The Marriage He Must Keep

by Dani Collins

  But it wasn’t just her beauty that struck him. It was her. He was glad to see her. He’d missed her. He waited for her to come across like in the old days and slide her arms around him. They had come that far, hadn’t they?

  “I just fed Lorenzo. Almost ready,” she said with barely a glance at him, head bent and attention on her phone as she tapped out a message.

  Apparently, they hadn’t.

  He frowned, wondering who she could possibly be texting so feverishly. She made a final strike and it whooshed, but at the same time released a ringtone chime.

  Octavia read it and let out a delighted laugh.

  Alessandro was taken aback. That rich sound was something he hadn’t heard in... He didn’t know how long. Far too long. It was like birdsong in spring, promising and filling him with hope.

  Her smile, so genuine, took her look of aloof sophistication to a level of sparkling beauty that did more than knock him breathless. It kicked him in the heart. He hadn’t seen her happy like this since before she had gone to London.

  And someone else had made it happen.

  The jealousy that blindsided him in that moment was as shocking as it was severe. He didn’t mean to sound so harsh when he said, “Who is that?” but he must have because she sobered quickly, face going into that neutral mask that tucked all her thoughts and feelings away.

  “Sorcha,” she replied, spine stiffening defensively. “Why?”

  “Sorcha? The woman from the hospital?” He subtly recoiled. His shame over how his cousin’s subterfuge had affected the stranger was only eclipsed by his remorse over the damage done to his wife and marriage.

  “We’ve stayed in touch,” Octavia said with a cool click of the button to blacken her screen, setting the phone facedown on a side table.

  “Why?” He couldn’t see any sense in it.

  “Because she’s a new mother like me. I can ask her about rash creams and growth spurts, things no one else wants to talk about.”

  “Bree knows about those things. Ask her.”

  “She doesn’t have a baby. It’s different. And I like hearing how Enrique is doing,” Octavia stated, setting her chin stubbornly. “Why do you disapprove?”

  He heard the frost in her tone and realized he had to tread carefully. “I didn’t say I don’t approve, only that I don’t understand,” he prevaricated.

  “Exactly. She does. We’re in the same boat. I was telling her that I had this party to go to, but that I was tired because it was another rough night with Lorenzo. She’s supposed to be organizing a gala, but isn’t up to starting because she’s tired, too.”

  “And you were laughing about that?”

  “Not exactly. I asked her if it was too late for her to take Lorenzo so I could get a good night’s sleep. She texted at the same time, wondering if I still wanted Enrique because he’s been so colicky. Perhaps it’s bad taste to make jokes about what happened, but...” She sighed and flipped her hair. “It’s nice to have a friend with a baby the same age. I’m not going to stop talking to her. She needs me as much as I need her.”

  Beneath her defiance was a disturbing hint of loneliness. It twisted Sandro’s insides.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” he assured her, moving across in a deliberate effort to close the distance. “I’m not ready to laugh about the baby swap,” he admitted darkly. “But I take your joking as a sign that you’re putting it in the past and I’m glad.” He rubbed her arms, admitting, “I was of the mind that we’d never have to face her again, which suited me. Those days at the hospital were not my finest hour. If I sounded disapproving, that’s where it was coming from.”

  She regarded him solemnly before she said, “I can appreciate that, but I wouldn’t feel right cutting ties. I...had a friend at boarding school. We didn’t really have much in common except we were both going through a spell of defying our parents.”

  He lifted his brows, curious about that, but she cut her gaze away and shrugged off providing details.

  “She wound up expelled and her parents disowned her. I tried to help, brought her home for the holidays, but my parents strongly encouraged me to end that friendship if I wanted to continue enjoying the limited freedoms I had.” Her smile was bitter. “I still gave her money when she asked, but I know she wound up taking lovers just to have a bed at night. I’ve never felt right about not making more of an effort to help her.”

