Bride in a Gilded Cage

by Abby Green

  The next couple of weeks passed in a whirlwind. Isobel felt like Dorothy in Oz, caught up in a tornado of escalating ferocity. As she stood looking out of her bedroom window something glinted in the reflection, catching her attention, and she looked down at the engagement ring on her finger.

  That first night she’d come home Rafael had returned for dinner, as he’d promised, with a small box. In front of her parents he’d presented her with the ring, and to Isobel’s surprise it had been nothing like she’d expected. It was small and delicate, a rare pink diamond, almost deep purple in colour, surrounded by white diamonds in a circular art deco setting.

  And again to her surprise, it had fitted like a glove, needing no adjustment. Rafael had all but smirked when it had fitted snugly on her finger, and his hand had remained on hers for an uncomfortably long time.

  Since then she’d seen him only a handful of times, always surrounded by people, and in the past few days not at all—he’d had to fly to the States on business.

  The papers had been full of their marriage, and Isobel pored over the articles with a sick fascination. Her blood had run cold, though, when she’d read about the deal he was currently involved in; he’d gone to America to bail out a failing company whose employees were mainly illegal Argentinian immigrants. They had gone there as skilled workers who hadn’t been able to find work at home due to the economic downturn.

  The papers were full of speculation that Rafael would be helping deport those immigrants and building up the company again with legitimate US employees. While Isobel couldn’t condone immigrants working illegally, she felt sick to her core that Rafael would just send people back to the place they’d struggled so hard to leave.

  He’d phoned every day, though, and predictably Isobel’s thoughts were scrambled as soon as she heard his voice. How could she be so affected by someone so amoral and ruthless?

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you walk down the aisle to me, Isobel,’ he’d said once.

  She’d gripped the phone tight, panic a familiar sensation. ‘You mean you’re looking forward to seeing your bride of convenience walking down the aisle.’

  Before he could say anything Isobel had said, ‘You might find yourself begging to divorce me in six months’ time, and that’s not going to look good for your business, either.’

  His voice had turned to steel. ‘We won’t be divorcing ever. There is no room for failure in this.’

  ‘Your hair, Isobel,’ her mother wailed shrilly on the day of the wedding. ‘How could you have cut it all off like that?’

  Isobel didn’t answer, knowing her mother didn’t really expect her to. And anyway, she wasn’t sure if she could speak as she took in her reflection in the mirror. About three people hovered around her, making last-minute tweaks to the wedding dress. Isobel felt slightly removed from it all, but hyper-aware at the same time.

  The dress was exquisitely simple. It had been her grandmother’s. At first Isobel had protested, feeling far too much of a fraud because her grandmother had been so in love when she had got married. But of course her mother wouldn’t be swayed. After a few adjustments to update it, it was now strapless, and fell in a simple fitted silken sheath to the floor. Tiny diamonds sewn into a lace overlay sparkled and shone when she moved. And on the back of her head was an antique silver comb which held the long veil in place.

  Isobel looked at her reflection in the mirror now and saw the colour surge into her cheeks. She was very much afraid that on some deep, secret level Rafael was affecting her in a way that had nothing to do with logic and common sense. How could it when her disgust at his business ethics was having no effect on her physical reaction to him?

  She chastised herself for thinking like that. Her reaction was purely to do with the extreme circumstances of their situation, and the fact that Rafael’s sheer masculinity resonated with something in her. She’d never thought she’d react to such an alpha male, but that was all it could be.

  She could never develop feelings for a man like him—not in a million years. Her main concern in this marriage would be to seek a way out of it as soon as possible.

  Thirty minutes later, with that assertion sill ringing in her head, Isobel stood on her father’s arm just outside the open doors of the church. This was it. But instead of the barrel full of nerves that Isobel had expected, that she’d hoped would give her the impetus to tear off her veil and run, her reactions confounded her again. A weird calm acceptance was her dominant emotion. And then her father was moving, and she had to move, too.

