Her New Year Baby Secret

by Jessica Gilmore

  One end of the room was empty, furniture carefully placed in a way that reminded Sophie of a stage set; chairs had been placed in semicircles facing the empty area. ‘Is this a recital?’

  ‘Not quite. Have you been to the opera before?’

  ‘The opera? No, never. Is that what this is? In a house?’

  ‘La Traviata,’ Marco confirmed. ‘Each act takes place in a different room in the palazzo so that the audience is both spectator and part of the scene. It’s one of my favourite things to do when I’m home. I thought you might enjoy it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I will.’ Sophie knew nothing about opera, had no idea if she would like the music, but it didn’t matter—what mattered was the effort Marco had put into her last free evening here. The effort he had put in to show her the parts of Venice that meant something to him, show her the city he loved and missed. ‘Thank you, Marco. This is the loveliest thing anyone has ever, ever done for me.’

  He smiled, but before he could reply they were asked to take their seats.

  The next couple of hours passed by in a blur of music, of song, of spectacle, of tears. Sophie was so engrossed she didn’t notice the tears rolling down her face as Violetta sang her swansong, not until Marco pressed a handkerchief into her trembling hand. It wasn’t just the music, moving as it was, it was the setting, it was the night as a whole, it was the realisation that these were the last innocent hours she and Marco would spend together, that whatever happened after this would be heavy with expectation. She wanted to freeze every second, frame them, remember it all.

  ‘Did you enjoy that?’

  She nodded, wrapping her scarf a little tighter as they exited the palazzo and turned into St Mark’s Square. The moon was low and round, casting an enchantment on the ancient buildings, lit up and golden by the streetlights. ‘I loved every bit of it,’ she said. ‘The whole evening, Marco. Thank you.’

  He caught her hand, a boyish carefree gesture, and as he did so realisation rocketed through her, sudden and painful in its clarity. She was in love with him. Deeply, relentlessly, irrevocably in love with him. How had this happened? Maybe it was hormones, her version of mood swings, an emotion that would drain away when she hit the magic twelve-week mark. Maybe it was fear, fear of raising the baby alone in a tiny flat on a busy main road. Maybe it was simply the novelty of being treated as if she mattered, as if she was worth something by a man worth everything.

  Or maybe it was real, that elusive alchemy of desire and compatibility and friendship.

  She rose onto her tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his bristled cheek in thanks. He moved as she did so, catching her in his arms, capturing her mouth under his so that her light embrace was turned into something more powerful. She allowed him to take control, leaning into him, into his warmth and strength. Allowed him to claim her as his. Because she was, his. But that was almost irrelevant. How could she tell him when he was already burdened by his family’s heavy expectations? How could she tell him she loved him when she still had to tell him about the baby? Her love would be one more load for him to bear, one more expectation for him to manage and she couldn’t do it to him. She had this night, this kiss. They had to be enough.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BIANCA QUIVERED AS the music struck up and she clutched his arm even more tightly.

  ‘Hold on in there,’ Marco said. ‘Not long to go.’

  ‘I’m not nervous, I’m excited. I love Antonio and I can’t wait to marry him, to start our life together, I just...’ She faltered, her dark eyes tearing up, and he squeezed her hand.

  ‘I know, you wish Papà was here. I do too.’

  ‘He liked Antonio. I’m glad about that. Glad he got to know him, that they respected each other. He’d have liked Sophie too.’

  ‘Bianca, Sophie and I aren’t...’

  She turned and looked straight at him, beautiful, glowing with her hair caught up behind the heirloom tiara, her veil arranged in foamy folds down her back. ‘Not yet, but you could be. I see the way you look at her when you think nobody’s watching you.’

  ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘You look the way I feel about Antonio, that’s how.’

  ‘I think you’re seeing what you want to see. I like her, of course I do, I admire her...’

  ‘Fancy the pants off her?’ Bianca’s mouth curved into a wide grin and she waggled her perfectly plucked eyebrows at him.

  ‘The mouth on you. And a bride at that! Yes, I find her attractive too, but that’s not...’ He stopped, unable to find the right words.

  ‘That’s not what? What falling in love is? I never had you down as the stars and flowers type, Marco. Falling in love might be instantaneous, strike-me-down, can’t-live-without-this person, all-consuming lust when you are sixteen, when you’re twenty. It’s meant to be like that when you’re young. But when you grow up, when you’re an adult, then love is something slower but stronger. You start off with like and admire and attract and over time it grows and becomes all the more powerful for that. But you have to let it grow, not run away the first chance you get.’

  Marco stared down into his little sister’s face. ‘When did you get so wise?’

  She smirked. ‘I always was. Now stand up straight and get ready to support me down this aisle. These heels are ridiculous and I have no intention of tripping and prostrating myself at Antonio’s feet!’

  The music swelled, their cue. He bent slightly and kissed Bianca’s cheek. ‘Ready, sorellina?’

  She inhaled slowly, her hand shaking as she did so. ‘Ready. Let’s go get me married.’