  She lifted her thick lashes so her gaze came up while her chin stayed down, framing her abashed mink brown eyes.

  He wanted to ask more about her own acts of defiance, but stayed on topic. “Sorcha needs your help?” he surmised.

  She shrugged one bare shoulder. “I’m not sure. She hasn’t said much except that Cesar didn’t know about Enrique. It’s been quite hard for her, I think. Don’t be judgy,” she added swiftly.

  “Of course not,” he murmured, dismissing the other woman from his mind as the one before him, the one that mattered, was confiding in a way that was deeply encouraging. He closed his hands on her waist and drew her against him. “I’m sorry you haven’t been sleeping. I’m here now to get up with him and you know Bree’s always happy to help. We’ll make your excuses as early as we can tonight, even though I’ll be sorry to let you go. You look beautiful.” He leaned to kiss her.

  “Lipstick,” she said, averting her mouth from his. “Putting on my makeup took twice as long as it should have. Don’t make me start again.”

  He picked up her hands, smiling through his disappointment while an odd sensation moved through him. Admiration and warmth at what a loyal person she was, but something deeper and brighter. He kissed her fingers, habitually trying to resist whatever that rush of emotion was simply because it was stronger than he liked to allow.

  “Come,” he said with a tug of her hand toward the door. “I want to dance with my wife.”

  * * *

  Friends and neighbors and local dignitaries were here to help Ermanno celebrate, but it was more of a family reunion. The bulk of the guests were Ferrantes. Aunts and uncles and cousins galore. All of Sandro’s sisters were here and even his mother had arrived in a gushing stir of effervescent excitement, making the crowd part and look. Ysabelle greeted Octavia like she hadn’t seen her in ages, then moved on to hug her daughters and would likely embrace every single person in the room before the night was over.

  Octavia smiled. Sandro muttered something about needing a drink and excused himself, leaving Octavia with his eldest sister, Antonia, and her husband. Antonia was only a year younger than Sandro and had married at eighteen. Their fourth child was currently swelling the front of her gown.

  “I’m curious,” Octavia admitted, taking advantage of this moment without Sandro’s listening ears. “Did you all get your father’s temperament? Your mother is so demonstrative, but you all seem so reserved by comparison.”

  Antonia’s husband made a choking noise and gave his wife a look. “I’ll help Sandro with the drinks,” he said circumspectly and disappeared.

  Antonia chuckled. “We tone ourselves down around Sandro. He hates it when we yell or cry or get excited. Actually, Papa was just as exuberant. He and Mamma had huge, passionate fights all the time.”

  “And that scarred Sandro?” Octavia asked.

  “Oh, no,” Antonia dismissed. “It didn’t bother any of us. We knew they loved each other. They would tell us, ‘I love him but he’s being stubborn’ or ‘I love her but she’s being unreasonable.’ And then doors would slam and they would yell some more and finally kiss and make up. No, it was the way Papa died that changed Sandro.” Her eyes glossed with old grief. “We were all heartbroken and Sandro felt terribly guilty. To be honest, he had the worst temper of all of us before that. Kept the highest standards, argued the most determinedly for whatever he thought was right. He feels things very, very deeply. That’s why Papa’s death
nearly destroyed him. He still blames himself. He always will.”

  Antonia’s lips trembled.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Octavia’s heart ached for Sandro. She thought of all those times he’d said to a wound-up Primo, “Relax. Come into my office and let’s talk about it.” She’d always felt shut out of their important discussions, but he’d really been calming his cousin from doing something rash.

  Understanding didn’t reduce her concern, however. It just made her realize how thoroughly he’d locked away his deepest feelings.

  “It’s fine,” Antonia murmured. “I just try not to show how sad I still am if Sandro is around. He takes it so hard. And it’s not that he became controlling after Papa died, but he became very controlled and expected us to be the same. If he overheard an argument, he moved in to defuse it. He would lecture us to think first. Bad things can happen if you don’t, you know? Mamma dealt with her grief the other way, by letting every thought and feeling out. She married the viscount, trying to find what she’d had with Papa and even though the viscount loved her right up until the day he died, he never really knew how to deal with her. Not many men know how to match that much heartfelt expression.”

