The Wedding Party And Holiday Escapes Ultimate Collection. Кейт Хьюит
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the urge to wipe her damp palms against the narrow skirt of her wedding gown and walked to the window instead, taking in several needed lungfuls of mountain air. The sun was just starting to sink behind the timbered houses of Averne’s Old Town, the Alps fringing the horizon, their snowy peaks thrusting towards a violet sky. It was all incredibly beautiful, and yet also chilly and remote. As chilly and remote as she felt, shrinking further and further into herself, away from the reality—the intimacy—of what was about to happen between them.
Behind her she heard the door click shut.
‘Would you like to change?’ Sandro asked. He sounded formal and surprisingly polite. Liana didn’t turn from the window.
‘I don’t believe I have anything to change into.’
‘There’s a nightdress on the bed.’
She turned then and saw the silk-and-lace confection spread out on the coverlet. It looked horribly revealing, ridiculously romantic. ‘I don’t see much point in that.’
Sandro huffed a hard laugh. ‘I didn’t think you would.’
She finally forced herself to look at him. ‘There’s no point in pretending, is there?’
‘Is that what it would be?’ He lounged against the doorway; while she’d been gazing out of the window he’d shed his formal coat and undone his white tie. His hair was ruffled, his eyes sleepy, and she could see the dark glint of a five o’clock shadow on his chiselled jaw, the hint of chest hair from the top opened buttons of his shirt. He looked dissolute and dangerous and...sexy.
The word popped into her head of its own accord. She didn’t want to think of her husband as sexy. She didn’t want to feel that irresistible magnetic pull towards him that already had her swaying slightly where she stood. She didn’t want to feel so much. If she felt this, she’d feel so much more. She would drown in all the feelings she’d suppressed for so long.
‘You weren’t pretending the last time I kissed you,’ Sandro said softly, and to Liana it sounded like a taunt.
‘You’re as proud as a polecat about that,’ she answered. Sandro began to stroll towards her.
‘Why fight me, Liana? Why resist me? We’re married. We must consummate our marriage. Why don’t we at least let this aspect of our union bring us pleasure?’
‘Because nothing else about it will?’ she filled in, her tone sharp, and Sandro just shrugged.
‘We’ve both admitted as much, haven’t we?’
Yes, she supposed they had, so there was no reason for her to feel so insulted. So hurt. Yet as Sandro kept moving towards her with a predator’s prowl, she knew she did.
He stopped in front of her, close enough so she could feel the heat of him, and he could see her tremble. She stared blindly ahead, unable to look at him, to see what emotion flickered in his eyes. Pity? Contempt? Desire? She wanted none of it, even as her body still ached and yearned.
Sandro lifted one hand and laid it on her shoulder; she could feel the warmth of his palm from underneath the thin silk of her gown. He smoothed his hand down the length of her arm, the movement studied, almost clinical, as if he was touching a statue. And she felt like a statue just as he’d accused her of being: lifeless, unmoving, even as her blood heated and her heart lurched. Sandro sighed.
‘Why don’t you take a bath?’ he said, turning away. ‘Relax for a little while. If you don’t want to wear that nightgown, there are robes in the bathroom that will cover you from chin to toe.’
She watched out of the corner of her eye as he moved to the fireplace, his fingers deftly undoing the remaining studs of his shirt. He shrugged out of it, the firelight burnishing the bronzed skin of his sculpted shoulders, and Liana yanked her gaze away.
On shaky, jelly-like legs she walked to the bathroom, her dress whispering around her as she moved, and closed the door. Locked it. And let out a shuddering breath that ended on something halfway to a sob.
SANDRO LEANED BACK in the chair by the fire and gazed moodily at the flames flickering in the huge hearth. Resentment warred with guilt inside him as he listened to Liana move in the bathroom, turning on taps. Taking off her clothes. Would she be able to get that slinky dress off by herself? He knew she wouldn’t ask for help.
Ever since they’d entered this room with all of its sensual expectation she’d become icier than ever. It angered him, her purposeful coldness, as if she couldn’t stand even to be near him and wanted him to know it, but he still couldn’t keep a small stab of pity from piercing his resentment. She was a virgin; even if she would never admit it, she had to be a little nervous. He needed to make allowances.
The desire he’d felt for her still coiled low in his belly but even so he didn’t relish the prospect of making love to his wife. Of course there would be no love about it, which was neither new nor a surprise. He shouldn’t even want it, not when he knew what kind of woman Liana really was.
He had no illusions about how she would handle their wedding night. Lie stiff and straight as a board on that sumptuous bed, scrunch her eyes tight, and think of her marital duty. Just the thought of it—of her like that—was enough to turn his flickering desire into ash.
Distantly Sandro realised the sounds from the bathroom had stopped, and he knew she must be stuck in that dress. He rose from the chair, dressed only in his trousers, and rapped on the bathroom door.
‘Liana? Do you need help getting out of your gown?’ Silence. He almost smiled, imagining how she was wrestling with admitting she did, and yet not wanting to accept anything from him. Certainly not wanting him to unzip her. ‘I’ll close my eyes,’ he said dryly, half joking, ‘if you want me to help you unzip it.’
‘It’s not a zipper.’ Her voice sounded muffled, subdued. ‘It’s about a hundred tiny buttons.’
And before he could stop himself, Sandro was envisioning all those little buttons following the elegant length of her spine, picturing his fingers popping them open one by one and revealing the ivory skin of her back underneath. Desire leapt to life once more.
‘Then you most certainly need help,’ he said, and after a second’s pause he heard the sound of the door unlocking and she opened it, her head bowed, a few tendrils of hair falling forward and hiding her face.
Wordlessly she turned around and presented him with her narrow, rigid back, the buttons going from her neck to her tailbone, each one a tiny pearl.
Sandro didn’t speak as he started at the top and began to unbutton the gown. The buttons were tiny, and it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t a matter of a moment either, and he didn’t close his eyes as he undid each one, the tender skin of her neck and shoulders appearing slowly underneath his fingers as the silk fell away in a sensual slide.
His fingers brushed her skin—she felt both icy and soft—and he felt her give a tiny shudder, although whether she was reacting out of desire or disgust he didn’t know. He sensed she felt both, that she was as conflicted as he was—probably more—about wanting him. The realisation sent a sudden shaft of sympathy through him and he stilled, his fingers splayed on her bared back. He felt her stiffen beneath him.
‘If you’d rather,’ he said softly, ‘we can wait.’
‘Wait?’ Her voice was no more than a breath, her back still rigid, her head bowed.
‘To consummate our marriage.’
‘Until when?’
‘Until we’re both more comfortable with each other.’
She let out a little huff of laughter, the sound as cynical as anything he’d ever heard. ‘And when will that be, do you think, Your Highness? I’d rather just get it over with.’
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