She swallowed, staring straight ahead.
The service itself was surprisingly swift. A simple recitation of vows, just as she’d seen in dozens of movies and television shows, preceded by the question about whether or not anyone objected.
That part had had Emmeline holding her breath, waiting, wondering—and strangely hoping no one would say Yes, this is a sham! She’d waited, watching intently as the priest’s eyes had skimmed over the congregation.
Finally he turned to the couple, smiling brightly.
‘Then without further ado, I now pronounce you man and wife.’
Not husband and wife, she noted in the small part of her brain still capable of rational thought. ‘Husband’ and wife would suggest that he too had been altered in some significant way by what they’d just done. ‘Man’ and wife made all the changes hers.
‘You may now kiss your bride.’
She winced unknowingly. Your bride. A possessive phrase that spoke of ownership and rankled. Well, what had she expected? She’d chosen this path to freedom because it was easy. Because it meant she wouldn’t have to upset her father. She deserved to feel a little objectified.
Her small facial expression of displeasure was easy for Pietro to discern. Seeing it pass across her face like a storm cloud, he wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her closer to his body quickly, easily, giving her no chance to question his actions. His eyes briefly met hers and there was sardonic amusement at the heart of his gaze.
She tilted her chin defiantly, inadvertently giving him the perfect angle of access. He dropped his lips to hers, pressing them against her mouth, separating her lips easily and sliding his tongue inside.
It was an invasion of every single one of her senses.
Did he know it was her first kiss? Yes, her first kiss—at the age of twenty-two and on her wedding day. Shame made her toes curl and yet desire heated her up, right to the base of her abdomen. His fingers on her back feathered across her nerve-endings, and she made a small whimper low in her throat that only her groom could possibly have heard.
He broke the kiss, his eyes meeting hers laughingly.
Was he laughing at her?
Her heart was racing, banging against her ribs so hard she thought it might crack them. Her breath was burning inside her body and she stared at him in a tangle of confusion. It took at least ten seconds for her to remember where she was and who she was with.
‘I would slap you if all these people weren’t watching us,’ she muttered under her breath, pasting a tight smile to her face.
His lip lifted in sardonic mockery. ‘Or would you rip my clothes off?’ he pondered.
But before she could respond, he reached down and took her hand in his.
‘They are watching, so keep pretending this is the happiest day of your life.’
By the time they’d reached the end of the aisle, having paused several times to accept good wishes and hugs of congratulation, Emmeline’s mouth was aching from the forced smile she’d adopted.
A crowd had formed beyond the church and there was a throng of paparazzi. Inwardly, Emmeline trembled at the idea of being photographed. Her husband apparently had no such qualms.
‘Ready?’ he asked, pausing just inside the door, sparing a quick glance at her face.
Then again, why would he hesitate? This was his life. If the number of photographs of him on the internet proved anything it was that he was followed and snapped often. He probably couldn’t walk down the street without someone taking his picture.
But Emmeline’s life hadn’t been like that. A handful of society events had led to her picture sometimes being splashed in the papers, though not often. She was too drab. Boring. Ugly. Why print a picture of Emmeline Bovington unless it was to compare her unfavourably to the renowned beauty her mother had been?
She closed her eyes, sucking in a deep breath, and was unaware of the way Pietro’s eyes had caught the deceptive action.
He studied her thoughtfully. He’d seen panic before, and he saw it now. Was this idea so unpalatable to her? Hell, she’d suggested it and her father had railroaded him. If anyone should be panicking it was Pietro.
Her hesitation annoyed him—probably more than it should. He stepped out through the door, holding her hand and bringing her with him into the brightness of the Italian afternoon. The steps towards the street were empty, but beneath them was a large crowd, and as they erupted from the church applause broke out. Rose petals were thrown high into the air. The noise was deafening.
He smiled, lifting a hand in acknowledgement, and turned towards his bride.
There it was again.
Panic.
Blinding, devastating panic.
Impatience crumpled his common sense and quickly ate up his judgement. He caught her around the waist and this time he tipped her back in a swoon worthy of an old black and white Hollywood movie.
His lips on hers were an assault; it was a kiss that gave voice to his annoyance when he wasn’t otherwise able to. Her hands curled around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his neck, and she made that noise again. That little whimper of confusion that made him hard all over.
That annoyed him even more, and he pressed his hands into her back, lifting her higher, pressing his arousal against her abdomen, leaving her in little doubt of just what kind of man she’d married.
It lasted only seconds, but when he eased her back to stand and pulled away from her the crowd broke out into thunderous applause.
Her eyes were thunderous too. Thunderously pissed off. He could practically hear the storm brewing.
Good. Let Little Miss Refined work on that.
‘I swear to God, kiss me again and
