardivino?
‘Now is neither the time nor the place to discuss it, Guido!’
‘As you wish, my Princess,’ he mocked.
The Rainbow Palace was festooned with flowers, and a wedding breakfast was laid out in the formal Mirrored Dining Room—on which, legend had it, one of the rooms at the Palace of Versailles had been modelled. Lucy could see her bridal image reflected back from every angle. Was that pale and doe-eyed creature in a beautiful wedding dress really her?
The Crown Prince was talking to her and, with an effort, she flashed Gianferro a huge smile.
‘You will eat something?’ he was saying.
‘I…’
Lately, her appetite had been sparrow-like, to say the least. About to refuse, she saw the look of concern on his face and nodded instead, obediently forking a sliver of some delicate, unknown fish into her mouth. She had actually lost weight. In the space of a fortnight, her wedding dress had been twice taken in by the Parisian couturier who had been flown over especially to make it for her.
‘It’s…it’s delicious,’ she said.
‘You are happy, Lucy?’
Gianferro’s unexpected question came out of the blue. How much had Guido told him? Did he believe it to be a love-match—and, if so, did she have the right to disillusion him?
Lucy knew then that no matter what was going on inside she had made a contract with Guido for the sake of the baby. And for all their sakes she must play the part of the blushingly contented bride.
She raised her glass of fruit juice. ‘I am,’ she said, feeling a pang of guilt as she looked across the table at her mother, who was giggling at something Guido was saying. She smiled, so proud of her. For a woman whose calendar highlight was the church Bring-and-Buy sale, she too seemed to be adapting remarkably well. Well, she must make her mother proud of her, too. ‘It’s a very exciting day,’ she murmured.
‘Indeed it is,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And Guido is taking you to the mountains for your honeymoon?’
‘Yes, he is,’ she agreed steadily.
‘You did not long for a more traditional destination? Paris or Rome, perhaps?’
‘Oh, no. I want to get to know my new country,’ she said staunchly. She couldn’t tell Gianferro that those cities were for ever tainted with memories of how it had been between them.
Then it had been sex and laughter, and a determination on her part to play the independent role required of her—but it had all backfired on her. And nothing had changed in that regard. She was still playing a role—except that now it just happened to be a different one.
‘And after the honeymoon?’ Gianferro’s voice cut into her thoughts. ‘What then?’
‘We haven’t decided.’ Or rather, they hadn’t discussed it—like so much else. She bit her lip as she glanced across the table to find Guido’s black eyes on her.
He had been watching her, and saw her easy and laughing interaction with his brother change into a frozen look of froideur as she met his eyes. As if she was wishing herself a million miles away…
Well, you and me too, cara, he thought bitterly. The last thing in the world he wanted was to be incarcerated here on Mardivino, back in the whole damned strait-jacket of formality and ritual.
But it had to be.
Or did it?
Were her surroundings only adding to her feeling of entrapment? Should he reassure her on that score—tell her that their stay here need only be temporary if that was what she desired?
But he felt the cold pulse of anger as she turned her head away from him, as if he were invisible. Well, if that was the way she wanted to play it—if she intended to be stubborn—then she would soon discover that he could be stubborn, too…
Unseen beneath the damask tablecloth, Lucy’s hand crept to cover the faint swell of her belly, willing herself not to succumb to the tide of emotion which was washing over her. Was it the rushing of her hormones which was making her feel so vulnerable? If so, she must be sure not to show it. Because he would not care—and why should he?
It was pointless to look for a soft response in a man like Guido. He had never behaved in that way before, so why the hell should he change now?
She watched him rise to his feet, resplendent in dark morning suit, his black hair ruffled and his olive skin gleaming. He was coming towards her, and despite everything her heart turned over. Why were emotions so impervious to logic? Why the hell did love have to leap out and grab you so inappropriately? Make you want to care for someone even though instinct told you there would be nothing coming back?
He gave a short laugh as he saw her face grow pale, and his words were so silky-soft that they could be heard by no one else.
‘At least try to maintain the charade of happiness on your wedding day, cara. Your mother will be distressed if you do otherwise. Come, Lucy.’ He held his hand out for hers, and as she looked up at him his eyes glittered like deadly black ice. ‘It is time to leave for our honeymoon.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘SO TELL me, Lucy.’ The black eyes glittered with challenge. ‘What do a couple do on honeymoon when they aren’t engaged in the rather more traditional pastime?’
From beneath her sunhat Lucy looked at him, and despite her intention not to, a shiver of pure longing ran through her. How different he looked from the man with whom she had exchanged her vows. Transformed from a formal and dark-suited elegance to a totally laid-back look, like a man happily at home on the beach.