  They stepped into the back of the church and people turned to look. People Isobel recognised vaguely but didn’t know. Society. The ‘Wedding March’ was playing, and there at the very top of the aisle stood a tall, broad figure in steel-grey, with thick, wavy, black hair.

  Why was it that in this moment of all moments she found herself curiously moved by the thought of the ritual ahead?

  Her hand unconsciously tightened on her father’s arm, and she didn’t see him wince slightly. All she could focus on was Rafael’s broad back at the top of the church. With every beat of her heart as she drew closer she superstitiously begged him silently not to turn and look. Because that way she could hate him for being so coolly arrogant and vow to make their marriage as uncomfortable as possible for him. She repeated it like a mantra: don’t turn around, don’t turn around.

  But since when had her prayers or wishes been answered? When she was halfway down the long aisle Rafael turned—and not just his head. His whole body turned to face her. Isobel nearly stumbled, and her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. Her blood flowed heavy in her veins. And all she could see was him, and those dark eyes boring right through her veil…seeking all her answers. Seeking her soul.

  And then her father was handing her over to Rafael, who took her hand to lead her up the steps beside him. He lifted the veil up and over her head, looking down into her eyes with an unmistakable glint of triumph and something very hot. In an instant Isobel was thrown back in time to the study that night, and how she’d felt when she’d looked up into Rafael’s eyes for the first time.

  He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to it, and Isobel’s brain melted in a puddle of heat and sensation and shock heaped on shock. Because right now the last thing she felt like doing was running away.

  The ceremony passed in a blur. Somehow Isobel knew she must have said everything required of her, but she couldn’t recall. She was aware of the cool band of gold on her finger.

  ‘…you may now kiss the bride.’

  Isobel looked up in shock. They were there already? Rafael had moved closer and brought a hand to the back of her neck. His head was descending, and Isobel could do nothing but let her eyelids flutter closed. Her heart had stopped beating. When the touch of his mouth came to hers she couldn’t help a violent tremble, and as if sensing her reaction Rafael put his other hand around her waist, pulling her even closer.

  Isobel sensed dimly that Rafael had probably intended the kiss to be a socially suitable chaste touching of his lips to hers, but as soon as they made contact it was as if something bigger took control and they couldn’t move apart.

  His mouth moved over hers hungrily, as if starved of contact, and to Isobel’s shame she felt the same. Her mouth clung with wanton eagerness, lips opening to invite him in, tongue seeking and searching.

  It was a discreet cough from the priest that finally broke through the wave of heat that was consuming Rafael. Reluctantly he pulled back, and held in a groan when he saw Isobel’s upturned face, so lovely, with a bloom of pink in her cheeks, lips soft and pouting and moist. It took a long second for her to open her eyes, and he read the reactions in their dark chocolate depths: shock, confusion and something much more potent—anger. She hated that she’d reacted to him.

  Triumph surged through his body. Isobel would make him a good wife. He knew it deep in his bones. She would match him, stand up to him, and he couldn’t wait for tonight when he could get her into his bed
. But before the conservative Buenos Aires congregation could read the carnal nature of his thoughts, Rafael turned to lead his wife back up the aisle.

  Isobel seethed inwardly as she walked slowly on Rafael’s arm. But she managed to paste a fake smile on her face, nodding to people she knew were smiling to her face, but already dissecting every minute of the ceremony, and her dress and the prospects of success for this marriage. They would be the topic of coffee mornings all over the capital for days, weeks to come.

  She couldn’t believe she’d betrayed herself so badly with her reaction to that kiss. She couldn’t believe that at the mere touch of his mouth to hers all her iron-clad intentions had dissolved to dust. This was going to be a lot harder than she’d anticipated because she was so vulnerable to his touch.

  She couldn’t deny any more that what she felt was not just antipathy to Rafael. What she felt was violent attraction mixed with antipathy, and Isobel knew herself well enough to know that if that intimacy was breached she’d be lost. She’d always believed that physical attraction would be conveniently tied into falling in love with someone. She’d never counted on the fact that it could happen independently of her feelings.

