One Night: Red-Hot Secrets. Penny Jordan
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initially he had put down to his cousin’s influence. But she had soon corrected him, telling him that although at first Louise had been reluctant to wear something so obviously expensive and fragile, she had changed her mind, saying that she wanted Oliver to be able to look back and remember that she had worn things that were memories of both his paternal grandmother and his maternal great-grandmother, whose pretty little blue enamelled brooch Oliver had told him his mother was also wearing.
In Caesar’s opinion it would have been better if she had agreed to wear the family tiara he had offered her to secure the veil, and if she had not insisted on refusing the expensive engagement ring he had shown her. But he had been unable to persuade her to change her stance on that issue, and now, he decided, the reason he was rubbing his forefinger over the plain band of gold he had so recently placed on Louise’s hand was because he felt it was wrong that it should be worn alone.
Her skin felt soft and smooth, her fingers long and slender, her nails were discreetly varnished with a soft pink polish. Out of nowhere his memory conjured up an image from the past of her hands. It wasn’t, however, the image of those same nails painted dark purple that was causing heat to flood his lower body, along with an abrupt, powerful coiling of raw male desire. It was too late now to banish the memory searing his body: the sensation of those slender fingers curling round his erection, accompanied by the sound of her indrawn gasp of breath. Her hand had trembled, he remembered, and then so had her body as she had leaned over him, touching him as though she had never touched a man before, making him feel that he himself had never been touched so intimately before, as hot dangerous desire had wrenched him away from his self-control.
He tried to stop the unwanted tide of memories but already his body was reacting to them, reminding him—if he needed any reminder—of how hard and fully he had swollen and stiffened to her touch, of how maddened he had been by what had surely been her deliberately provocative, too delicate, almost hesitant touch. She must have known what she was doing to him and how his flesh had craved her. How angry it had made him to be tormented by her like that. How intensely that torment had increased his desire for her. How driven he had been then to take her and possess her, to punish her for her torment of him. His desire for her had been so hot, so reckless, that it had created the life of their child.
Caesar’s touch on her flesh was sending sharp prickles of an awareness Louise did not want jolting like lightning from that point of contact. Lightning. She had always been terrified of storms, ever since her father had lost his temper with her when she’d run to him for comfort during one. The power of such storms to destroy, and her own fear of that power, had never left her—no matter how hard she had tried to rationalise to herself that it had been her father’s anger and abandonment of her that she really feared and not the forces of nature.
So what was she afraid of now? What made her treacherously use a mental simile that was linked so strongly to her own vulnerability and fear? Nothing, she assured herself. But she still jerked her hand away from Caesar’s touch, tucking it down at her side to conceal its betraying tremble. She had trembled that night when Oliver had been conceived—with need, with longing, with the shock of the intensity of her own female arousal. But most of all later, with the humiliation that Caesar had heaped on her. That would never, ever happen again. The past was over.
Louise forced herself to concentrate on the present. The private chapel was filled with the dignitaries Caesar had insisted must be invited to witness their marriage if it was to be accepted as he wanted it to be, and the air was heavy with the scent of incense as a great peal of triumphant choral music rang out from the organ, signalling that it was time for them to walk down the aisle together as man and wife.
The only reason she was still trembling was because it had been such a busy morning that she had skipped a proper breakfast, and had then had a glass of champagne before the ceremony at Anna Maria’s insistence, Louise told herself. It had nothing to do with the fact that the lack of width of the aisle meant that she and Caesar had to walk so close together.
Not that her ordeal was over yet. There was still the formal reception to get through, which was being held in the castello’s grandly elegant baroque reception rooms, a long corridor’s walk away from the chapel in the older part of the building.
‘You’re a duchess now, Mum.’
Oliver’s wide smile as he came up to her was all Louise needed to see to know how her son was reacting to their marriage. These last few days had brought him out of himself so much, and had given him a confidence and a joy in life that lifted her heart every time she looked at him. For that alone any sacrifice she might have to make was more than worth it—even if there were times when she felt a little hurt by the strength of the bond that was developing between father and son. And that was something on which she couldn’t fault Caesar. She had been afraid both that he would over-indulge Oliver and also that he might be too formal and distant with him, but to her surprise—and a little to her chagrin—he seemed somehow to know instinctively how to relate to Ollie.
But now, as she watched her son race off to join Anna Maria’s boys, Louise acknowledged that she felt very alone. If only she had her grandparents to turn to. Later in the week there was to be a formal ceremony to inter her grandparents’ ashes at the church of Santa Maria.
Louise felt her body tense as she realised that the most senior member of her grandparents’ village was heading towards her. It was as headman that Aldo Barado had told Caesar he must not see her again. His had been the loudest and harshest of the voices raised against her by the community all those years ago, and Louise could see that he wasn’t exactly enjoying the prospect of paying his respects to her as the wife of his Duca. He must be in his late sixties now, Louise reflected.
Although he was supposed to be listening to one of his advisers, trying to persuade him that he had already spent enough on building new schools for his people, Caesar recognised that his attention was wandering, and that moreover his gaze was constantly drifting in the direction of his new wife.
Why? Because he felt protective of her as her husband? Because he now understood just how much she had suffered growing up and felt guilty that he too—however briefly—had been a part of that judgemental group? Because as the mother of his son she should have his public support? Because he was proud to call her his wife, knowing how strong and brave she had been?
Because of all of those facts, and because deep down inside him there was still an ache of desire for her. Perhaps all those years ago a part of his psyche had somehow recognised what his logical nature and his upbringing had rejected: namely that she was not the person she had been made out to be.
Louise seemed to know instinctively how to relate to others, Caesar acknowledged as he watched her mixing with their guests, always listening to them with interest, never hurrying them to finish whatever it was they wanted to say, and when she did move on leaving them with an approving smile on their faces. Such a wife could only be an asset to a man in his position. The gauche eighteen-year-old he remembered, determined to kick against authority and cause controversy, had obviously risen like a phoenix from her past to become a beautiful, confident woman.
Now, as he watched Aldo Barado approaching her, Caesar excused himself to his companion and made a determined path towards them. It was his responsibility, his inbuilt duty, to protect his wife and his son, and he certainly wasn’t going to let her down as her father had done.
Was she actually foolish enough to feel relief because Caesar had suddenly materialised at her side seconds ahead of Aldo? Louise derided herself. If so, she was making a big mistake. Caesar and Aldo had been on the same side all those years ago, and that side hadn’t been hers, had it?
Her relief quickly turned to a sharp surge of anxiety and agitation when Caesar put his arm around her to draw her close, his unexpected movement taking her completely off guard. Even worse, her instinctive defensive attempt to keep her body from actually touching his somehow resulted in the pressure of his arm actually causing her to sway into him, just as though she was a weak and adoring fool who actually wanted his embrace. Wasn’t it bad enough that he had blackmailed her into this wholly false pretence of a marriage without him heaping even more deceit on her by looking for all the world as though he adored her and