Baby By Accident(43)
The pregnant Princesse pretending she wasn’t marrying the peasant.
But she had. She had.
Vico glared at the back of her blonde head as she looked past him to the simple office he’d put in the alcove. The arched doorway was open; no door to hinder her perusal of the book-lined walls, the wrought iron desk with its glass top, the antique globe he’d found in Istanbul.
If he were generous, he’d admit her secrecy about the baby had been a boon when he’d told his family about the marriage. He didn’t want them worrying about him, worrying that he wasn’t completely in love and completely happy. Not having to deal with the pregnancy as well as the wedding at the same time had lifted his spirits.
The problem was, he didn’t feel very generous towards his new wife.
Not after what had happened during the ceremony.
Amazingly, none of his family had picked up on the fact that the bride had been about to bolt. But he had.
He’d had to grab her hand to get the damn ring on her finger.
Her cool, soft, long-fingered hand. Once he’d claimed her by sliding the wedding band on, he’d stared down at the four-carat, blue diamond engagement ring, remembering the endless hours he’d taken choosing it, remembering how the color of this particular ring had reminded him of her eyes.
What a romantic fool.
His new wife slid that long-fingered hand across the cream sofa as she walked by, ignoring him. That diamond twinkled in the overhead lights. The click of her heels echoed on the dark oak floors as she paced away from him. The rumble of Paris traffic was the only sound in the flat.
The silence grew, billowing between them.
She moved to the fireplace and lifted a framed photo off the mantel. Then another. His momma smiling down from her Naples balcony. His sisters giggling in the sunshine by his pool at Lake Como. His younger brother waving from the classic Riva speedboat they’d both restored together.
She made no comment. Only looked.
If he were generous, he’d acknowledge her classy behavior towards his family. She might think they were as crude and coarse as he, but she’d been courteous to all of them. His mother adored her already, his sisters claimed they’d be best friends. His brother, Giorgio, had even unbent enough to tell him he’d finally got something right.
Vico snorted.
His wife…his wife…glanced over her shoulder with an arched brow.
He arched one of his own.
She didn’t bother to give him a response, merely turning and continuing her inspection.
He had every right not to feel generous after experiencing her reaction to all his work on their wedding. The dress. The flowers. The endless details. Details were important to women. He knew that. The woman didn’t take it as the olive branch he’d intended, though.
She took offense instead.
Would he ever understand this woman, his wife?
She put the last framed photograph down and moved across to stare at the mounted statue of Madonna and child he’d found in a tiny store in Milan. The golden edge on the wood had caught his attention. The look in the child’s face as he gazed at his mother had kept it.
Vico jiggled the car keys in his pocket. Why did he feel exposed? Why did he feel as if she were digging into him, looking at his soiled soul, his sullied secrets?
She stared at the piece. Said nothing. Showed nothing.
The silence was beginning to bother him. “I found it in Italy.”
“Really?” Dismissive and distant.
Irritation welled. Did the woman not understand they were in this together? Didn’t she get that neither of them had a choice? Couldn’t she at least, for once, meet him halfway?
The memory of her eyes, the terror in her eyes when he’d said no divorce, swept through him. She had obviously thought his word as a man meant nothing. She’d actually believed he’d pledge himself before God and then walk away from his wife and his child.
Si, his wife did think he was the lowest of low.
The knowledge burned. It bit. The realization blistered his pride and heart.
The Princesse moved to the view—the view he adored. The tower blazing with light, an iron skeleton reaching for the stars in the sky. The dark, slithering Seine moving beneath them, the streetlights glinting off the water. The lovers walking down the lanes, arms around each other, enjoying the late summer night’s breeze.
Her back was straight and rigid. Not giving him an inch to work with.
The wedding details were not the only olive branch he’d given her.
Maledetto il suo.
Didn’t she realize this?
He’d said goodbye to his old lifestyle. Took on the role of gallant suitor. He might be, at heart, a hellion, but he knew what was right, what was wrong. There would never be a whiff of scandal in his behavior any longer.