  She was terrified now that intimacy with Rafael might result in her deluding herself into thinking that she felt something for him. One thing was paramount as of that moment: she needed to protect herself at all costs, and maintain a distance between them until she knew how to cope with these feelings and not betray herself.

  When they emerged from the church, all Isobel’s thoughts scattered. A barrage of press awaited them, the camera flashes almost blinding her. And a huge cheering crowd had gathered across the road. Instinctively, her hand tightened on Rafael’s arm.

  He looked down at her and grimaced slightly before saying, ‘I should have expected this. Just smile and look happy. They’re all here to see you.’

  Isobel was beyond shocked at the reception. After a few minutes Rafael led her down the steps of the huge cathedral and to a waiting car, handing her carefully into the back before joining her.

  As they pulled away Isobel saw the rest of the wedding guests start to spill out of the church into the heaving crowds. She realised she was shaking like a leaf. Rafael noticed and took one of her hands in his; to Isobel’s dismay her shaking started to subside. Her body was a traitor.

  ‘The reception will be at my house. It’s not too far from yours in Recoleta.’

  Everything seemed to be impacting upon Isobel at once. She said shakily, ‘I’ve never even been to your house. Was your mother at the church? I don’t even know what she looks like—what if she hates me?’

  As if Rafael could hear the hint of hysteria in her voice, he said placatingly, ‘Yes, she was at the church, and she won’t hate you. My house isn’t much different to yours, and my older half-brother couldn’t make the service, but hopes to come to the reception.’ His hand tightened on hers, as if he could see something she was unaware of on her face. ‘I thought we’d get there ahead of everyone else so you could have a bit of space.’

  At that moment Isobel felt very keenly the absence of a girlfriend—someone who could have been her bridesmaid, someone to confide in. But she’d never had close girlfriends. She’d always wanted such different things from the rest of her peers. And so here she was with Rafael, and he was the one to anticipate her need for some time on her own.

  She said nothing and took her hand back from his. Before long they were driving through the exclusive suburb of Recoleta, pulling up outside impressive gates. Isobel tried to hide her reaction. This house they were approaching was nothing like her family home. It was grand and palatial on a level that made her home look like a gatehouse.

  The car pulled up in a gravel courtyard surrounded with flowering trees which kept it secluded and private. An impressive array of vintage cars was lined up on one side, and despite herself Isobel’s interest was piqued. She’d always loved old cars.

  But Rafael had come around to open her door and was waiting for her, hand outstretched. Thoughts of anything else disappeared. Isobel had no choice but to take his hand, and hated the tingle of awareness that raced up her arm, the inevitable blooming of heat.

  Staff in pristine black-and-white uniforms were waiting for them at the top of the steps. They blurred and morphed into a jumble of names and faces as Rafael introduced them all. As soon as the introductions were made they scattered, and only a housekeeper was left to guide them into the house. Isobel remembered her name: Juanita. And also the fact that she looked none too friendly.

  Rafael turned to Isobel. ‘Come, I’ll show you to your room, where you can freshen up. The guests will be arriving at the back of the property, where a wedding marquee has been erected for the reception.’

  Isobel ignored his outstretched hand this time, and followed him slowly up the stairs. To her surprise the walls weren’t hung with stern portraits of ancestors. Instead there were modern works of art which she guessed weren’t copies.

  Despite herself she asked, a little breathlessly as she tried to keep up in her long gown, ‘Is this your family home?’

  Rafael waited at the top of the stairs, hands in pockets and looking so rakishly handsome that Isobel had to cling onto the banister. He shook his head, ‘No. My family home is in Barrio Norte—again not far. I bought this about ten years ago.’

  ‘Oh…’ Isobel climbed the last few steps and followed Rafael as he led her down a wide, luxuriously carpeted corridor. At the end he indicated two doors which were facing each other.

  He opened the door on the left and led the way in to reveal a suite of rooms. ‘They’re two identical suites, both with bedrooms, bathrooms and dressing rooms.’