He wore a pair of faded cut-off denims, which showed hard, muscular legs, and a thin cotton shirt which was flapping open, giving her occasional and distracting glimpses of his hair-roughened chest.
His mocking eyes were still challenging her for an answer, and she knew then that she could not keep running from the truth. She answered like the old Lucy—that self-deluding idiot who had thought she could match this man in the emotional detachment department.
The old Lucy would have met that challenge head-on. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re frustrated?’ she questioned.
‘Well, aren’t you?’ he shot back.
‘I have other things on my mind.’
She pointed to the book which was lying open on her lap. ‘You should try reading some time.’
‘So should you.’ His mouth twisted into an odd kind of smile. ‘That’s been open at the same page for the last hour!’
‘I’ve been admiring the scenery.’
‘I know you have,’ he mocked.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
He shrugged, flopping down onto the sand beside her. ‘If you find the sight of my body so irresistible that you can’t bear to tear your eyes away, Lucy—then stare away! Who am I to stop you?’
‘I was not staring!’
‘Oh, yes, you were,’ he contradicted softly. ‘You can’t stop looking at me…just as I can’t stop looking at you.’
He let his eyes drift over her, in a pale-green swimsuit which so flattered her colouring. Shaded by a hat and an umbrella—that fair English skin of hers would burn very easily—she was sitting rather primly on the soft, fine sand, occasionally swigging from a large bottle of cool water. The thin, stretchy material was moulded to her like a second skin, emphasising the increased swelling of her breasts and the hint of rounded belly which would grow bigger by the day.
At least she seemed less on edge today—some of the tight tension which had come so close to snapping on their wedding day seemed to have dissolved. He had seen the sadness as she bade farewell to her parents—the slight crumpling of her face which she had been so desperately trying to hide.
In that moment he had wanted to reach out and comfort her, but then he had reminded himself that he would not be able to follow through. The stone around his heart was too deeply ingrained to ever be shattered. It was better to start as he meant to go on, and he knew he could never give her real love. And maybe in that sense at least Lucy was the perfect bride for him. Wasn’t that one of the things which had always fascinated him about her—the fact that she wasn’t emotionally needy?
After her parents had left for England she had busied herself with changing—obviously she hadn’t wanted him to see her moment of wistfulness—and when she had emerged again it had been with a pale and set face.
They had travelled to their honeymoon destination—the Cacciatore mountain lodge—and that night she had resolutely dressed in cotton pyjamas and climbed into the low divan, turning her back on him in a silent gesture which spoke volumes.
His mouth had hardened as he had gazed upwards at the moonshadows which danced on the ceiling.
Did she imagine that he was going to beg her to make love? Or that he would wait for ever for her to change her mind?
Like hell he would!
Today he had driven her to the sea, in an attempt to fill up the day with something other than the unspoken frustrations and resentments between them.
But everything seemed to be having the wrong effect. She was wearing very little, and so was he. And the trouble was that the way he felt was becoming very difficult to disguise….
Nervously, she glanced at him, seeing for herself just how aroused he was, and feeling that wretched hot, moist ache once more, tempting her to give in. She wanted him. She had never really stopped wanting him. But what good was sex going to do them now? Wouldn’t it only complicate a complicated situation still further? ‘Don’t look at me that way,’ she begged.
‘What way is that? You mean, the way that any new husband would look at his wife?’
‘Oh, please, Guido!’ she retorted. ‘We’re not like a new husband and wife at all!’
‘In some ways we are,’ he argued softly. ‘Or rather, we could be.’
She shook her head. Not the way that counted, they couldn’t. ‘No.’
‘Then that is your decision, cara, not mine,’ he bit out. ‘And you must live with the consequences.’
She stared at him. She could see the hot light of desire which lit his dark eyes. Once that alone would have filled her with a heady kind of pride at having him within her power. But now she could see that for what it really was—a shallow and insignificant pride. Just because a man desired you physically it didn’t mean anything. He could desire all kinds of people—it just depended on who happened to be there at the time. He had already proved that to her.
‘You think that us having sex is going to make everything better?’ she said slowly.
‘In a word, yes. It would certainly make things a little more…comfortable.’ He shifted slightly, and he saw her look of horrified fascination as it was drawn once more towards his shorts.
‘Sex as a physical exercise, you mean? A bodily function that needs to be fulfilled—like scratching an itch?’
‘Don’t knock it, Lucy,’ he said softly. ‘You certainly never used to knock it before.’