  Bianca had chosen to marry in the gorgeous Church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli, partly because of the sumptuous décor and partly, Marco suspected, because she’d liked the idea of standing at the top of the marble staircase to make her vows. There weren’t quite enough seats for all the guests and people were standing at the back and along the sides, all three hundred pairs of eyes staring right at Marco and Bianca. Marco barely noticed them; he was searching for the one person he wanted to see, Bianca’s words hammering through his brain with every step they took.

  Like, admire, attract.

  Was she right? Was it that simple? If so, why did the very thought of it feel so terrifying? So insurmountable? And yet...he inhaled, his heart hammering fast, louder than the organ music filling the great church. And yet in some ways it made perfect sense.

  As they neared the front of the church he caught sight of Sophie, elegant and poised, standing next to his mother. If he hadn’t known that she had whipped her dress up in just two days, he would never have believed it; she looked as if she were wearing the most exclusive designer fashion. She’d opted for a silvery grey damask material, which shimmered faintly under the chandelier lights. It was a seemingly conservative design, wide straps at her neck with the neckline cut high, almost to her throat—a stark contrast to the deep vee at her back, exposing creamy skin down to the midpoint of her spine. The bodice fitted tightly right to her waist and then the material flared out into a full knee-length skirt. The look was deceptively demure—but the dress fitted the contours of her body perfectly, the material lovingly caressing every slight curve. She’d twisted her hair up into a loose chignon confined by a silver band showing off the graceful lines of her neck. She was elegant and sophisticated, easily outshining the more elaborate and colourful dresses crowding the pews of the ornate church.

  She looked right at him and smiled, a soft intimate smile, and his chest tightened. Two days ago he had promised her a perfect day. It hadn’t been altogether altruistic; payment for all the work she had put in on the wedding, work that had ended up going way beyond altering one dress; distraction for him as he mulled over the momentous decision to step back into the family business, to spend more time at home; seduction, he’d wanted the kind of day that would make her boneless with desire because
sex with her was out of this world and they had so little time left. No, his reasons hadn’t been altogether altruistic.

  But she hadn’t demanded fine wines and five-star restaurants, she’d asked him to show her his world. He hadn’t realised it at the time, but the price of her day was far higher than the most expensive restaurant in Italy. He’d paid her in intimacy, in revealing parts of his soul he kept hidden from the whole world.

  Like, admire, attract.

  Surely, despite the short amount of time he’d known her they had gone way beyond those three words and he’d no idea how it had happened, how he’d let his guard down. He’d kept himself so safe, most of the women he’d met over the last decade or so had as little interest in his inner life as he had in theirs. They cared about his name, his family, his prospects, his money. They made superficiality all too easy, all too attractive.

  But Sophie wasn’t like that. She was visibly shocked by his wealth, unimpressed by his name. And still he hid. Because if she found him wanting, it would matter; this time it could hurt.

  Marco escorted Bianca up the stairs towards the altar and her waiting groom. She’d forgotten about him, about the church full of people waiting to see her get married, all her attention on Antonio, her eyes shining and luminous. He crossed himself as they neared the altar and, as if in a dream, waited to play his small part, before descending the steps to join Sophie and his mother, leaving Bianca making her vows, readying herself for a life in the family she chose, not the one she was born to.

  The church hushed, the only sound the voices of the priest, Bianca and her new husband as they repeated vows with heartbreaking sincerity and emotion. All his sister’s usual theatrics had disappeared as she gazed at the man she was promising to love in sickness and in health.

  ‘I couldn’t understand a word, but that was beautiful.’ Sophie gulped as the crowd burst into enthusiastic applause as Bianca and Antonio embraced for the first time as husband and wife. ‘She looks so gorgeous. Like the perfect bride. And they look so happy...’ Her voice wavered. Next to her one of Marco’s aunts was sobbing, on his other side his mother was still applying her handkerchief. Marco looked around wildly, but he was trapped; there was no escape from wet-eyed, sniffing females.

  At least no escape until he was crushed into the narrow pew as his mother elbowed her way past him. ‘Oh, Sophie, grazie, cara. You performed miracles. Hey, Chesca, this is Sophie, Marco’s ragazza. Did you see how she transformed Bianca’s dress? Sì, bellissima.’

  His mother kept up her chatter as they made their way down the aisle. She was obviously buzzing from the wedding and wanted everyone to know how Sophie had helped—binding the English girl ever closer to the family, he thought wryly. ‘Yes, she and Marco are very close, he’s quite besotted,’ he heard her confide more than once. ‘We expect an announcement any day now.’

  Her whispered predictions didn’t surprise him, his lack of anger did. But she was wrong; there would be no announcement. Things had moved too fast, so fast he’d barely noticed that they were out of the shallows and heading towards the deep water. Sophie was going home tomorrow and perhaps it was for the best. Enjoy the short time they had left, then put a stop to it before he let her down. He might not mean to, but he would. It was his hallmark after all.

  * * *

  Sophie had been aware of the stares before the wedding started. It was worse than the party at Epiphany. Then, she had been new to the city, unaware of the subtext. Today she knew all too well that everyone was looking at her and wondering if she would be the next Santoro bride. She had been the subject of more than a few cool, assessing once-overs from expensively clad and groomed women, the contemptuous flicker of their eyes judging her and finding her wanting.

