“If you think about it,” she said softly, “we are all of us monsters. In our hearts, most of all.”
“Are you already forgiving me?” Benedetto asked, though it seemed to him that the world had gone still. The tide had stopped turning, the planet had stopped spinning, and there was only Angelina. His last, best wife and her gaze upon him, direct and true, like his own north star. “Don’t you think that might be premature?”
“Do you need forgiveness?”
Something inside him crumbled at that. It was a question no one had ever asked him. Because everyone thought they already knew all the answers to the mystery that was Benedetto Franceschi. Everyone believed they were privy to the whole story.
Or they preferred to make up their own.
Over and over again.
“Carlota,” he heard himself say. And though he was horrified, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “I should never have married her.”
Angelina’s gaze moved over his face, but he didn’t see the revulsion he expected. Or anything like an accusation. It made him…hurt.
“I thought you had to marry her.” She tilted her head slightly. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“That was the understanding, but I doubt very much we would have been marched down the aisle with shotguns in our backs if we’d refused.” He let go of her hair and straightened from the rail. And no matter how many times he asked himself what he thought he was doing, he couldn’t seem to stop. “Still, we were both aware of our duty. I thought she was like me—resigned to our reality, but happy enough to play whatever games we needed to along the way. Because as soon as the line was secure, we could do as we liked. And even before, for that matter. All that needed to happen was that we set aside a certain period of time of strict fidelity to ensure paternity.”
“That sounds very dry and matter-of-fact. We are talking about sex and marriage and relationships, are we not?”
“We are talking about ancient bloodlines,” Benedetto replied. “Ancient bloodlines require ancient solutions to problems like heirs. And once the deed was done, we could carry on as we pleased. Another grand old tradition.”
Angelina blinked. “You do know that science exists, don’t you? No need to do the deed at all.”
He should have stopped talking. He shouldn’t have started. But he didn’t stop.
“You must understand, Angelina. Carlota and I knew we were to be married before either one of us had any idea what that meant. We were intended for each other, and everything we learned about the opposite sex we learned in the shadow of that reality. And when it finally came time to do our duty, she suggested we jump right in and get the heir taken care of, rather than messing about with invasive medical procedures we would inevitably have to discuss in the press. We were friends. We were in it together. She rather thought we should handle things the old-fashioned way because it was quicker and easier. Theoretically.”
“What did you think?”
There was a certain gleam in her gaze then that reminded him that this was a woman he’d not only married, but had enjoyed for the past month. And just today, had made sob out his name like another one of her symphonies.
Benedetto smiled. “I was young and brash and foolish. I thought that as long as Carlota and I had agreed on all the important things—like the fact neither one of us was interested in fidelity once our duties were handled, hale, and hardy—we might as well.”
He could remember Carlota’s bawdy laugh. The way she’d smoked cigarettes with dramatic, theatrical flourish. The way she rolled her eyes, speaking volumes without having to speak a word.
I can’t cope with having it all hanging there over my head, she’d declared a few months before their wedding. It will be just be too tedious. Let’s get in, get out. Get it done.
Are we a sports team? Benedetto had asked dryly.
In his memory, he was as he was now. Cynical. Self-aware and sardonic. But the reality was that he’d been twenty-two. Just like her. And he’d had no idea how quickly things could change. Or how brutally life could kick the unwary, especially people like them who thought their wealth protected them from unpleasant realities.
They’d both learned.
“I was so arrogant,” he said now, shaking his head. “I was so certain that life would go as planned. Looking back, there were any number of warning signs. But I saw none of them.”
“Was she very depressed?” Angelina asked, her eyes troubled.
“Carlota? Depressed? Never.” Benedetto laughed. “She was in love.”
“With you.” Those blue eyes widened. “So you did break her heart when you refused to give up your mistress.”
“That is a very boring tabloid story.” Benedetto sighed. “Sylvia was my mistress, though I think you will find that when a man is twenty-two years old and dating an actress of roughly the same age, they’re just…dating. But no matter, that does not make for splashy, timeless headlines.”
“Mistress is certainly catchier,” Angelina said quietly.
“Carlota was in love, but not with me,” he said, because he couldn’t seem to stop doing this. Why was he doing this? Nothing good could come of unburdening himself to her. “He was not of our social class, of course. Her parents would not have cared much if she carried on with him, because everyone could boast about sleeping with the odd pool boy—which is something her mother actually said to me at her funeral. But you see, Carlota wasn’t simply sexually involved with this man of hers. She was head over heels in love with him, and he with her. Something I knew nothing about.”
And then he hissed in a breath, because Angelina lifted a hand and slid it over his heart.
“It works, Benedetto,” she said quietly. “I can feel it.”
He felt something surge in him, huge and vivid. Something he could hardly bear, and couldn’t name, though he had the
