The Consequences of That Night

by Jennie Lucas

  He’d sworn their marriage would be in name only. Then he’d swept her straight into bed last night.

  What was next? What fresh vow would he break?

  There was only one left, and it was a line that he could not, would not cross. Because if he did, if he ever let himself love her, he’d be utterly annihilated. Just like before...

  With an intake of breath, he paced across the bedroom, the same grand room which, decades before, had belonged to his parents. So in love, before everything came crashing down.

  Whether by death, or divorce, love always ended. And ended in pain.

  Cesare couldn’t let himself love Emma. It would be the final bomb exploding his life into pieces. Any time he tried to love someone, to depend on them, they left—as far and fast as they possibly could. Through death.

  He couldn’t survive it again.

  His heart pounded frantically. He looked out the window, past the overgrown garden, toward the lake. He should never have brought Emma here. Never should have let himself see the bright laughter in her eyes as she held their baby yesterday, carrying him through that garden. This is a lemon tree, and this is verbena...

  Just as his own mother had once done. He could still remember his mother’s warm embrace, back when he was very young and happy and thought the sunshine would last forever. He could hear his father’s deep, tender voice. Ti amo, tesoro mio.

  Cesare shuddered, blinking fast. He’d thought if he was careful not to love anyone, never to care, that he would be safe. Instead he’d accidentally created a child.

  Or had it been an accident? Some part of him must have been willing to take that risk—since he’d never slept with any woman without protection before. Not even Angélique. But then, she’d been too selfish to want a child. All she’d wanted was a man to worship her, and when Cesare had gotten too busy with work, she’d found another man to offer her the worship she desperately craved.

  Emma was nothing like Angélique. If the Frenchwoman had been cold and mysterious as moonlight, Emma was sunlight on a summer’s day. Warmth. Life.

  But he couldn’t let himself love her. She could leave him. She could die. Her cancer could return, and leave Cesare, like his father, bereft at midnight on an endless black lake.

  Looking out at Lake Como, he had the sudden impulse to throw on his clothes and run away from this house. From this wedding. Far, far away, where grief and pain and need could never find him again.

  Stop it. Cesare took a deep breath, clenching his hands at his sides. Get ahold of yourself. He couldn’t fall to pieces. He had to marry her. He’d promised. His child deserved a real home, like he’d once had. Before his parents had abruptly left, stripping his happiness away without warning...

  Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He ruthlessly forced down his feelings. Shut down his heart.

  Jaw tight, he opened his eyes. He would marry Emma today. Whatever he felt now, he’d given his word. He would marry her and never, ever love her.

  And no irrational nightmare, no mere terror, would stop him from fulfilling his promise.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “OH, EMMA,” IRENE whispered. Her eyes sparkled with tears. “You make such a beautiful bride.”

  Looking at herself in the gilded full-length mirror, Emma hardly recognized herself. The sensible housekeeper had been magically transformed into a princess bride from a nineteenth-century portrait. Her beautiful cream-colored silk dress had been handmade in Milan, with long sleeves and elaborate beadwork. Her black hair was pulled up in a chignon, tucked beneath a long veil that stretched all the way to the floor.

  The green eyes looking back at her in the mirror were the only thing that seemed out of place. They weren’t tranquil. They were tortured.

  Just last night, passion had curled her toes and made her cry out with pleasure. That morning, she’d risen from the warmth of their bed early to feed Sam. She had drowsed off while rocking the baby back to sleep, and when she returned later, Cesare was gone.

  But something had changed in him. All day, as they welcomed their newly arriving guests—who, with the exception of Irene, were all Cesare’s friends, not hers—he’d barely looked at her. She’d told herself he was just busy, trying to be a good host. But the truth was that in the tiny corner of her heart, she feared it was more than that. No. She knew it was more than that.

  This marriage was a mistake.

  Emma looked at herself again in the mirror, at the beautiful wedding gown. She smoothed the creamy silk beneath her hands. The decision is already made, she told herself, but her hands were trembling.

  Since she’d left his bed that morning, the day had flown by, in a succession of celebrations leading up to tonight’s first wedding ceremony, at twilight in the chapel. Emma had been genuinely thrilled to see Irene, who’d been flown in from Paris courtesy of Cesare. But as she’d shown the younger woman around her new home, Irene’s idealistic joy had soon become grating.

  “It’s all like a dream,” she’d breathed, seeing her beautifully appointed guest room, with its Louis XV furniture and accents of deep rose and pale pink. She’d whirled to face Emma, her rosy face shining. “You deserve this. You worked so hard, you put your baby first, and now you’ve been rewarded with a wedding to a man who loves you with all his heart. It’s just like a fairy tale.”

  Feeling like a fraud, Emma had muttered some reply, she couldn’t even remember what. Later, as she was congratulated by his friends, even a sheikh of some sort with long white robes who, in perfect British English, wished her well, the feeling only worsened.

  Out of everyone at the villa, only one person didn’t speak to her. He didn’t even look at her. 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 f
or—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 him.” Alain held out a trembling hand to her. “Come with me now.”