  Octavia watched Ysabelle snuggling up to her Spanish count as she introduced him to Ermanno. “It must have felt like two extremes,” she mused.

  “It was, and it was comforting to have Sandro’s steady counterbalance while she was going through all those highs and lows.” Antonia cast an affectionate look across the room to where Sandro was speaking to an elderly couple. “He made sure we all learned to control ourselves, and we still do around him. He has no idea how passionately we fight with our husbands,” she confided cheekily, nodding toward her own. “That’s why mine nearly swallowed his tongue when you said I was reserved. I have a terrible temper. But it feels so good to let it out.” She patted her round belly and grinned. “And the makeup sex is always fun, too.”

  Octavia blushed, glimpsing Ysabelle in her daughter as Antonia overshared, but it was nice, too. It made her feel closer to her sister-in-law.

  She was still thinking about makeup sex when she slid back into bed next to Sandro after feeding Lorenzo at dawn. Sandro was fast asleep, having come to bed only a few hours ago, waiting until the last guest had gone. He was on his stomach, sheet at his waist, sculpted shoulders and back bare to the stripes of rosy light coming through the blinds.

  She longed to touch him, longed to make up with him properly. She wanted to kiss better all the hurts and misunderstandings and lack of communication. Maybe lovemaking wasn’t love, but it was connection and caring and the opposite of fighting. She wanted harmony.

  A real, true, fresh beginning.

  Lifting her hand, she hesitated, briefly unsure, but didn’t let herself overthink it. The line of his spine begged to be traced and she did, nudging the sheet a little lower on the curve of his buttocks, then coming back up to the edge of his fresh haircut and the shadow that had come in on his jaw.

  He drew in a long breath, big body stirring as he opened one eye. “Is he crying?”

  “No,” she said softly, feeling defenseless as she said, “He’s fast asleep.”

  And because he was a very smart man, he didn’t ask her why she’d woken him. He read the want that she didn’t try to disguise and lifted his arm to gather her and pull her half under him. “Is he?”

  She felt him thicken against her thigh as he pressed over her. He hadn’t even kissed her, but he was instantly aroused. His body was smooth and hard and strapping, his neck still faintly scented with his cologne, his chest hot and hard against her kiss.

  Liquid heat rolled through her veins as they shifted to lie stomach to stomach, chin to chin. The contact made her sleepy muscles feel even more like melted wax. As they kissed lazily and moved against each other, her nightgown climbed. He slid his hand up her thigh and stroked her hip, her waist, her lower back and bottom, her spine and rib cage and then, ah, yes. Her breast.

  He was gentle and possessive and it felt so good she had to moan and bring her knee up to his hip and press with her calf against the back of his thigh, encouraging him to position himself to rub against her.

  “I have always thought you had beautiful breasts, but, cara...” He dragged her nightgown up and off. “Oh, bella.” He kissed the swell and admired how it overflowed his hand, thumb circling her nipple so it was a firm, eager point.

  The sweetest nerve endings tightened in her inner thighs as he played, making her ache for his touch. His thrust.

  He was wearing his silk boxers again, but she could feel the insistence of him against her as if one move was all that was needed and he’d rip through silk and be inside her. She could hardly breathe she was so gripped by anticipation, but...

  “I should tell you,” she murmured, self-conscious, but unable to keep from caressing his chest, tracing the pattern of hair and splaying her hand down his waist. “The books said it might hurt at first, so, um, can you be careful?”

  He drew back. “I thought we were just fooling around. It hasn’t been six weeks.”

  “It’s close enough,” she grumbled. “That was just a recommendation. The doctor said if I felt like it sooner, I could, but to use condoms. There are some in the drawer.”

