Desiring his wife had never been part of the equation.
And he had to damned well do a better job of remembering that.
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WASN’T AS though she’d lived a particularly active and busy life. Confined to Annersty, her company had been made up predominantly of the staff, her father and the schoolfriends she’d caught up with from time to time for lunch.
But life in the villa was utterly silent.
A week after their wedding, and she’d barely seen her groom.
Thank God! The less she saw him, the less she’d need to remember what a fool she’d been in his arms. What a weak, willing, stupid idiot. Shame over that night still had the ability to make her blush.
She wandered further along the citrus grove, reaching up and plucking an orange blossom from a tree as she passed, bringing it to her nose and smelling its sweet fragrance.
Oh, they’d seen each other a few times. Once the next day, when she’d been walking around the villa like a lost lamb having escaped slaughter.
He’d come out of a room which she’d subsequently learned was his home office, full of enough technology to power a spaceship. Their eyes had met and he’d arched a brow—a simple gesture that had conveyed derision and scepticism. She’d dipped her head forward and moved past him, her heart pounding, her cheeks burning, her whole body confounded by mortification.
Two days had passed before she’d seen him again, that time in the evening. He’d walked in through the front door just as she was passing. And he’d looked tired. World-weary. He’d loosened his tie so he could undo his top button, and his jacket had been removed. She’d managed a tight smile and a nod of acknowledgement before she’d scurried away, and even kept her head up as she’d gone.
There were oranges growing in this part of the citrus grove, and further down the gently sloping lawn were lemons and limes. Beyond them were quinces and then olives.
It was a perfect Mediterranean garden—just as she’d always fantasised such a spot would be. She paused at the end of the row, turning around and looking down the hill towards Rome. The sky was streaked with orange and peach: a hint of the sunset that was to follow.
The warmth was quite delicious. She felt it on her skin and smiled. Her first genuine smile since before the wedding.
University would help. She needed activity. Something to do to keep her mind busy. Distracted from him. Her husband. And the treacherous way her body had responded to him.
She needed to remember her reasons for embarking on this charade! For the first time in her life she had a semblance of independent freedom, and she didn’t want to waste it by pining for a man who didn’t even like her. Hell, he barely seemed to notice she existed.
This marriage wasn’t about lust and need. It wasn’t about him.
It was about her. It was her vehicle to going out into the world at last.
A whisper of discontent breezed through her but, as always, Emmeline ignored it. She had stayed at Annersty, stayed under the same roof as her father, because it had been the right thing to do. Just as marrying Pietro to assuage her father’s obvious concerns was the right thing to do.
And the fact that it spoke of a lack of faith in her own abilities? That it spoke of her being infantilised to an unbearable degree? She wouldn’t think about that. She couldn’t. For she knew where that path would take her, and criticising her father, whom she adored, was not something she would countenance.
All that mattered was that she had left home—finally. She was in Rome. A smile tickled at her lips and once more she felt the sunshine warm her skin.
At twenty-two, she’d finally done it!
Her phone buzzed, startling her out of her reverie. She lifted it from the back pocket of her jeans and Pietro’s face stared back at her from the screen.
Her heart pounded as she swiped the screen across. ‘Hello?’
‘Emmeline.’
There it was again. The warm butter oozing over her skin. She closed her eyes and sank to the ground so that she could give him the full force of her concentration.
‘Are you there?’
‘Oh.’ She blinked her eyes open and nodded. ‘Yes. What is it?’
‘Your father is coming for dinner tonight. Seven o’clock.’
Silence prickled between them. Then, ‘Daddy’s coming...here?’
‘Certamente. Naturally I presumed you’d want to see him again before he leaves for the States.’
Emmeline nodded, but consternation ran through her. She had intended to see her father again—only for coffee the following morning, when it could be just the two of them.
‘Right.’ She bit down on her lip.
‘My assistant will let Signora Verdi know,’ he said, referring to the housekeeper Emmeline had met once or twice. A matronly woman who filled her with a sense of awe.
‘Fine,’ she said, a little too sharply.
‘Though he knows our marriage was arranged to serve a purpose, I think it would be good for him to see that we are...getting along.’
Emmeline’s stomach churned. But we’re not.
‘Do you?’ she asked.
‘Si. He loves you very much,’ Pietro said, but his tone was weary. Impatient. ‘Seeing you happy will make him happy.’
‘So you want me to fake it?’ she snapped, before she could catch back the sarcastic rejoinder.
‘I want you to think of your father,’ he said softly. ‘As you’ve proved yourself so very good at in the past.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You married me to make him happy.’
A woman’s voice filtered through into the call and acid spiked Emmeline’s blood. She couldn’t make out what the woman said, but the tone was low. Personal.
Jealousy—unmistakable—pricked at her flesh.
‘I’ll be home by six. And, Emmeline? Perhaps wear a dress.’
Outrage simmered in her blood as she disconnected the call. Wear a damned dress? He actually thought he
