The From Paris With Love And Regency Season Of Secrets Ultimate Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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shuddered, blinking fast. He’d thought if he was careful not to love anyone, never to care, that he would be safe. Instead he’d accidentally created a child.
Or had it been an accident? Some part of him must have been willing to take that risk—since he’d never slept with any woman without protection before. Not even Angélique. But then, she’d been too selfish to want a child. All she’d wanted was a man to worship her, and when Cesare had gotten too busy with work, she’d found another man to offer her the worship she desperately craved.
Emma was nothing like Angélique. If the Frenchwoman had been cold and mysterious as moonlight, Emma was sunlight on a summer’s day. Warmth. Life.
But he couldn’t let himself love her. She could leave him. She could die. Her cancer could return, and leave Cesare, like his father, bereft at midnight on an endless black lake.
Looking out at Lake Como, he had the sudden impulse to throw on his clothes and run away from this house. From this wedding. Far, far away, where grief and pain and need could never find him again.
Stop it. Cesare took a deep breath, clenching his hands at his sides. Get ahold of yourself. He couldn’t fall to pieces. He had to marry her. He’d promised. His child deserved a real home, like he’d once had. Before his parents had abruptly left, stripping his happiness away without warning...
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He ruthlessly forced down his feelings. Shut down his heart.
Jaw tight, he opened his eyes. He would marry Emma today. Whatever he felt now, he’d given his word. He would marry her and never, ever love her.
And no irrational nightmare, no mere terror, would stop him from fulfilling his promise.
“OH, EMMA,” IRENE whispered. Her eyes sparkled with tears. “You make such a beautiful bride.”
Looking at herself in the gilded full-length mirror, Emma hardly recognized herself. The sensible housekeeper had been magically transformed into a princess bride from a nineteenth-century portrait. Her beautiful cream-colored silk dress had been handmade in Milan, with long sleeves and elaborate beadwork. Her black hair was pulled up in a chignon, tucked beneath a long veil that stretched all the way to the floor.
The green eyes looking back at her in the mirror were the only thing that seemed out of place. They weren’t tranquil. They were tortured.
Just last night, passion had curled her toes and made her cry out with pleasure. That morning, she’d risen from the warmth of their bed early to feed Sam. She had drowsed off while rocking the baby back to sleep, and when she returned later, Cesare was gone.
But something had changed in him. All day, as they welcomed their newly arriving guests—who, with the exception of Irene, were all Cesare’s friends, not hers—he’d barely looked at her. She’d told herself he was just busy, trying to be a good host. But the truth was that in the tiny corner of her heart, she feared it was more than that. No. She knew it was more than that.
This marriage was a mistake.
Emma looked at herself again in the mirror, at the beautiful wedding gown. She smoothed the creamy silk beneath her hands. The decision is already made, she told herself, but her hands were trembling.
Since she’d left his bed that morning, the day had flown by, in a succession of celebrations leading up to tonight’s first wedding ceremony, at twilight in the chapel. Emma had been genuinely thrilled to see Irene, who’d been flown in from Paris courtesy of Cesare. But as she’d shown the younger woman around her new home, Irene’s idealistic joy had soon become grating.
“It’s all like a dream,” she’d breathed, seeing her beautifully appointed guest room, with its Louis XV furniture and accents of deep rose and pale pink. She’d whirled to face Emma, her rosy face shining. “You deserve this. You worked so hard, you put your baby first, and now you’ve been rewarded with a wedding to a man who loves you with all his heart. It’s just like a fairy tale.”
Feeling like a fraud, Emma had muttered some reply, she couldn’t even remember what. Later, as she was congratulated by his friends, even a sheikh of some sort with long white robes who, in perfect British English, wished her well, the feeling only worsened.
Out of everyone at the villa, only one person didn’t speak to her. He didn’t even look at her. Not since he’d made love to her last night.
How could he turn so fast from passion to coldness?
The answer was clear.
Cesare didn’t want to marry her.
It was only his promise that was forcing him to do it. Emma’s gaze fell on baby Sam, who was currently lying on her soft bed, proudly chewing the tip of his own sock, which was stretched out from his foot.
“Here’s your bouquet,” Irene said now, smiling as she wiped her own happy tears away. She handed her a small, simple bouquet of small red roses. “Perfect. This is all so romantic....”
Emma looked down at the flowers, feeling cold. How could she destroy Irene’s dreams, and tell her that romantic was the last thing this wedding would be? She exhaled.
“I just wish my father were here,” Emma whispered. With his steady hand and good advice, he’d know just what to do.
Irene’s face instantly sobered. “It must be so hard not to have him here, to walk you down the aisle. But he’s with you in spirit. I know he is. Looking down on you today and smiling.”
Emma swallowed. That thought made it even worse. Because today, marrying Cesare, she was doing something her heart told her was wrong. Doing something that her heart told her could only ultimately end in disaster, no matter how good their intentions might be for their son.
It’s too late to back out, she told herself. There’s nothing I can do now.
Irene looked at the watch on her slender wrist.
“It’s time,” she said cheerfully. She picked up Sam, who was wearing a baby tuxedo in his strictly honorary capacity of ring bearer. “We’ll be sitting in the front row. Cheering for you both. And probably crying buckets.” She waved a linen handkerchief. “But I came prepared!” She tucked it in her chiffon sash. “See you in the chapel.”
“Wait.” Emma swallowed, feeling suddenly panicky. She held out her arms. “I need Sam with me.”
Irene looked bemused. “You want to walk up the aisle holding a baby?”
“Yes. Because—” she grasped at straws “—we’re a family.”
“But your hands are full....”
Emma instantly dropped the bouquet on the floor in a splash of petals, and stretched out her hands desperately. She needed to feel her baby in her arms. She needed to remind herself what she was doing this for—marrying a man who was forever in love with his dead wife. His real wife. She needed to feel that she was sacrificing her life for a good reason. “Give him to me.”
“Aw, your poor flowers,” Irene sighed, looking at the bouquet on the floor. Then, looking up, she slowly nodded. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe this is better. Here you go.”
Emma took Sam in her arms. She felt the warmth of his small body and inhaled his sweet baby smell, and nearly cried.
Turning away, Irene paused at the door of Emma’s bedroom. “The three of you are already a family,” she said softly, “but today makes it official. Thanks for inviting me. Seeing what’s possible...it makes me more happy than you’ll ever know.”
And her young friend left, leaving Emma holding her baby against her beaded silk dress, her throat aching as she fought back tears that had nothing to do with joy.
“All right, Sam. I guess we can’t be late.”