  Isobel guessed this was his domain by its dark colours and unashamedly masculine furnishings. She was too bemused to feel anything else at the moment, and followed him to another door, through a sitting room which had a state-of-the-art audio-visual system.

  This door led into another sitting room, a mirror image of the first, albeit in softer, more neutral tones.

  He turned to face her. ‘I appreciate that this has all moved quite fast, Isobel, and I’ll respect your need for some space and privacy at the start of our marriage. While I do expect you to share my bed, I won’t expect you to take up the more traditionally intimate role of sharing my rooms until you’re ready.’

  Spots danced before Isobel’s eyes, and the fire in her veins was starting to bubble threateningly. But Rafael had already moved on and was heading for the bedroom. Isobel stomped after him, holding up her dress.

  She walked in to see him standing at the open door of a dressing room, and when she looked she saw that every surface, nook and cranny was filled to overflowing with a wardrobe of clothes and shoes. Her own tatty luggage stood still packed in a corner, as if someone had deemed it not even worth unpacking.

  Her jaw dropped. She walked closer.

  ‘Consider it your trousseau,’ Rafael said easily, as she looked in horror at row upon row of undoubtedly designerlabel clothes. Her skin crawled with the sensation that he’d bought her, like some sort of living, walking doll.

  She rounded on Rafael, white with fury boiling over. ‘How dare you?’

  His jaw tightened. ‘How dare I what, Isobel? Provide for my wife?’

  Isobel was shaking. ‘How dare you presume to buy me a wardrobe full of clothes that will go to waste? I don’t wear designer outfits. How dare you presume to think that I’ll just fall into your bed, and how dare you presume to patronise me and give me my space until such time as I’m ready? Well, I’ll tell you something now. I’ll never be ready, and as for—’

  Her words were stopped when Rafael’s mouth came crashing down on hers, his arms tight around her. Isobel’s hands were fists crushed against his chest, trying to push him back. The same inevitable reaction was pooling in her body and between her legs, but this time she knew what it was and fought it with all her strength, even though she ached to just sink and give in. She could
n’t. Too much was at stake.

  She stiffened and shut her mouth in a tight line against Rafael’s sensual ministrations. He seduced and cajoled, and after torturous seconds Isobel found her resolve weakening under a welling of need. To her utter disgust and chagrin her body was betraying her again, softening, ripening, opening, instinctively wanting to allow this man access.

  Rafael’s mouth gentled, and when he took it away Isobel’s head fell back. She sucked in a breath when she felt his mouth press hotly where her pulse throbbed at the base of her neck. Big hands moulded her body, skimmed over curves, and her wedding dress felt constrictive. Without knowing how he’d managed it, Isobel felt something soft at the back of her legs, and suddenly the world was tipping. She fell back onto the bed in an ungainly sprawl. Shock and mortification washed through her in waves at seeing a still pristine Rafael standing looking down at her. She struggled inelegantly to sit up, hampered by the dress and her own sense of disorientation.

  He flicked a look to the open dressing room. ‘There is no negotiation on the wardrobe. You’ll wear those clothes if I have to dress you myself. I will not be made a laughing stock in public because you insist on wearing the kind of bargain basement dresses you got away with in Paris.’

  Isobel could feel that her veil had come off somewhere, and more waves of humiliation rose up as she rested back on her hands, still unable to stand up from the bed, seriously afraid her legs wouldn’t hold her up.

  She opened her mouth, but Rafael cut her off brutally. ‘I could have these rooms stripped bare in a few hours and insist that you move into mine today, but I will extend you the benefit of the doubt for now and assume that you are merely coming to terms with your new life.’

  He bent down and came close, snaked a hand around Isobel’s neck. The skin of his hand burned against her bare skin.

  ‘And, yes, Isobel, you will fall into my bed—whenever and however I want. We’ve just proved that you want me just as much as I want you. However, I think your lack of experience will make restraint for you harder to bear…’