The Society Wife (8 page)

‘Dimitri's Russian. He doesn't speak any English, or much Spanish.' Tristan turned to him and spoke briefly in rapid, flawless Russian, which brought a flicker of a smile to Dimitri's lugubrious features. ‘He'll take care of your bags. We go on foot from here.'

Lily had to almost run to keep up with his long, rapid stride.

‘Where are we going?'

‘To church.'

‘Church? The church where we're getting married?'

‘Of course.'

A shiver rippled down her spine, excitement mixed with apprehension as the reality of what they were doing edged a little closer. They were walking along a narrow street, just a passageway between ancient buildings, and Tristan was walking slightly ahead of her, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his black jacket, his collar turned up, demons at his back.

Just looking at him made Lily's legs feel weak.

Another stone archway blocked out the remains of the light for a moment, and then suddenly they were in an open space
again, a small square hemmed in on all sides by a jumble of ancient buildings, all crammed together as if supporting each other. In the centre stood a hexagonal fountain, and trees stretched their branches up to the pewter sky.

‘Oh!' Lily stopped, looking around. Apart from a couple drinking coffee at one of the tables of the bar of the hotel in one corner, the square was empty. The only sound was the gentle trickle of water from the fountain, the soft crooning of pigeons. It was like stepping through a magic doorway, into another time.

Her gaze returned to where he stood beside a huge and ornately decorated doorway set into a wall of pockmarked stone and she smiled. ‘It's lovely—so perfect and romantic.'

The words were met with a mocking twist of his mouth. ‘Romantic?' he repeated sardonically, pushing open a small door set into the tall, imposing entrance. ‘I never really thought of it that way before.'

‘Really? You do surprise me,' said Lily dryly, glancing up at him from under her lashes as she stepped through the door he held open for her. For a moment he scowled down at her, and then he gave her a reluctant smile.

‘Don't push your luck, Señorita Alexander,' he murmured. ‘And remember what I said. If you play with fire…'

‘I haven't forgotten.'

Lily followed him into a cavernous space with a high domed ceiling. Her eye was immediately drawn past the rows of wooden pews to the dramatic edifice that rose up behind the altar, of gilded and polished marble pillars supporting a row of angels with their magnificent wings unfurled, and life-sized saints in various attitudes of dramatic supplication. Wrapping her arms around herself Lily walked slowly forward, looking around, trying to imagine what it would be like on the day of their wedding…

Now the building was dimly lit and the pews were empty, apart from an elderly man sitting in the second row, head bent over his rosary beads, fingers working silently. At the back of
the church a woman was threading long-stemmed red roses and sprays of gypsophila into an extravagant display of greenery on a tall stand, while a small girl played with the flowers at her feet.

Lily watched, noticing the absorption with which the girl held the flowers, the slight frown on her small face as she walked a couple of slow, solemn steps, and realised she was playing a game. She was pretending to be a bride, holding her bunch of flowers in front of her like a bouquet. Lily smiled, feeling a lump form in the back of her throat as unconsciously her hand moved to her stomach, moving over the almost imperceptible bump of her own child.

The past weeks had been exhausting and often joyless, the constant drag of morning sickness made worse by the fact there was no one to share it with, no one to confide in. But there were moments, like this one, when she was struck by the sheer miracle of what was happening inside her body, when the astonishing privilege of having a baby of her own to love and look after almost made her gasp out loud. And she knew in those moments that she would do anything at all to protect it and to give it a safe and happy life.

‘Lily.'

She turned her head, and Tristan saw her soft smile fade slightly as she came to where he was standing with the priest. She had been looking at the child, he realised with a stabbing sensation in his chest. That was what had given her eyes that luminescence. When he spoke his voice was flinty.

‘If you're ready, perhaps we could get on with what we came for.'

‘What we came for?' She frowned.

Aware of the priest at his side, Tristan gave her a smooth, blank smile, hoping that she was sensible enough to detect the warning it contained. ‘Getting married, of course,
querida
.'

‘Now?' Her eyes widened in shock and colour seeped into her pale cheeks. Grasping her firmly by the elbow, Tristan muttered a few apologetic words in Spanish to Father Angelico
as he drew her to one side before she could say anything else that was likely to make the priest have second thoughts about conducting this highly unconventional wedding. It had taken considerable amounts of string-pulling and a more than generous donation to the church fund to silence Father Angelico's doubts about officiating at the secret marriage between the son of one of Spain's most important families and a socially insignificant English non-Catholic girl. Any sign of further irregularity in the circumstances might force him to reconsider.

