Her Wedding Night Surrender
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‘Yeah, I guess this is a dream come true for Daddy,’ she said with a small shake of her head.
There was a look of frustration in her eyes that Pietro thought about probing. But the last thing he wanted was to get to know his inconvenient bride any better.
‘And for my mother,’ he said simply. ‘I’m sure she’s imagining a lifetime of calm now that I’ve apparently hung up my bachelor shoes.’
‘Apparently.’ She repeated the word, rolling it around in her mouth, wondering about the practicalities of what they’d agreed to. The idea that he’d be free to see other women so long as he was discreet.
It didn’t bother her. At least that was what Emmeline told herself. And yet a pervasive sense of confusion filled her.
They would be living under the same roof, seeing each other in the hallways, the kitchen, the lounge, the pool. Despite her protestation that they’d be like flatmates, was it possible that she would be able to ignore her husband at such close quarters?
From the first moment she’d seen him she’d found him worryingly distracting, and the years hadn’t stilled that awareness.
And now they were married...
‘You are as stiff as a board,’ he complained. ‘Did you never learn to dance?’
Her cheeks flushed pink and the look she cast him was laced with hurt. ‘I was lost in thought,’ she mumbled, making an effort to pay attention to her husband.
‘Dancing does not require your mind. It is something you feel in your body. It is a seduction.’
He rolled his hips and colour darkened her cheekbones. His body was every bit as fascinating as she’d imagined. All hard edges and planes, strong and dominating, tempting and forbidden in equal measure.
It would be playing with fire ever to touch him in earnest. This was different—a dance at their wedding was unavoidable. But Emmeline had to keep her distance or she’d risk treading a very dangerous path.
‘Relax,’ he murmured, dropping his head towards hers. ‘Or I will kiss whatever it is you are thinking out of your mind.’
She started, losing her footing altogether. She might have fallen if he hadn’t wrapped his arms more tightly around her waist, bringing her dangerously close to his body.
‘Don’t you dare,’ she snapped.
His laugh was like gasoline to a naked flame.
‘Then smile. Relax. At least pretend you are enjoying yourself.’ He dropped his mouth to her ear and whispered, ‘Everyone is watching us, you know.’
She swallowed, her eyes scanning the room over his shoulder. The room was indeed full of wedding guests dressed in beautiful clothes, all smiling and nodding as he spun her around the dance floor.
Emmeline’s heart sank.
Pretending to be married to Pietro Morelli was going to require a hell of a lot more patience and performance than she’d envisaged.
* * *
It was late in the night and Emmeline stifled another yawn. Sophie had found a group of friends—as always—and was charming them with her wit and hilarity. Emmeline listened, laughing occasionally, though she knew all the stories so well they might as well have been her own. Still, sitting with Sophie and pretending to laugh at her hijinks was better than watching her husband.
Her eyes lifted in his direction unconsciously.
He was still talking to her. The redhead.
Emmeline’s frown was instinctive—a response to the visual stimulus of seeing a stunning woman so close to the man she, Emmeline, had married only hours earlier.
The woman had auburn hair that tumbled down her back in wild disarray, and she was short and curvaceous, but not plump. Just the perfect kind of curvy—all enormous rounded boobs and butt, tiny waist and lean legs. Her skin was honey-coloured and her lips were painted bright red. Her nails, too. She wore a cream dress—wasn’t it considered bad manners to wear white to someone else’s wedding?—and gold shoes.
Who was she?
Pietro leaned closer, his lips moving as he whispered in the woman’s ear, and the woman nodded, lifting a hand to his chest as she dragged her eyes higher, meeting his. From all the way across the room Emmeline could feel the sexual tension between them.
She stood without thinking, her eyes meeting Sophie’s apologetically. I’ll be right back, she mouthed.
Sophie barely missed a beat. She carried on with the story of the time she’d got caught flying from Thailand to London with very illegal monkey droppings in her handbag—she’d been sold them at a market and told they would bring good luck...whoops!—and Emmeline walked deliberately across the room towards her groom and the woman she could only presume to be a lover—past or future. She didn’t know, and she told herself she definitely didn’t care.