  His brows went up and he rolled away to look, almost as if he didn’t believe her. When he came back with the little square in his hand, his eyes were pure green and brilliant with desire. “If I’m dreaming, I’d better not wake up.”

  She smiled until he kissed her again, then she couldn’t do anything but respond to the deep, drugging way he made love to her mouth. They kissed for a long time, as if this was all they were planning to do. He wove his fingers into her hair and she traced light fingertips over his throat and shoulders and up to where their lips devoured each other.

  She loved that he wasn’t rushing her. In fact, it was as though he was returning to a place he’d almost forgotten and had to make a point of touching each inch of her skin, inhaling deeply near her ear, licking at her neck and backing off to watch as he stroked his hands over her. He was focused wholly on her, bringing her hand to his heart, kissing her temple and collarbone, then the inside of her elbow. He glanced to see if she liked his lips on the underside of her breast, against her scar, on her inner thighs and against the lace of her panties.

  She swallowed, moved and aroused, trembling as she met his gaze, so steady and yet so emotive. She’d thought him adept. A playboy. A practiced seducer. He was, but this wasn’t a routine. He wanted to pleasure her. She saw earnestness in him. A desire for forgiveness.

  This was more than a physical reacquainting. It was reconciliation.

  She touched his face, memorizing his features with her eyes and her touch. He pursed his lips against her thumb pad, seeming in agreement that they had time, lots of time. That reassured her in a way nothing else could.

  When he started to peel her panties away, she lifted her hips, modesty tossed away with the blue silk. Unashamed as he admired her.

  Kneeling between her legs he pushed off his boxers, sending them to the floor before he covered himself and lowered to settle over her. She lifted again, seeking and inviting his penetration where she was wet and so needy.

  He groaned as he kissed her and started to press into her.

  “Oh!” she said, startled by the sting.

  The noise he made was pure, maddened pain. He rolled away and threw his arm over his eyes.

  “Sandro—”

  “Give me a minute, cara,” he said, voice tight.

  “I was only going to say it’s not that bad. I want to. I want you.” She splayed her torso over his, sliding against him in a full-body caress. “Please.”

  He made another agonized noise and said, “I’m the one who wants to beg, cara. Like this then.” He dragged her to straddle him. “You d
o it. Go as slowly as you need.” He spoke through his teeth, not even opening his eyes, and reached up to catch his hands under the edge of the ornate headboard.

  She took a moment to admire the taut strip of muscle he made, straining beneath her, nipples hard and jaw clenched. Then she guided him and took a few careful inhales and exhales as she brought him into her. When she was seated right against him, his thick shape filling her like the pulse of her own heart, she gloried in the perfection of it.

  She stroked her hands over his hard chest and his rib cage swelled under her touch, breath moving through his teeth in hisses of tested control.

  It made her smile. So much man. So much discipline held so very, very tightly.

  So unwilling to let himself let go.

  Bracing her hands on his chest, she scraped her nails into his hard pecs, liking the way he shivered like a stallion feeling spurs. Could she crack his restraint?

  “You’ve always been the one to call the shots,” she mused, moving experimentally. So much pleasure sparked through her, she gasped and almost lost the plot.

  His eyes opened in glittering slits of green. “You’re enjoying this,” he gritted out.

  Her smile widened. “That’s the point, isn’t it?” She moved with more purpose, teasing them both, arching as another streak that was even more intense went through her.

  His nostrils flared and he brought his hands to her hips, fingers flexing in with warning, abdomen sucked tight as he cautioned her to take care with her movements. “Dio, you’re beautiful, riding me like this.”

  “So are you,” she allowed, moving in a way that was absolute joy, hips undulating instinctively. Irrepressibly. “I missed this, caro,” she confessed in an unrestrained whisper, growing greedy. “So much. And I want you to—” Her voice caught as climax rose hot and fast. “Oh, Sandro,” she breathed.