‘Yes, now,' he said, carefully keeping his tone level. ‘Or have you changed your mind?'

Her eyes were the dark grey of the English sky before a storm, but whether clouded by anger or by hurt he couldn't tell. ‘No, of course not. I just thought…I mean, I wanted—'

‘What? A designer dress and a dozen small bridesmaids?' he mocked.

Lily looked down with a sad, self-deprecating smile. ‘You make it sound so outrageous. I knew it was going to be a quiet wedding, but I thought that maybe some members of your family could be there, and Scarlet and Tom…'

Tristan wanted to laugh out loud at the idea of Juan Carlos and Allegra sitting passively by and watching him marry this English nobody, but he managed to restrain himself. Taking hold of her chin between his fingers, he tilted her face up to his and spoke very softly.

‘It's a business arrangement, remember? You know that, and I know that, but as far as Father Angelico is concerned we are two people so madly in love that we can't wait to marry, so if you really do want to go ahead with this I suggest you play the part of the enthusiastic bride.' He paused, dropping his voice even further, so that it was little more than a breathy caress. ‘But this is how this marriage will be, Lily. No grand romantic gestures, no epic emotions, and if you're not absolutely sure you can accept that, then you walk out of here now.'

She said nothing, but her eyes stayed locked on his, opaque with emotions he couldn't interpret, and the silence that
wrapped itself around them as they stood close together in the huge, high space was filled with tension. He was aware of his heart beating hard, measuring the seconds while he waited for her to answer.

And then, very gently, she pulled away from him and took a step back.

And then another.

And another.

Tristan felt his stomach twist and the air momentarily leave his lungs as adrenalin hit his bloodstream. Lily had turned and was walking away from him, back up the aisle towards the door, and for a moment all he could think, focus on, was how beautiful she was with the lamplight glinting on her hair and making it shine like a halo of old gold in the incense-scented dimness of the church.

And then, of course, it hit him. What he was seeing. What she was doing.

Walking away.

P
AIN
shot through Tristan from somewhere, and dimly he realised it was his jaw—that he was tensing it with the effort of not calling out to stop her. Spinning round he looked furiously up at the imposing altarpiece, waiting for the moment when he would hear the door at the other end of the church swing shut behind her, signifying that it was over and he could resume the normal course of his life. The women and the parties. The aloneness that he so cherished.

Didn't he?

It didn't come.

Stiffly he turned round.

Lily was standing in the shadows at the back of the church talking to the woman with the flowers. As he watched she laid a gentle hand on her arm and gestured to the child. The little girl had stopped playing and was looking shyly up at Lily, her expression almost awe-struck.

The mother smiled, nodded. Then Lily dropped to her knees in front of the little girl, smoothing her hair away from her face and gathering her straggling bunch of flowers into a neat posy, showing her how to hold them. The child's small face glowed with pleasure and pride as Lily straightened up again and took her hand.

And suddenly he understood. She wasn't walking out on him. She was doing this her way, with her own peculiar blend
of stubborn, determined
sweetness
that made him feel exasperated and guilty by turns.

He felt the tension leave his body, and realised his hands were shaking slightly. Not with relief, he told himself harshly. Nothing so selfless. It was vindication, that was all. Pride. No woman had ever walked out on him yet, and the feeling was unfamiliar. The child's mother, beaming with suppressed excitement, quickly extracted one of the long-stemmed roses from her arrangement and handed it to Lily. Tristan watched as she accepted it, and briefly embraced the woman before stepping forward with the little girl beside her.

She was going to be a fantastic mother.

The thought stole into his head uninvited, causing a wrenching sensation in the pit of his stomach. She had a natural instinct for love and kindness that would make up for his own emotional sterility. And, he thought, watching her walk down the aisle towards him, an inner strength that meant she stood up to him. She lifted her head and her eyes found his. Soft as cashmere, shining with her quiet determination, they held him, and although he wanted to turn away, he found he couldn't.

The priest cleared his throat, obviously eager to get the service under way, and Tristan moved slowly back towards him, his eyes not leaving Lily's. She was close enough for him to see the darkness in the centre of the silver grey iris now, close enough to smell her milk-and-honey sweetness.