She was only a step away when Pietro shifted his attention from the redhead, his eyes meeting Emmeline’s almost as though he didn’t recognise her at first. And then his slow-dawning expression of comprehension was followed by a flash of irritation.
He took a small step away from the other woman, his face once more unreadable.
‘Emmeline,’ he murmured.
‘Pietro.’ Her eyes didn’t so much as flicker towards the woman by his side. ‘I need you a moment.’
His lips twitched—with amusement or annoyance, she couldn’t have said. He walked towards her, putting a hand in the small of her back and guiding her to the dance floor.
Before she could guess his intentions he spun her around, dragging her into his arms and moving his hips. Dancing. Yes, he was dancing. Again.
She stayed perfectly still, her face showing confusion. ‘I don’t want to dance any more.’
‘No, but you want to speak to me. It is easier to do that if we dance. So dance.’
‘I...’ Emmeline shook her head. ‘No.’
He slowed his movements and stared at her for a long, hard second. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not my...thing,’ she mumbled, looking away.
Mortification filled her. So many things she’d never really done. Experiences she’d blindly accepted that she would never enjoy. She’d made her peace with that. But now, surrounded by so many people who’d all lived with such freedoms as a matter of course, wasn’t it natural that she was beginning to resent the strictures of her upbringing?
Her voice was a whisper when she added, ‘As you so wisely pointed out.’
‘Then let me show you,’ he said.
And his hands around her waist were strong and insistent, so that her body moved of its own accord. No, not of its own accord; she was a puppet and he her master.
Just as she remembered—just as she’d felt hours earlier—every bit of him was firm. His chest felt as if it was cast from stone. He was warm too, and up close like this she could smell his masculine fragrance. It was doing odd flip-floppy things to her gut.
‘You told me you’d be discreet,’ Emmeline said, trying desperately to salvage her brain from the ruins of her mind. ‘But you looked like you were about to start making out with that woman a moment ago.’
‘Bianca?’ he said, looking over his shoulder towards the redhead. Her eyes were on them. And her eyes were not happy. ‘She’s a...a friend.’
‘Yeah, I can see that,’ Emmeline responded, wishing she wasn’t so distracted by the closeness of him, the smell. What was it? Pine? Citrus? Him?
‘Are you jealous?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ she said with a sarcastic heavenwards flick of her eyes. She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘We have a deal. I just don’t want our wedding guests to see you with another woman. What you do in private is up to you.’ She let the words sink in and then stopped moving. ‘I’d like to go home now.’
Pietro wasn’t used to being ashamed. He was a grown man and he’d lived his own life for a very long time. But something about her calm delivery of the sermon he really did deserve made a kernel of doubt lodge in his chest.
He knew he should apologise. He’d been flirting with Bianca and Emmeline was right: doing that on their wedding day wasn’t just stupid, it was downright disrespectful. To his bride, sure, and more importantly to their parents.
He stepped away from her, his expression a mask of cold disdain that covered far less palatable emotions. ‘Do you need anything?’
‘No.’
‘To say goodbye to anyone?’
She looked towards Sophie, enthralling her newfound friends, and shook her head. ‘I’d rather just go. Now.’
Silence sat between them and she waited, half worried he was going to insist on doing a tour of the room to issue formal farewells.
But after a moment, he nodded. ‘Okay. Let’s go, then.’
He put a hand on her back but she walked away, moving ahead of him, making it obvious she didn’t need him to guide her from the venue. She’d walk on her own two feet.
She hadn’t made this deal with the devil to finally find her freedom only to trade it back for this man.
Emmeline Morelli was her own woman, and seeing her husband fawning all over someone else had simply underscored how important it was for her to remember that.
CHAPTER THREE
SHE’D EXPECTED A LIMOUSINE, but instead Pietro directed her to a low, sexy black Jaguar, parked right at the front of the restaurant.
He reached for the front passenger door, unlocking it at the same time, and Emmeline sat down quickly, stupidly holding her breath for some unknown reason. What did she think would happen if she breathed him in again?