  But the stares intensified once the ceremony was over. Marco’s mother was making it very clear that she considered Sophie one of the family, introducing her to what seemed like every single one of the three hundred guests. Even worse, she told everyone she could about how Sophie had ‘saved’ Bianca’s dress. Sophie knew that if Ashleigh were here she’d be telling her to milk the situation for all she was worth, think of future commissions and suck it up, but she felt guilty taking all the credit—she’d only adapted what was already there after all.

  The whole wedding party walked the short distance between the church and the palazzo where Bianca and Antonio were hosting their wedding reception. There had, Sophie gathered, been some heated family debate on the venue, the Santoros wanting to hold it at the family home, but Bianca preferring a neutral venue—and for she and Antonio to pick up the tab. ‘Mamma wants to control every little detail as it is,’ she’d explained to Sophie. ‘The only way I can guarantee having things the way I want them is to pay for it myself.’

  And goodness knew what she had paid. The couple had taken over one of the most illustrious hotels in Venice for the evening, demanding sole use of the fourteenth-century palazzo for their guests. Sophie had been intimidated by the faded glory of the Santoro home, but this fully restored palazzo took her breath away, from the bright frescos adorning every wall and ceiling to the marble staircase, the huge terrace overlooking the Grand Canal, furnished with tables, chairs and throws to wrap around the hardier wedding guests venturing out in the January chill, to the ballroom in which the reception was being held. This was an immense room, decorated with elaborate, huge gold frescos, the ceiling high above adding to the feeling of grandeur and space. She had waitressed at some glitzy events over the last eighteen months, had seen some fabulous occasions, but nothing came close to the sheer grandeur of this wedding, this room, this family.

  What on earth was she doing here?

  ‘Signorina Bradshaw?’ She jumped at a gentle tap on her elbow, turning to see a petite brunette with a wide smile, conservatively dressed in a smart, dark blue suit. ‘Hello. I am Flavia, fashion reporter for Marchesa magazine.’

  That was another unexpected facet to today’s wedding. She had known the Santoros were rich, had known that the family was old Venetian blue blood, but it simply hadn’t occurred to her that there would be outside interest in the wedding. It came as a shock when she realised several newspapers and magazines had been waiting outside the church and the high society Marchesa magazine had permission to cover the early part of the reception. Sophie resisted the urge to smooth down her dress and did her best to smile. ‘Hi, yes, I’m Sophie Bradshaw.’

  ‘You are here with Signor Santoro?’

  ‘Erm...yes.’ That wasn’t exactly privileged information and Marco’s mother had already announced it to pretty much the whole of Venice. The reporter looked at her expectantly and Sophie struggled to find something else to say. ‘It was very kind of him to ask me along to such a beautiful occasion.’

  There, she knew her role was to act as a buffer between Marco and his family’s expectations, but at least she wasn’t publicly staking her claim. The journalist didn’t look convinced, raising a sceptical eyebrow before plastering on her smile. ‘The big news is, of course, the wedding dress. Everyone has been raving over it and I hear you are responsible for making some big last-minute changes?’

  Sophie paused. She didn’t want to say that Bianca had put on weight and she certainly wasn’t going to mention the pregnancy. ‘I...’

  ‘Sophie saved me.’ The bride swooped down upon them, kissing Sophie exuberantly. ‘My dress was beautiful, yes, but too plain for such an occasion, not entirely appropriate for a church wedding. And she took this beautiful dress and made it unique and special.’ She twirled round, allowing the accompanying photographer to take pictures. ‘Look at the stitching, and these beautiful buttons, and how she took it in here and here. She made the dress she’s wearing too. Don’t be fooled by how simple it looks. It is truly elegante.’

  To Sophie’s relief, once her photo had been taken, one with the bride and one posing self-consciously by herself by one of the three huge wind
ows, the journalist moved away. Sophie scanned the crowds but couldn’t see Marco anywhere and she couldn’t face another round of being introduced as the new member of the family. It was probably a little futile checking her hair and make-up after the magazine had taken her photo, but she knew she needed a few moments to ready herself for the rest of the event.

  She’d always found large social events intimidating, much preferring quiet evenings to a big crowd. Make the crowd larger, wealthier and effortlessly chic, add in a language she didn’t speak and she was officially way out of her depth.

  Luckily it didn’t take her long to find the ladies’ room. The door led into a large sitting area, filled with inviting-looking seats and sofas and several dressing tables, each piled high with cotton wool, hair spray and even straighteners for maximum primping. A door at the other end led to toilets and sinks and, as another guest came through, Sophie noted the opulence of the marble sinks and the gilt fittings. She suspected the individual toilet stalls might be bigger than her own shower room back in London—not that difficult: most cupboards were bigger than her shower room.

  Sinking onto one of the sofas with a sigh of relief, Sophie told herself sternly she had five minutes to get herself together before heading back in. Things were coming to a head, that was all. She was leaving first thing tomorrow—really going this time—and she had to tell Marco about the baby before she did so. He hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing each other in London, so she couldn’t assume that there would be an easy opportunity to tell him once she was back.