Close enough to touch.

His fingers burned with sudden need, and as the priest began to speak about the sanctity of marriage, his mind filled with a taunting kaleidoscope of images and memories that were wholly inappropriate for church: Lily in the field at Stowell, golden and beautiful with her dress blowing up around her bare brown legs; Lily naked in the tower, her skin silver in the moonlight, and the satin soft feel of it against his lips…

From that, had come this.

‘Señor Romero?'

They were all looking at him, he realised suddenly: the elderly priest, the little girl, and Lily. Waiting for him. ‘
Lo siento
. Sorry.'

Father Angelico looked at him sternly over the top of his glasses.
‘Repetid despues de mi. Yo, Tristan Leandro, te recibo a ti Lily, como esposa y me entrego a ti.'

Almost reluctantly Tristan took Lily's hand in his. The diamond ring he had sent glittered on her finger, sending out sharp rainbows of light in the gloom, and he could suddenly see it was all wrong for her—too showy, too cold—just like the marriage she was about to submit herself to, he thought despairingly. Did she really know what she was getting into?

Of course she didn't. She didn't even understand the vows. He hesitated, and then said in English, ‘I, Tristan Leandro, take you, Lily, to be my wife.'

A small smile touched her strawberry-coloured lips.

Father Angelico continued, utterly matter-of-fact, as if he were reading out a report in the financial pages. Tristan felt his throat constrict around the words he had never intended to say. Never wanted to say. As he spoke them to the girl standing before him his voice was a harsh, sardonic rasp.

‘I promise to be faithful to you in prosperous times and adverse times, in healthy times and times of sickness.' He felt his mouth twist into an ironic smile. ‘To love and respect you every day of my life.'

Lies, all lies. Standing beneath the imposing marble altarpiece in the sight of God and all his plaster saints as he slid the plain gold band onto Lily's slender finger, Tristan wondered savagely what punishments would be visited on him for this blasphemy.

There was always a punishment. He had learned that from a very early age.

The priest was talking to Lily now, enunciating slowly and precisely, and Tristan kept his eyes fixed on the face of a particularly stern looking angel on a gilded plinth as she began to repeat his words in slow, halting Spanish.

Her voice was soft, but it seemed to carry into the high, draughty spaces of the ancient church as she made her promises of faith and love. Empty promises, he reminded himself derisively, but glancing at the priest, and across at the woman doing the flowers, he could tell that they were listening with rapt attention, all openly affected by the tenderness in Lily's voice. Even the old man with the rosary was watching them, his lined face curiously sad.

Tristan looked away again. Staring blankly at the face of that same damned angel, his face a hard, scowling mask from behind which he was forced to act out this charade for the sake of his family name, his blood and his history.

And then she touched him.

As she spoke the words that would bind them together she raised her hand and pressed it to his cheek.

Instantly he felt heat melt the brittle carapace as his gaze was dragged back to hers. Her eyes were like moonlight, gentle and yet so bright it hurt him to look at them, and their soft luminescence seemed to reach into the darkest places inside his head. As she reached the end of her vows there was a moment's pause while the echo of her breathless, slightly hesitant voice died away in the ancient church. But the spell cast by its tenderness remained.

In that silence Tristan bent his head slowly and brought his mouth down on hers in the lightest of kisses.

It was a gesture, nothing more. Part of the act, to satisfy the romantic notions of their small audience, and yet as his lips brushed hers he felt every nerve and sinew in his body tauten as fire blazed through them. He heard the sharp gasp of indrawn breath, felt her arch towards him, parting her lips to welcome his. The rose she held fell to the floor as she slid both hands around the back of his neck so that she was cradling his head; gentle, generous, loving, and the kiss wasn't a gesture any more.

It was hot and real.

As if from a great distance Tristan heard the sound of
applause. It broke into the dark and private world to which they had retreated, pulling them back into reality. He felt Lily's smile against his lips as she gently disentangled herself from his hold, then she ducked her head and dropped to her knees, gathering up her little flower girl and hugging her. Father Angelico shook Tristan's hand, and then waited until Lily had finished hugging the girl's mother before leaning across and kissing her on both cheeks.

Everyone was damp-eyed and smiling.

Except him, of course. Everyone except him.

