That first time they’d had dinner she’d got to the restaurant before him and had sat facing away from the door. She’d cursed herself, but had been too self-conscious to get up and move. She’d waited like that, with her back so straight and tense it might have cracked, and then she had felt him. She could remember closing her eyes for that split second just before he’d come into her line of vision, and then he’d surprised her by asking, ‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’
She’d looked up, and he’d been smiling down at her. A half mocking smile that had been so confident, so seductive, so sure of himself. She’d blushed from that moment right through the whole meal, but amazingly the ice had been broken with his self-deprecating introduction. She’d always felt slightly guilty after he’d proposed, as if they were so completely mismatched that she’d surely taken him away from a far worthier, more soignée woman. And she’d never had to nerve to ask him why he hadn’t married before …
She certainly didn’t have the nerve to ask him that now, but she wanted his focus off her as to why she might have agreed to marry him. Her inheritance had never been important to her, and if he guessed that …
‘You married me to get your foot in the English banking door. Tell me, has it worked?’ She hated being reminded of a time in her life when all she’d been was a commodity to be passed off, because her father was doing no more than ticking the boxes before he died.
Isandro was calm and implacable, infuriating her with his coolness. ‘Yes. You could say that,’ he answered equably. ‘I now control a majority share in the biggest bank in England.’
She darted him a look. ‘You must be happy, then. You got what you wanted.’
He shrugged and drained his wine glass. ‘Happy? I wouldn’t say happy, exactly, Rowan. Satisfied, perhaps. Can you say that your frittering away of your own inheritance in these last two years has made you happy?’
And just like that she was brought back to the present with a mighty bump. She shook her head, not really seeing him any more. ‘No. I can’t say it has.’
There was a bleakness in her tone that was unmistakable. But she missed Isandro’s quick glance.
Julia came in then, with coffee and dessert. Rowan thanked her for the beautiful dinner and waited till she had left. Then she put down her napkin shakily and stood up.
‘I’m feeling quite tired now. I think I’ll go to bed.’ She felt raw and open inside. Flayed.
Isandro grabbed her wrist as she went to leave. She took a deep breath and willed the emotion out of her eyes as she turned to look down. She even managed to raise a nonchalant brow in question, even though her pulse beat crazily against his hand. She prayed he wouldn’t notice.
‘Tell me. Is that why you left, Rowan? Because you wanted to escape the box your father had put you in?’
No … The word ached to come out but she couldn’t let it. Not yet. It was still too much to share. Especially when he was in such a dangerous mood.
So she tossed her head slightly and saw a flare of something—anger?—in Isandro’s eyes. ‘Yes. That’s why I left.’
He gripped her hand a little harder. His mouth thinned. ‘You expect me to believe that you were just a poor little rich girl, Rowan? A poor little sheltered rich girl, who ran away at the first opportunity.?’
‘Yes,’ she said wildly—anything just to get away from him.
‘Well, I hope it was worth it, Rowan …’
It was …
She tore her eyes from his with a will she hadn’t known she possessed, and snatched her hand back. She ran from the room, all pretence of insouciance gone. Once outside she walked blindly through the house and out to the garden, where she gulped in the night air. He was so right and yet so wrong. She had been exactly that. A poor, gauche little rich girl. Unbelievably naïve. Her father had done all he could to make her a biddable wife; he just hadn’t counted on her chronic shyness and innate lack of grace and style thwarting his efforts.
And she hadn’t run away at the first opportunity. She’d fallen stupidly in love at the first opportunity. With a man who had made her dreams of love look like a silly garish cartoon, complete with love hearts and flowers.
CHAPTER SIX
ISANDRO poured himself another glass of wine and his hand wasn’t completely steady. What on earth had compelled him to rake up old ground? He’d never cared before why Rowan had married him. She just had—she’d been willing, part of a package. She’d appeared to be refreshingly unlike the other women of that society, which was why he’d decided to marry her as opposed to any other.