He closed the door with a bang and a moment later was in the driver’s seat. The car throbbed to life with a low, stomach-churning purr, and he pulled out into the traffic with the consummate ease of a man who’d grown up in these streets and knew them well.
Silence stretched between them and it was far from comfortable. The car had a manual transmission and required frequent gear changes from the man with his hand curved around the leather gearstick, his strong legs spread wide as he revved the engine, his arm moving with the gears.
There was an athleticism in his movements even when simply driving a car.
Emmeline ground her teeth together and focussed on the passing view of starlit Rome. Her new home.
She hadn’t thought about what it would mean to leave Georgia behind. At most she’d contemplated the sadness that would come from not seeing her father so often. But there was so much more than that. Annersty was the plantation she’d called home all her life, in the town where she’d grown up, with all the people she knew...
‘Tell me what you see for yourself, in the future, pumpkin?’ her father had asked her.
‘I don’t know, Daddy. This. I like it here...’
‘But one day I won’t be here.’
His voice had been soft, yet it had cut like glass through her flesh.
‘One day,’ he’d said to calm her, and the words had been reassuring, referring to a time that was distant-seeming. ‘But I’d want to know you’ve got a family of your own to make you happy.’
‘I hardly know Pietro—and what I do know I don’t think I like.’
He’d given a laugh of genuine amusement. ‘He’s a good man. Do you think I’d be pushing for this if I didn’t thoroughly believe that?’
Her eyes had met his and she’d seen the truth in them. She’d nodded then, sealing her fate with that single gesture.
A soft sigh escaped her lips. She had agreed to this and there was no sense in getting all remorseful now. She’d married Pietro Morelli and they both knew it was a marriage in name only. She held that reassurance close like a talisman.
Yet what was that vitriolic acidity in her gut? It frothed angrily when she remembered the way he’d been looking at that redhead—Bianca—as though he wanted to lick her all over.
An angrier sigh pressed from her lips and Pietro turned his head, studying her in the intermittent light cast by the streetlamps they drove beneath. She looked pretty damned good, despite his assertion weeks earlier that she was far from the kind of woman he was attracted to. It wasn’t as though she’d made any major changes—only it was the first time he’d seen her in a dress, wearing make-up, heels, and with her hair done in a style other than a plain ponytail.
He fought the urge to ask her how she was feeling. It wasn’t his business and he sure as hell didn’t care.
He pressed his foot harder onto the accelerator, chewing up the miles to his home.
The gates swung open as they approached and he eased the car along the curving drive, pulling it up outside the garage. His fleet of vehicles was housed inside and his mechanic would be waiting to give the Jaguar a once-over. He cut the engine and turned to say something to his bride, though he wasn’t sure what.
There was no point, in any event. Her hand was on the door and she was pushing it outwards before he could articulate a thing.
She stood tall and proud, her eyes running over the façade of the building, studying it as if for the first time.
‘Nothing’s changed,’ he said, the words darker than the night that surrounded them.
She flashed him a tight smile. ‘Yes, it has.’ Her eyes looked bigger somehow, and the moon was drawing out flecks of amber and gold from amongst their caramel depths. ‘I live here now.’
Pietro’s expression was grim, and Emmeline flinched inwardly. Her own shock at the fact that they were now married was dwarfed only by his, and yet he made a decent show of pretending normality.
‘I’ll show you to your room. Come.’
She thought about making a joke—wasn’t it a tradition to carry a bride over the threshold of her new home?—but the tightness of his back as he walked away, the firm angle of his head, showed how little he wanted to laugh about this situation.
Emmeline followed, her gaze wandering over the façade of his house as she went. It was an impressive building. If she had found her host...no, her husband...less intimidating she would have asked him a little about it. Still, a place like this had to be in the history books; she could do her own research. Especially once she was at uni and had access to a fantastic library.
She breathed in, imagining the scent of all those books. Renewed purpose reassured her. There was a reason she’d married him. She had to keep that firmly in mind and then all would be well.
‘It’s late. I won’t give you the tour now. Tomorrow the housekeeper will show you where things are.’ He stood with his hands in his pockets, his attention focussed squarely ahead.
