The Italians: Cristiano, Vittorio and Dario: Once a Ferrara Wife... / A Dark Sicilian Secret / Blackmailed Bride, Innocent Wife. Jane Porter
didn’t mean anything.
‘But—’
‘You’re keeping the groom waiting.’
As Laurel walked with Dani across the flower-strewn terrace, she had reason to be grateful for her friend’s flamboyant style. Her own wedding had been small and intimate. An exchange of vows between two lovers and their closest friends and family. Dani had opted to make her wedding as big a party as possible and at least two hundred guests were seated on the enormous terrace that overlooked the beach.
Laurel stooped and rearranged the generous folds of her friend’s dress, noticing with some relief that her fingers were now completely steady.
She had no idea what Cristiano’s reaction to her dress was because she wasn’t looking at him when he strode onto the terrace and she had plenty of reasons to keep herself otherwise occupied as he carried out his responsibilities as head of the family.
The only slightly rocky moment came when Laurel found herself face to face with his mother.
‘You are back.’ Not even the hot Sicilian sun could make up for the lack of warmth and Laurel knew exactly why she was being subjected to disapproval.
To Francesca Ferrara, a woman who could trace her lineage right back to the fifteenth century and earlier, Laurel must have been the daughter-in-law from hell. A mongrel, who had failed to fulfil that most basic requirement of a good Sicilian wife—turning a blind eye to her husband’s bad behaviour.
‘I’m back just for the wedding. Then I’m leaving.’
Fortunately, at that moment the string quartet started playing and the ceremony began, sparing Laurel an awkward conversation.
Relieved, she focused on her role as maid of honour. It was impossible not to be aware that people were looking at her, but she concentrated her attention on her friend, allowing the faces around her to blur.
As Dani spoke her vows and took Raimondo’s hand, a lump formed in Laurel’s throat.
Hadn’t she done the same at her own wedding? She’d been so blissfully happy, so convinced that this couldn’t possibly be happening to her, that she’d had to check it was real. The priest had been shocked but Cristiano had just laughed and immediately lifted back her veil and cupped her face in his strong hands, the warmth of his kiss giving her all the reassurance she’d needed.
It was that uncanny ability to see into her mind and knock aside her reservations and caution that had given depth to their relationship. He was the first man she’d allowed into her heart. The only man.
It had made the fall all the harder.
Thinking of it brought the tightness back to her chest.
A wave of dizziness rushed over her, although whether it was the intense heat of the sun or just misery she didn’t know.
It was only when she became aware that Santo was staring at her intently that she realised that her cheeks were damp.
Oh, no …
Frantically trying to work out how the tears had managed to fall without her permission, she saw the exact moment Santo’s hostile stare turn to a puzzled frown.
Laurel ignored him and concentrated on her friend, desperately hoping that Cristiano hadn’t witnessed her lapse in control. There was no way she dared risk a glance at him so she just had to hope he wasn’t looking in her direction. And if he was—well, she’d have to pretend she had something in her eye. Sand? An insect?
Furious with herself, she stared straight forward. She wasn’t a crier. Never had been. So why was it that since she’d arrived in Sicily that was all she’d felt like doing?
Maybe it was the stupid dress.
She’d spent hours planning her wardrobe, making sure that her clothes were practical. And here she was standing in the most romantic-looking dress she could have imagined witnessing a public display of love when love was a word she wanted to delete from her brain.
The lump in her throat grew bigger and she stood still, hardly able to breathe as her friend exchanged rings with the man she clearly adored.
Laurel wanted to cover her ears so that she didn’t have to listen. And all the time she was aware of Cristiano standing in the periphery of her vision, a powerful, commanding figure in his beautifully cut dark suit.
Was he in hell, as she was? Was he suffering?
His words flew back into her head.
We stood together in the little chapel that has been part of my family’s estate for generations, and I made you a promise. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health … Remember?
Oh, yes, she remembered. Every word, every promise, was carved into her heart.
Her unhappiness felt too big for her body and Laurel gripped her flowers tightly, trying desperately to stop her feelings from bursting out. She willed Dani and Raimondo to hurry up so that she could get away. She needed to do something ordinary. Something normal and unsentimental to settle her emotions. She’d sneak back to the villa and check her emails. That would bring her back to earth. Or maybe she’d just get out of this dress and go for a run. Lift some weights. Anything.
Desperately fighting for control, she tried to focus on the lush gardens that surrounded the old courtyard. The air was scented with the sweet smell of jasmine and out of the corner of her eye she caught a flash of bright pink bougainvillea that painted the terrace in a riot of colour. It was incredibly pretty. The perfect place for a wedding.
Unable to help herself, she lifted her gaze to Cristiano.
Across the terrace, their eyes met.
She wanted to look away but she didn’t, and neither did he. Couldn’t? Wouldn’t? She didn’t know. All she knew was that he was looking at her as if he was trying to see into her mind, those deep-set black eyes fixed on hers as Dani and Raimondo exchanged vows.
This was us.
His lips didn’t move and yet in her head she could hear him saying it.
We had this and you destroyed it.
Heart pumping, she snapped the connection and looked at Dani.
Maybe she was the one who had done the walking, but he was the one who’d destroyed it.
As the couple leaned forward to kiss, Laurel discovered that her skin was covered in goose bumps. What had begun as a slight trembling turned to a shiver. Sickness bloomed inside her and she felt the blood drain from her face as she witnessed their heartfelt declaration of love.
Her own emotions stripped bare, she gripped her flowers and tried to hold herself together.
The rest of the ceremony blurred into one big torture session. One big test of her self-control. She was dimly aware of Dani flinging her arms around her new husband—of sighs from the assembled guests and of the fact she was growing colder and colder.
Somehow she managed to smile, to endure the endless photographs, to say what needed to be said—congratulations, so pleased, yes, she looks beautiful, very happy together—all the while aware of Cristiano taking charge and making sure his sister enjoyed every moment of her special day, his own pain ruthlessly subdued by his awesome willpower.
He was capable of caring, she thought miserably. But sometimes he got it horribly, horribly wrong.
Clumsy, not cruel.
Secure in the knowledge that all attention was on the bride and groom, Laurel slowly turned her head. Seeing that Cristiano was occupied by the bridesmaids, she allowed herself a long indulgent look, knowing it would be her last. After today she wouldn’t see him again.
Storing up images, she allowed her gaze to linger on those thick lashes, travel over that strong jaw and the tempting curve of that mouth. The longing was a great