 

Darkness had fallen properly outside, and the light from the lamps on either side of the church door made puddles of gold on the wet cobblestones in the square. The crisp, cold evening was filled with the delicious scent of garlic from the hotel restaurant opposite.

Tristan let go of her hand the moment they were out of the church, and Lily felt the little flare of hope that had leapt inside her when he had kissed her fade. Her throat felt thick with the vows she'd just made, her chest tight with the enormity of what she had done. For her baby.

That was what she had to hang onto. This was a practical arrangement for the baby. The blistering heat that had turned her insides into a churning volcano of molten longing when Tristan had kissed her had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

He held out to her the rose she had dropped. She took it, unable to look up at him in case he read the shameful need in her face. ‘So what happens now?'

He tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and walked over to the fountain. ‘I think that wedding nights traditionally involve considerable amounts of both champagne and passion,' he said blandly. ‘However, ours was hardly a traditional wedding.'

Disappointment sliced through her.

‘No,' she said, unable to entirely keep the sadness from
her voice as she followed him and sat on the stone rim of the fountain. ‘Or a traditional marriage.'

‘Second thoughts, Marquesa?

His use of the unfamiliar title made her raise her head in surprise. He was standing in front of her, looking down at her, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. But it was his mouth that held her attention—his sculpted, sensuous mouth, which she hadn't been able to stop herself from looking at all through their brief wedding service. He had a particular way of moving his lips when he spoke that made it look as if he were caressing the words, or saying something indecently sensual even when his voice was quite cold.

‘Yes,' she said fiercely.

His brows swooped downwards in a scowl, and he opened his mouth to make some stinging retort. Swiftly she reached up and put her fingers against his mouth, silencing him.

‘Yes,' she repeated in a whisper. ‘But not about the wedding. About what kind of marriage this is going to be.'

For a moment his face was blank with bewilderment, but then realisation dawned in his eyes, so that their blackness seemed to deepen and intensify. Slowly, wordlessly, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

‘You're sure? It's what you want, even though—'

‘I know. I thought I couldn't bear to take you into my bed… into my body…and know that you don't love me. I thought I could never do that, but now I know that I can't bear
not
to. I'm sure it's what I want.' She rose up onto her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his ear, breathing in the clean masculine scent of his hair as she mouthed, ‘And I want it right now…'

‘Well, then…' he said in a voice that made her spine melt with longing as he slipped his hands beneath the cashmere wrap, beneath the little top she wore under it. Lily gasped as they met her bare skin and slowly moved upwards, covering her breasts so that her nipples sprang up against his palms. ‘It's just as well there's a decent hotel just over there.'

Taking hold of her hand, he began to walk quickly across the square. ‘Have you booked a room?' she asked breathlessly.

‘No, but I don't think that'll be a problem.'

‘But it's a weekend…'

Tristan stopped, looking at her thought fully for a second, his beautiful face grave.

‘Lily, you have a lot to learn about being a Romero. It has many, many draw backs…' he kissed her lingeringly on the mouth ‘…so you just have to learn to make the most of the advantages. Believe me, they'll find us a room.'

 

‘Great Aunt Agatha simply cannot be seated anywhere near the Duchess of Cranthorpe, any of Tom's university friends, or anyone who's ever played lacrosse for Cheltenham Ladies' College first team. I know it's awkward, but we cannot risk a scene like the one at the Talbot-Hesketh wedding last year…' Lady Montague adjusted her spectacles and peered at the vast roll of paper on the breakfast table, weighted down at one end by the silver coffee pot and by the sugar tongs at the other. ‘I think if we put her on a table with…'

The names of Great Aunt Agatha's hapless dinner companions remained a mystery as a burst of electronic noise from Tom's mobile phone interrupted his mother. Apologising, he picked it up and read the text message that had just come through.

‘It's from Tristan.' Tom frowned, reading out the message in a tone of deep bewilderment. ‘“One circuit of the moat, this morning. Naked. Photographic evidence required.”'

Neither Scarlet nor Lady Montague looked up from the seating plan. ‘What
is
he talking about?' said Scarlet vaguely.

‘No idea…' Tom's frown deepened. ‘Unless…'

At that moment Scarlet's phone let out a trill that made them all jump. But not as much as the shriek of astonishment that she gave a second later as she read the message that had just come through.

Tristan and I got married last night.

Will be in touch soon to explain all.

In the meantime, please try to be happy.

I am.

Love L x