‘That’s fine, only...’
‘Si?’ It was an impatient huff.
‘Um...where am I supposed to sleep?’
His expression contorted with irritation but he moved forward, down a long corridor, then turned left and took her up a flight of stairs.
‘These rooms are for your use.’
He pushed a door inwards, showing her a practical space that had been set up with a desk, a bookshelf and a treadmill. The latter made her smile, though she covered it with a yawn.
‘Very good.’
‘There is a bathroom through there. And your bedroom is here.’
He nodded towards a third and final door and she turned the handle and pushed the door inwards, her eyes scanning the room with interest.
It was not dissimilar to a particularly lovely five-star hotel. A king-size bed made up with nondescript white bed linen and silvery grey throw cushions, a white armchair near the window and yet another book case, and double doors that presumably concealed a wardrobe.
With increasing interest she stepped into the room, the thick beige carpet soft underfoot.
‘No books?’ she murmured, eyeing the almost empty shelf. The sole book in its midst was a tourist guide to Rome and she refused to believe its placement had anything to do with her husband. He wasn’t thoughtful like that.
‘This has been used as guest accommodation in the past,’ he said softly. ‘The décor is neutral in order to accommodate the guests I’ve had staying here. You are free to add your own touches—furnish it with whatever books you wish.’
She fluttered her eyelids exaggeratedly. ‘Even if I want to paint the walls lime-green?’
His smile was dismissive. ‘Your choice. It is not as if I will ever be in here to see it.’
She laughed, but there was a thunderous rolling in her gut that she didn’t want to analyse. Anxiety, she told herself. She had taken herself out of the comfiest little nest in the world and dropped herself like a stone into the deep end of a raging river.
‘So, hot pink then?’ she joked, walking towards the window.
She hadn’t noticed at first, but as she got closer she saw that it was in fact French doors, and beyond the window was a small Juliet balcony.
Her heart fluttered as she turned the handle and opened the door, feeling a warm breeze breathe in off the city. They were far enough away that she could make out Rome’s landmarks with ease, see their place within the cityscape.
‘Your suitcases are in the wardrobe,’ he said, definitely impatient now, calling her attention back to the important business of getting settled. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d find it invasive for the housekeeper to unpack for you. Let me know if you’d like me to send her up...’
Emmeline waved a hand in the air dismissively. ‘I can manage.’
‘Fine.’ A curt nod. ‘My room is down at the other end of the hallway. Last door on the right-hand side. If you need me.’
As in, Don’t bother me unless you’re on fire, your room is falling away from the building, and there is no one else you can think of to call.
‘Okay.’ She smiled—out of habit rather than happiness.
He paused on the threshold for a moment, his eyes glittering like onyx in his handsome face. ‘Buonanotte, cara.’
‘Goodnight.’ The word came out as a husky farewell. She cleared her throat but he was gone.
Emmeline stretched her arms over her head and then moved towards the door to her room, pushing it shut all the way until it clicked in place.
This was her home now.
She shouldn’t think of herself as a guest, nor of this arrangement as temporary. She’d married him—for better or for worse—and, while she wasn’t stupid enough to imagine they’d stay married forever, this was certainly her place in life for the next little while.
The doors did open on to a wardrobe, as she’d suspected, and her two suitcases sat in the centre. She’d unpack in the morning, she thought, when she had more energy. She pushed one open and pulled out a pair of cotton pyjamas and the prospectus for her university course, putting them on the foot of the bed.
Her feet were aching, her body was weary, her mind was numb. What she needed was a hot shower and the pleasant oblivion of sleep.
She reached around to the back of her dress and groaned out loud. The buttons. The damned buttons.
The mirrors in the wardrobe showed exactly what her predicament was. There were what seemed like hundreds of the things; they’d taken Sophie an age to do up, and without help Emmeline would never get out of her dress.
Obviously she could sleep in it. Sure, it was heavy and fitted, and she wouldn’t exactly be comfortable, but it would save her any embarrassment and she could simply ask one of the staff to help her the following morning.
Or... a little voice in the back of her mind prompted.