  She’d wanted a sign?

  With tortured eyes, she turned back to Cesare.

  “I can’t do this,” she choked out. “I’m sorry.”

  Cradling her baby, she picked up the hem of her cream-colored silk gown with one hand, and followed Alain out of the chapel. She ran from Cesare as if the happiness of her whole life—and not just hers, but Sam’s and Cesare’s—depended on it.

  Which she finally knew—it did.

  * * *

  As a thirteen-year-old, coming home in a strange big city, Cesare had once been mugged for the five dollars in his pocket. He’d been kicked in the gut with steel-toed boots.

  This felt worse.

  As if in a dream, Cesare had watched Emma walk up the aisle of the chapel, a bride more beautiful than he’d ever imagined, with their child in her arms. Then, like a sudden deadly storm, Alain Bouchard had appeared like an avenging angel. Emma had looked between the two men.

  Cesare had been confident in her loyalty. He’d known she would spurn Bouchard, and marry him as she’d promised.

  Instead she’d turned on him.

  She’d abandoned him.

  For a moment, as the chapel door banged closed behind her, Cesare couldn’t breathe. The pain was so intense he staggered from it.

  The chapel was suddenly so quiet that he could hear the soft wind blow across the lake. The deepening shadows of the candlelit chapel seemed relentlessly dark as endless eyes focused on him, in varying degrees of shock, sympathy and worst of all—pity.

  The priest, who’d met with them several times over the past weeks, spoke to him in Italian, in a low, shocked voice. He could barely hear.

  Cesare’s tuxedo tie was suddenly too tight around his throat. He couldn’t let himself show his feelings. He couldn’t even let himself feel them.

  Emma had left him.

  At the altar.

  With Bouchard.

  And taken their child with her.

  He looked at the faces of his friends and business acquaintances, including the white-robed, hard-eyed sheikh of Makhtar in the back row, who alone had no expression of sympathy on his face. Cesare parted his lips to speak, but his throat was too tight. After all, what was there to say?

  Emma had betrayed him.

  Ripping off his black tie, he tossed it on the stone floor and strode grimly out of the chapel in pursuit of her.

  So much for mercy. So much for the high road.

  He never should have listened to old Morty Ainsley. Cesare’s throat was burning, and so were his eyes. He should have sued Emma for full custody from the moment he learned of Sam’s existence. He should have gotten his revenge. Gotten his war.

  Instead he’d offered her everything. His throat hurt. His name. His fortune. His fidelity. Hadn’t he made it clear that if she wished it, he would remain true to her? Hadn’t he proven it with more than words—with his absolute faithfulness over the past year? How much more clear could he be?

  And Emma had spurned all of it. In the most humiliating way possible. He’d never thought she could be so cruel. Making love to him last night—today, leaving him for another man.

  He pushed through a grove of lemon trees. He would make her pay. He would make her regret. He would make her...

  His heart was breaking.

  He loved her.

  The realization struck him like a blow, and he stopped. He loved her? He’d tried not to. Told himself he wouldn’t. But all this time, he’d been lying to himself. To both of them. He’d been in love w
ith her for a long time, possibly as long as she’d loved him.

  He’d certainly been in love with her the night they’d conceived Sam. It wouldn’t have made sense for him to have taken such a risk otherwise.

  His body had already known what his brain and heart refused to see: he loved her. For reasons that had nothing to do with her housekeeping skills, or even now her skills as a mother, or her skills in bed. He didn’t love her for any skills at all, but for the woman she was inside: loving, warm, with a heart of sunlight and fire.

  And now, all that light and fire had abruptly been ripped out of his life, the moment he’d started to count on her. He wasn’t even surprised. He’d known this would happen. Known the moment he let himself love again, she would disappear.

  He had only himself to blame....

  “Thank God you saw sense.” Hearing the low rasp of Alain Bouchard’s voice, Cesare ducked behind a thicket of orange trees. Peering through the branches, he saw two figures standing on the shore, frosted silver by moonlight. “Here.” Bouchard’s accented voice was exultant. “Get in my boat. You’ve made the right choice. I won’t let him hurt you now.”

  Clenching his fists, Cesare took a step toward them. Then he saw Emma wasn’t making a move to get in the boat. She had turned away, and was trying to calm the baby, who had started to whimper in her arms. Her long white veil trailed her like a ghost in moonlight.

  “He didn’t hurt your sister, Alain,” she said in a low voice. “He would never hurt her. He loved her. In fact, he’s still in love with her. That’s why I...why I couldn’t go through with it.”

  Cesare stopped, his eyes wide, and a branch broke loudly beneath his feet. Bouchard twisted his head blindly, then turned back to Emma. “Hurry. He might come at any moment.”

  “I’m not getting in the boat.”

  The Frenchman laughed. “Of course you are.”

  “No.” Emma didn’t move. “You have to accept it. Cesare is always brutally honest, even when it causes pain. Her death was a tragic accident. He’s never gotten over it. Cesare is a good man. Honorable to his core.”

  Bouchard took a step closer to her on the moonlit shore.