She bit her lip and picked up the bottle to drink thirstily from it, but it did little to relieve the dryness in her mouth and she put it back down, her eyes serious. ‘Aren’t there other things we should be discussing, Guido? More important things?’
‘Oh?’ He raised his dark brows.
‘Well, for a start—we haven’t even decided where we’re going to be living.’
He sucked in a hot, dry breath. This was part of their deal. ‘You get to choose, remember?’
Never in a million years could Lucy have imagined her home as a newly-wed being decided by something as businesslike as a pre-nuptial agreement. ‘I don’t want to live in New York.’
‘Any reason why?’
‘I don’t think your apartment is suitable for a baby.’
‘Then we’ll move somewhere that is.’
She shook her head. New York was his city. She had tried to imagine his life going on, and hers at home with the baby, and the idea petrified her. He wasn’t going to take her out and introduce her to all his friends and play cosy-cosy, was he? Not when it would be a façade he might have difficulty maintaining.
And besides, New York was jam-packed full of temptation…
‘No,’ she said quietly.
‘So just where do you want to live?’
What would he say if she suggested England? But deep down, Lucy knew that was a non-starter—and it had nothing to do with the fact that England almost seemed too small to contain him. No. Her mother would take one look at her face and would guess at her daughter’s unhappiness. She couldn’t do that to her.
Which left only one place—the only place where she felt safe and grounded…
‘I’d like to live on Mardivino.’
Guido nodded. He should have seen this coming. He had flexed his muscles over the marriage and now she was showing that she could do the same. She knew how he felt about Royal life. Was she perhaps hoping that by incarcerating him here he would yield to her? Grant her a divorce and custody and a settlement? He gave a tight smile. She would soon learn that he could not be manipulated.
‘As you wish,’ he said coolly.
Lucy frowned. She had expected more reaction than that. Her explanation had been rehearsed; she was just waiting for his terse interrogation. But it seemed he had no interest in hearing it. Just what did she have to do to get a reaction from him?
Talk about the things that counted, that was what. ‘You know,’ she said softly, ‘there’s something which we’ve avoided talking about altogether.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ he drawled sardonically. ‘Do enlighten me.’
Was he being deliberately unperceptive? Or was he just in denial? ‘The baby, of course!’ The tiny creature which was growing in her belly even now. Growing, but almost unacknowledged—certainly up until now. But maybe they were all in denial.
Even her mother had only fleetingly referred to it. Was it delicacy which had prevented her—an old-fashioned idea that a shotgun marriage should not be seen as that? As if the honeymoon was going to wipe the slate clean so they could come back, the bad start would be forgotten and only then could they begin to discuss the forthcoming child?
‘Our baby,’ she added softly.
He stared hard and unseeingly a
t the sea. ‘There is nothing to discuss.’
‘Of course there is!’ But she was unprepared for the look on his face when he turned it back to her. She had always thought of Guido as cold and remote, but now it was as if someone had chiselled his features from some dark, icy rock. She drew back from the look, startled. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.
He banished the nebulous fears which swirled like dark clouds around his mind and recovered himself. ‘I thought that everything had been decided. You will be cared for by the finest obstetricians, and the baby will be born here on Mardivino.’
How cold-blooded he sounded! But he is cold-blooded, she reminded herself. ‘And then?’
‘Who knows what then? There are a million things which could happen between now and then. The most important thing,’ he added savagely, ‘is to ensure the baby’s safety. And your own,’ he finished, on a harsh note.
A forgotten memory flew into her mind. Was he thinking about his own mother and her confinement with Nico? For hadn’t it been his birth which had heralded her death, resulting in the fracturing of the family? A Royal family, yes—with all the back-up and support that their wealth and position could provide—but no less vulnerable than any other young family.
She wanted to reach her hand out to touch him—not in a sexual way, more a comforting and reassuring one—to tell him that there was no reason that history should repeat itself. But his frozen and forbidden stance stopped her.
And, God forgive her, something terrible had occurred to her. If she died then she might briefly be grieved for by him as the baby’s mother, but nothing else. She would be out of the way. No obstacle to his wishes or desires any more.
He felt rather than saw her shiver, and slowly turned his head to find a look of indescribable pain lurking in the back of her eyes. And this he found he could not ignore.
‘What is wrong?’ he questioned softly.
‘How long have you got?’ She shook her head, recognising that he had hit the nail on the head earlier—her thoughts really could be described as melodramatic. She forced them back to the real problems they faced and looked at him. ‘How about the fact that we’re both sitting on a beautiful beach and wishing we could be anywhere else on earth but here?’
The Prince's Love-Child (The Royal House 0f Cacciatore Book 2) Page 9
