The Marriage He Must Keep(28)

She didn’t take in the mess so much as search for escape routes, glancing to the window like a bird seeking freedom. But the window was closed.

“No,” she admitted in a small mumble of defeat. “Congratulations on finding my Achilles’ heel.” She glanced back at him, expecting triumph.

He was very somber. “My mother is going to sit with him tonight, so you and I can go out for dinner.”

“Oh. I—” She hadn’t expected that. After weeks of feeling too unwieldy to leave the house, then stuck in the hospital and finally recovering here, she was feeling very cooped up. The little bird in her gave a fresh flutter of its wings, but Ysabelle obviously didn’t see the tension between her son and daughter-in-law. “That’s a nice offer, but I’ll tell her it’s not necessary.”

“I asked her to.”

“Why?” she blurted.

“Because we’ve been apart too long. It’s time to be a husband and wife again.”

This was exactly what she was afraid of. The moment she conceded one point to him, he assumed she was ready to resume their marriage.

Was she?

She was still trying to decide a few hours later, as she applied makeup for the first time in forever. She was still attracted to her husband, of course she was. Physically, he was so perfect it was a superpower. But he was extra powerful in other ways, too, which made her feel weak.

She sighed, standing back to examine the top and skirt she’d rescued from her early maternity wear. The black skirt had a kerchief hem and an elastic panel that didn’t put too much pressure on her abdomen. Her legs looked okay, especially once she stepped into a pair of heels. The overlong, eggplant-colored top was, well, she supposed the scoop neckline drew the eye to her cleavage, rather than the thick waistline she’d tried to define with a narrow gold belt. She looked voluptuous and very Italian, especially with her pregnancy hair, thick and wavy and longer than she’d ever worn it. With a quick twist, she wound a pale yellow-and-orange scarf around her neck, adding a hint of pizzazz.

“You look beautiful,” he said, expression softening into admiring lines as he watched her come down the stairs to meet him in the foyer. He drew her close to press a kiss to her temple and her crumpled ego ate it up.

She tucked a mumbled, “Grazie,” into his shoulder. His touch took her tension into a whole new stratosphere, reminding her how much she enjoyed his caresses. At one point she’d been sure he enjoyed their lovemaking, too, but she wasn’t so sure anymore.

She wasn’t sure about anything, least of all why had she agreed to dinner.

As if he knew she was wavering, he kissed his mother, thanked her for babysitting and escorted Octavia out to the waiting car. Minutes later they were at the Mayfair restaurant she liked. It was converted from an eighteenth-century town house and she only visited for afternoon tea when she was on her own, but Alessandro had brought her here on the tail end of their honeymoon and she absolutely loved it. They always had excellent music, new art and the atmosphere was very trendy and creative, the food beyond exceptional.

He’d booked them a private table in the library and held her chair himself. She let him order, too busy looking at the sketches on the walls to read the menu herself. When the sommelier came, she murmured, “I’m not sure if I should have wine if I’m nursing.”

“Water it down,” Alessandro suggested, nearly making the sommelier drop the bottle that likely cost four figures.

“He’s joking,” Octavia assured the man, biting back a smile as she admonished Alessandro with a look, but she’d just glimpsed the playboy from her honeymoon and wanted to laugh with sheer and hopeful joy. “I’ll have a very short glass and please don’t be offended if I don’t finish it.”

When the man left, she told Alessandro, “That was mean,” then clinked glasses with him. “Salud.”

He lifted a negligent brow, settling back to regard her, fingers tracing the base of his glass where he set it on the table.

She sipped again. The wine was excellent. She’d have to be careful, nervous as she was. That would go down too easily if she let it.

“Where are your rings?” Alessandro asked, stilling. He looked from her hand to her eyes, accusation sharp in his gaze.

“I took them off weeks ago because my hands were swelling. I can’t get them back on yet.” She tucked her hands into her lap.

“It’s not symbolic then?” he asked, lifting his glass, but regarding her over the rim without tasting.

She parted her lips, but found too many words coming into her mouth, all jumbled and hard to speak. Meeting his gaze grew difficult and she dropped her attention to the middle of the table.