to answer to no one except himself. And if every female who’d fallen into his arms had thought they’d be the one to change his mind, they had been wrong. He’d managed to get to the age of thirty-five without having to make any kind of commitment.
Had Darcy done what nobody else had been able to do—and deliberately got herself pregnant? But if that had been the case then he must take his share of the blame. He’d been so blown away by discovering she was a virgin that he couldn’t wait for her to go on the pill. He remembered the first time he’d entered her without wearing a condom and the indescribable pleasure he’d felt. It had been primitive, powerful and overwhelming but it hadn’t been wise. He had allowed sexual hunger to blind him to reason. He’d allowed her to take sole responsibility for birth control and look what had happened. His heart clenched tightly with an emotion he didn’t recognise as he stared into her green eyes.
‘Did you mean to get pregnant?’ he demanded.
He saw her flinch and compose herself before answering.
‘No,’ she answered quietly. ‘I had some sort of bug just before we went to Tuscany and I didn’t realise...’
‘That sickness would stop the pill from working?’
‘Apparently.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You weren’t warned that could happen?’
‘Probably—but with all the excitement about the holiday, I forgot all about it. It wasn’t deliberate, Renzo—if that’s what you’re thinking.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘No woman in her right mind would want to tie herself to a man with ice for a heart, no matter how rich or well-connected he might be.’
And he believed her. He might wish he didn’t but he did. His pale-faced bride in the floaty dress was telling the truth. ‘So it seems we have a choice,’ he said. ‘We can go downstairs to our guests with good grace or I can take you kicking and screaming every inch of the way.’
‘I won’t embarrass you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have no desire to make this any more difficult than it already is.’
‘Good.’
Turning away, he dropped the towel and Darcy was treated to the distracting sight of his bare buttocks—each hard globe a paler colour than the dark olive of his back. She could see the hair-roughened power of those thighs and hated the way her stomach automatically turned over when she was doing everything in her power to fight her attraction.
‘Tempted?’ His voice was full of sensual mockery—as if he had the ability to read her expression even with his back turned. And she mustn’t let him realise the accuracy of his taunt. If she wanted to protect herself, she mustn’t let him get close to her—not in any way.
‘Tempted by what—our wedding feast?’ she questioned, sniffing at the air as if trying to detect the rich scents of cooking which had been drifting through the downstairs of the house all morning. ‘Absolutely! To be honest, I do have a little of my appetite back. I could eat a horse.’
He gave a low laugh as Darcy scuttled into the bathroom where she spent a long time fiddling with her hair, and when she returned to the bedroom it was to find him dressed in that head-turning way which only Italian men seemed able to pull off. His dark suit emphasised his broad shoulders and powerful physique and he’d left his silk shirt open at the neck to reveal a sexy smattering of dark hair.
Uncertainly, she skimmed her hand down over her dress. ‘Won’t I look a little overdressed?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ he said drily. ‘But probably not in the way you imagine.’
Her cheeks were still pink by the time they walked into the formal salon, which had been transformed with bridal finery by Gisella and a team of helpers from the nearby village. The cold winter weather meant they couldn’t venture out into the huge grounds, but instead enormous fires were blazing and dark greenery festooned the staircases and fireplace. There were white flowers, white ribbons and sugar-dusted bonbons heaped on little glass dishes. A towering croquembouche wedding cake took pride of place in the dining room and on a table at the far end of the room—a pile of beautifully wrapped presents which they’d expressly stated they didn’t want!
A loud burst of applause reached them as they walked in, along with cries of ‘Congratulazioni!’ and ‘Ben fatto, Renzo!’ The guests were all Renzo’s friends, and although he’d told her he would pay for anyone she wanted to fly out to Tuscany for the celebration, Darcy hadn’t taken him up on his offer. Because who could she invite when she’d lived her life a loner—terrified of forming any lasting commitments because of her past and the very real fear of rejection?
But she was pleased to see Nicoletta and not just because the glamourous Italian had helped with her trousseau. She’d realised that Renzo no longer had any lingering feelings about the woman he’d once had a ‘thing’ with. Darcy might have had an innate lack of self-confidence brought about by years of neglect, but even she couldn’t fail to see the way her husband was looking at her tonight—a sentiment echoed by Nicoletta.
‘I have never seen Renzo this way before,’ she confided as Darcy sucked limonata through a straw. ‘He can barely tear his eyes away from you.’
Darcy put her glass down. Because he was one of life’s winners, that was why. He would want his marriage to succeed in the way that his business had succeeded and because his own parents’ marriage had failed. That was why he was suddenly being so nice to her. And that scared her. It made her want to fight her instinctive attraction and to pull away from him. She didn’t dare sink into a false state of security which would leave her raw and hurting when their marriage hit the skids. Because it would. Of course it would. How long would it take before her brilliant husband tired of her once reality kicked in? Had he even stopped to consider how a wife at the mercy of fluctuating hormones might fit into his calm and ordered life, let alone all the change which a new baby would bring?
But the evening fared better than she would have imagined. Renzo’s obvious appreciation—whether faked or not—seemed to make everyone eager to welcome her into their midst. His friends were daunting, but essentially kind. She met lawyers, bankers and an eminent heart surgeon and although each and every one of them spoke to her in perfect English, she vowed to learn Renzo’s native tongue. Because suddenly, she caught a glimpse of what the future could be like if she wasn’t careful. Of Renzo and their son speaking a language which the new mamma couldn’t understand, with her inevitably being cast into the role of outsider.
And that could also be dangerous. Renzo had been reasonable before the marriage, but now she had his ring on her finger there was no longer any need for him to be. If she didn’t watch her back she would become irrelevant. She looked around at the elegant room her new husband was renting for what she considered an extortionate amount of money. Could she really envisage their son willingly accompanying her back to an unknown England and an uncertain future if the marriage became unbearable, and leaving all this privilege and beauty behind?
But she ate, chatted and drank her limonata, waiting until the last of their guests had gone before following Renzo up to their suite, her heart rattling loudly beneath her ribcage. She undressed in the bathroom, emerging wearing a nightgown Nicoletta had insisted on gifting her. It was an exquisite piece for a new bride to wear and one designed to be removed almost as soon as it had been put on. Despite the hard curve of her baby bump, the ivory silk-satin coated her body as flatteringly as a second skin. Edged with ivory lace, the delicate fabric framed the skin above her engorged breasts and the moment she walked into the bedroom Darcy saw Renzo’s eyes darken.
Her