She grimaced. Yes, yes. Or...
She pulled the door inwards and peered down the corridor. It was longer than she’d appreciated at first, and somewhere at the end of it was the man she’d married.
Refusing to admit to herself that she was actually a little bit scared, she stepped into the hallway and walked down it, paying scant attention to the artwork that marked the walls at regular intervals. At the end of the corridor she waited outside the last door on the right, taking a moment to ball her courage together.
She lifted her hand and knocked—so timidly that she knew there was no way he would have heard the sound.
Shaking herself, she knocked harder:
Once.
Twice.
Her hand was poised to knock a third time, and then the door seemed to be sucked inwards. Pietro stood on the other side, his face unforgiving of the interruption.
‘Yes?’ It was short. Frustrated.
‘I...’ Emmeline swallowed. ‘Am I interrupting?’
‘Do you need something?’
Her eyes clashed with his—angry gold against unreadable black.
‘This is in no way an invitation...’
His lips flickered for the briefest second into a genuine smile. It was so fast she thought she might have imagined it.
‘Fine. What is it?’
She spun around, facing the wall of the corridor directly opposite. ‘There’s a billion buttons and I can’t undo them. I guess wedding dresses are designed with the fact in mind that a bride won’t be undressing alone...’
‘Apparently,’ he murmured, moving closer.
She knew that because she could feel him, even though he didn’t touch her. His warmth seemed to be wrapping around her like an opportunistic vine up an abandoned wall.
‘Would you mind?’ she asked quietly, keeping her attention focussed on the bland whiteness of the hallway wall.
‘And if I did?’
‘I suppose I could find some scissors somewhere...’ she pondered.
‘No need.’
And then, even though she’d come to his room for this express purpose, the sensation of his fingertips brushing against her back made her shiver. Her nipples strained against the fabric of her gown in a new and unexpected sensation.
‘Are you cold?’
The question caught her off-guard. She bit down on her lip, willing her body to behave, her pulse to quiet, her heart to settle. But her body had its own ideas, and it continued to squirm, delighting in his closeness and his touch.
‘I’m fine.’
His laugh was soft, his breath warm. It ran across her back like a wildfire she should have paid better attention to.
He pushed at the first button, flicking it open expertly. One down, nine hundred thousand to go, she thought bleakly. He dragged his fingers down to the next button and her stomach rolled with awareness.
Emmeline sucked in a deep breath.
He wasn’t trying to turn her on; this was just how he was. The man oozed sensuality from every pore of his gorgeous, perfectly tempting body.
Still, as he undid the second button and moved on to the third the dress parted an inch at the top, and she was sure it wasn’t an accident that his fingertips moved across her skin as he lowered them to button number four.
He worked slowly, and for every second she stood in front of him she felt as if her nerves were being pulled tight, stretched and tormented. At button number twenty he wasn’t even halfway down her back, and a fever-pitch of heat was slamming through her.
Had he undone enough for her to take the dress off? She wasn’t sure, at this stage, that she much cared if the dress got torn, so long as she could get it off without subjecting herself to another moment of...this.
Oh, maybe one more moment, she conceded weakly, sucking in a deep breath as his fingers grazed the flesh near where her bra should be. She hadn’t needed one in the dress; its boning was sufficient.
Lower still, and the next two buttons came apart slowly. His fingers were achingly close to her lower back, to the inches of flesh that dipped towards her rear.
No man had ever seen her there, let alone touched her. His fingers lingered on her flesh, not moving downwards, just stroking her skin. Her pulse hammered and her eyes drifted shut on a tidal wave of imagining and longing, on hormonal needs that had long ago been relegated to the back of her mind.
‘I... I...’ The word stammered out as a dubious whisper. ‘I can cope from here,’ she said quietly, even though her body screamed in silent rejection of her comment.
He ignored her. His hands moved lower, to the next button, pushing it through its beaded loop, separating the fabric, and then his fingers were back, lingering on the flesh exposed by the undone dress.
‘That’s enough,’ she said again, with more strength to her words, and she backed them up by moving a step forward, away from him, and slowly turning around.