Not since he’d made love to her last night.
How could he turn so fast from passion to coldness?
The answer was clear.
Cesare didn’t want to marry her.
It was only his promise that was forcing him to do it. Emma’s gaze fell on baby Sam, who was currently lying on her soft bed, proudly chewing the tip of his own sock, which was stretched out from his foot.
“Here’s your bouquet,” Irene said now, smiling as she wiped her own happy tears away. She handed her a small, simple bouquet of small red roses. “Perfect. This is all so romantic....”
Emma looked down at the flowers, feeling cold. How could she destroy Irene’s dreams, and tell her that romantic was the last thing this wedding would be? She exhaled.
“I just wish my father were here,” Emma whispered. With his steady hand and good advice, he’d know just what to do.
Irene’s face instantly sobered. “It must be so hard not to have him here, to walk you down the aisle. But he’s with you in spirit. I know he is. Looking down on you today and smiling.”
Emma swallowed. That thought made it even worse. Because today, marrying Cesare, she was doing something her heart told her was wrong. Doing something that her heart told her could only ultimately end in disaster, no matter how good their intentions might be for their son.
It’s too late to back out, she told herself. There’s nothing I can do now.
Irene looked at the watch on her slender wrist.
“It’s time,” she said cheerfully. She picked up Sam, who was wearing a baby tuxedo in his strictly honorary capacity of ring bearer. “We’ll be sitting in the front row. Cheering for you both. And probably crying buckets.” She waved a linen handkerchief. “But I came prepared!” She tucked it in her chiffon sash. “See you in the chapel.”
“Wait.” Emma swallowed, feeling suddenly panicky. She held out her arms. “I need Sam with me.”
Irene looked bemused. “You want to walk up the aisle holding a baby?”
“Yes. Because—” she grasped at straws “—we’re a family.”
“But your hands are full....”
Emma instantly dropped the bouquet on the floor in a splash of petals, and stretched out her hands desperately. She needed to feel her baby in her arms. She needed to remind herself what she was doing this for—marrying a man who was forever in love with his dead wife. His real wife. She needed to feel that she was sacrificing her life for a good reason. “Give him to me.”
“Aw, your poor flowers,” Irene sighed, looking at the bouquet on the floor. Then, looking up, she slowly nodded. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe this is better. Here you go.”
Emma took Sam in her arms. She felt the warmth of his small body and inhaled his sweet baby smell, and nearly cried.
Turning away, Irene paused at the door of Emma’s bedroom. “The three of you are already a family,” she said softly, “but today makes it official. Thanks for inviting me. Seeing what’s possible...it makes me more happy than you’ll ever know.”
And her young friend left, leaving Emma holding her baby against her beaded silk dress, her throat aching as she fought back tears that had nothing to do with joy.
“All right, Sam. I guess we can’t be late.” She looked out the window, at the vast sky above the lake, already turning red in the twilight. “I only wish I had a sign,” she murmured over the lump in her throat. “I wish I knew whether I’m making the right choice—or ruining all our lives.”
Sam, of course, didn’t answer, at least not in words she could understand. Holding her baby close, she walked out of her bedroom as an unmarried woman for the last time. When next she returned, she would be the mistress of this villa. From now on, her place would be in Cesare’s bed.
Until he grew tired of her. And started sleeping elsewhere. She pushed the thought aside.
Emma’s white satin shoes trembled as she walked down the sweeping stairs. The villa was strangely silent. Everyone had gone to the chapel, even the household staff. She heard the echoing footsteps of her shoes against the marble floor before she pushed open the enormous oak door and went outside.
Holding her baby close, she walked down the path carved into the hillside, along the edge of the lake. “This marriage is for you, Sam,” she whispered. “I can live without your father loving me. I can live without him being faithful to me. For you, I can live the rest of my life with a numb, lonely heart....”
Emma stopped in front of the medieval chapel, which was lit by torchlight on the edge of the lake. Such a romantic setting. And every drop of romance a lie.
Trembling, she walked toward it, nestling her baby against her hip as the veil trailed behind them.
The twelfth-century chapel had been carefully and lovingly restored to its Romanesque glory. The medieval walls were thick, with just a few tiny windows. The arched door was open.
Heart pounding, she stepped inside.
The dark chapel was illuminated by candlelight, its tall brass candlesticks placed along the aisle. She heard the soft music of a lute, accompanied by guitar. As she appeared in the doorway, there was an audible gasp as the people packed into the tiny chairs rose to their feet.
Emma’s legs felt like jelly. She felt a tug on her translucent silk veil and saw Sam had grabbed it in his pudgy fist, and was now attempting to chew it. She smiled through her tears, then took a deep breath as the music changed to the traditional wedding march.
Looking at all the faces of the guests, she didn’t recognize any of them as she slowly walked forward, feeling more dizzy with every step. She tried to focus on Cesare at the end of the aisle. She took another step, then another. She was six steps from the altar.
And then she saw his face.
Cesare looked green, sick with fear—as if only sheer will kept him from rushing straight past her in a panic. He tried to give her a smile.
Her footsteps stopped.
“Stop! Don’t do it! Don’t ruin your life!”
The man’s voice was a low roar, as if from the deepest reaches of the earth, coming up through the stone floor. For an instant, Emma couldn’t breathe. Her father’s voice from beyond the grave...? Then she saw Cesare glare at someone behind her.
Whirling around, she saw Alain.
The slim salt-and-pepper-haired Frenchman took another step into the chapel. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “Falconeri has already caused the death of one woman I loved. I won’t let him take another.”
There was a gasp and growl across the crowd. Cesare gave a low hiss of fury. He was going to come down and smash Alain’s face for doing this, she realized.
For stopping a wedding that Emma never should have agreed to in the first place.
“Don’t marry
