The Marriage He Must Keep(21)

Given that he never allowed feelings to rule him, he’d thought for one brief moment of abandoning his plan—but no. Suddenly the idea of her marrying Primo, sleeping in his cousin’s bed, had been unthinkable.

He had proceeded with his proposal, convinced he could handle the attraction. He had taken Primo aside to explain that he and Octavia had a connection that had to be elevated above dispassionate business transactions. Alessandro knew for a fact that her father had asked her which man she preferred. She’d chosen Sandro and, since he was the better prospect, so had Mario.

Arranged marriages were strategic by definition, damn it. He didn’t understand why she was upset to learn his reasons now.

Because it came on the heels of Primo’s vindictive betrayal, he supposed. Her trust was shaken. She was looking for reassurance and not finding it in her husband. That bothered him. He prided himself on being completely reliable.

Tomorrow, he silently promised her. They would both be calmer and capable of talking rationally. She would come to Naples with him.



Lorenzo was over a week old when they released her. Despite cabin fever, Octavia was a little bit sorry to be discharged. The hospital had been a nice delay against worrying over how she and Alessandro would proceed. She hadn’t seen him much. He’d had meetings with police and conference calls with his grandfather and appointments with executives in the various offices. He called and texted often, but his absence had left her to explain to Sorcha and her Spaniard how the mix-up had occurred.

Cesar Montero did have a similar air of dynamic power to Alessandro’s. He had been quite intimidating, arriving on a high tide of energy, sweeping into the nursery with an unequivocal demand to see his son. He was perfectly polite to Octavia—barely noticed her really, which was fine by her—but the thick tension between him and Sorcha had been like a suffocating fog.

Octavia had apologized to Sorcha when they had a moment alone, saying, “I’m so sorry this awful situation happened, Sorcha. I feel terrible—”

“Oh, I don’t hold you responsible!” Sorcha reassured her, but admitted on a quivering whisper, “But Cesar didn’t know about Enrique. At all.” The stress of dealing with his discovery was visible in her pinched nostrils and white cheeks.

Octavia didn’t judge. She was far too preoccupied with her own problems and the sordid reason her husband had married her. Part of her wanted to spill it all to her new friend, but it was so personal, so lowering.

Before she left, Sorcha made a point of exchanging contact details so they could stay in touch. “I’ll be going to Spain,” Sorcha had said, a conflicted expression torturing her beautiful face. “I don’t expect it’ll be a warm welcome from his family. I’d appreciate having a friend, even if you’re in London.”

“I’ve been in London for medical care. I live in Naples,” Octavia had said, not bringing up her reservations about going back there. Alessandro hadn’t said another word about their plans, but she hadn’t stopped thinking about how ruthless and arrogant he’d been the other night. It hurt. She felt as if she was back in her childhood, expected to do as she was told.

And why not? She virtually always had.

“I’d like a friend, too,” Octavia said with a touch more vehemence than she meant to reveal. “I’m very attached to Enrique,” she added, reaching out to stroke Sorcha’s son’s tiny closed fist. “I’ll need regular updates. I’m going to miss him. He was almost mine.” It was true. She felt a strange connection to the boy.

“I feel the same,” Sorcha said, eyes shining with emotion. “I’ll feel so cheated, not seeing Lorenzo every day.”

They hugged it out and Sorcha was gone when Alessandro settled Octavia in the back of his town car. Loneliness gripped her, keeping her silent on the short drive to his mother’s mansion.

“Mother is home. She’s anxious for time with Lorenzo before—” He cut himself off.

Before we leave? Was that what he had almost said?

Octavia’s tender stomach muscles tightened.

His mother’s mansion was a few hundred years old, its facade elegant and weathered. Inside, Ysabelle had decorated with the colorful overindulgence that matched her personality and expressive Italian roots.

As they entered, she swooped on her grandson like a gull spotting a sandwich crust, silk sleeves flowing out like wings from her bright blue dress.

Praise and endearments in rapid Italian flowed over all of them along with several embraces into clouds of an ethereal perfume, warm kisses that left lipstick stains on their cheeks and pets of the hair that made Octavia couch a smile. Alessandro was not five and didn’t care to be fussed over like he was.