The Consequences of That Night (At His Service #6)(47)

The lump in her throat suddenly felt like a razorblade.

“No,” she whispered. Really, what use was fidelity without love? What was it but cold pretense, the form of love without the heart of it?

“Tomorrow we wed.” Sleepily he pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “So many nights I dreamed of you, cara, did you know that? And now you are in my bed. Our wedding night before we are wed...”

“Yes.” She ran her fingertips along the warmth of his bare chest. She would marry him tomorrow. She’d given her word. She would raise his child and sleep in his bed, and be at his command for the rest of her life. And Cesare, the onetime playboy who notoriously enjoyed such a variety of women, would do his best to accomplish his obligation of fidelity—at least for a month, or possibly a year...

Holding her in his arms, he closed his eyes. A few moments later, his breathing became even and deep.

But Emma didn’t have the same peace.

She leaned against his naked body, so warm and powerful and protective around her own. She looked through the open balcony door, past the moonlight to the distant bright star, the first star of morning. In a few hours, the dark violet sky would change to red, then pink, then a glorious Italian blue as the sun would rise on her wedding day. The first and only wedding day she’d ever know. She’d be married to the man she loved. The father of her baby.

Cesare would marry her. For Sam’s sake.

But what happiness could they know, in a marriage where only one partner loved, and was faithful?

The truth was that, wedding or not, Emma was no better than any of the other women Cesare might take to his bed.

His real wife was, and always would be, Angélique.

Loving him destroyed her, Emma. Don’t let it destroy you.

Emma shuddered this time as she remembered Alain’s words. He knew how wildly his sister had loved Cesare. What he hadn’t known was the fierce love Cesare had for her in return. Angélique hadn’t been destroyed by loving him.

But Emma would be.

She looked at Cesare’s handsome sleeping face in the shadowy bedroom. She listened to the sound of his breath. Could she really marry him? Knowing she’d be nothing more than the mother of his child, the keeper of his home, or at best—a warm body in the night?

Could Emma accept an eternity of knowing she was the other woman—that if given the choice, her husband would have traded her life in an instant for Angélique’s?

You’re stronger than you know, kiddo. She heard her father’s words. You’ll get through this, and have a life more amazing than you can even imagine. Filled with sunshine and flowers and above all, love. All the things you deserve, Emma. I love you, sweetheart.

Blinking fast, Emma stared out at the dark lake. The last streak of silvery moonlight stretched out before her like a path, like a single forlorn tear, leading to an unseen future.

* * *

Cesare held her hand tightly, unable to look away from her beautiful face.

Emma was wearing a beautiful wedding dress, holding a bouquet of pink roses. But somehow, as they left the chapel, her fingers slipped from his grasp. She ran ahead of him. He called her name, and she glanced back, laughing as she disappeared in the mist. He saw her plummet down the chapel steps, down, down, down, her bouquet exploding into a million pale pink petals falling thickly like snow.

His feet were heavy as concrete as he tried to reach her. It seemed an eternity before he found her, on a soft bed of grass. But something had changed. Emma’s beautiful face had turned hollow-cheeked like his mother’s, her eyes blank with despair like Angélique’s. Emma was dying, and he knew it was his fault. Desperate, he jumped on a boat and took off across the lake to find a doctor. But halfway across, the boat’s engine died, leaving him stranded and alone, surrounded by dark water, and he suddenly knew he was too late to save her. He looked down at water like black glass in the moonlight. There was only one thing to do now...only one way to end the pain...

With a shuddering gasp, Cesare sat up straight in bed.

Still panting for breath, he looked out the window. The sky was blue. The sun was shining. He heard birds singing. It was a dream, he told himself. All a dream. But his body was covered with cold sweat.

Today was his wedding day.

He looked down at the bed where he’d made love to her last night. Empty. He put out his hand. The sheets were long cold.

Cesare suddenly wondered if he might have woken her with his nightmare, tossing and turning or worse, crying out. He clawed back his hair, exhaling with a flare of nostril. The thought of being so vulnerable was horrifying.

But not as much as what he was about to do today.

Naked, he got up from the bed, and his legs seemed to shake beneath him. Downstairs, he could already hear guests arriving. Some twenty people, friends and acquaintances from London, Rome and around the world, would be staying at the villa for the next three days. Today, there would be a long prewedding lunch, followed by a ceremonial church wedding at twilight in the small, ancient chapel on his estate. Tomorrow they’d have the civil service in town.


The next three days would be nothing but one party after another, and the thought suddenly made him grit his teeth. He’d chosen this. Shouldn’t he feel satisfaction, or failing that, at least some kind of resigned peace?

Instead his body shook with a single primal emotion—fear.

I can do it for Sam.