by Andie Brock
‘I decided to christen the pool.’ Crossing his arms, Orlando fixed her with an inscrutable stare.
‘Well, you shouldn’t have done. Not without telling me.’
‘You were sound asleep, as I recall.’
Isobel scowled back at him.
‘I thought a swim might help with the stiffness.’ Unfolding his arms Orlando stretched his back, then rolled his shoulders one after the other, several times. ‘I think it’s worked.’
‘Well, that’s good, I suppose.’ Isobel swallowed. ‘I can see there is quite a bit of bruising on your left-hand side.’ She hesitated, then took a step closer to him. ‘How does your head feel today?’
Before she could stop herself her hand had risen to brush aside a lock of damp hair, her fingers lightly tracing the injury with a feather-light trembling softness.
For a moment they stared at each other, the silence broken only by the friendly chirrup of a bird in a nearby tree.
‘It’s fine.’ Finally Orlando spoke. ‘Just a bump.’
‘It does look better, I must say.’ Isobel let her hand drop awkwardly by her side. ‘The swelling has gone down. But I think you ought to see a doctor today.’
‘Already arranged.’ Sweeping the stray locks back from his forehead, Orlando raked a hand through his wet hair. ‘He’ll be here in half an hour or so. I thought it would put your mind at rest, if nothing else.’
‘That’s good.’ Isobel looked down at Orlando’s bare feet, at his footprints that were rapidly drying in the morning sun. ‘I’m glad to see you being responsible at last.’
‘Oh, I can be responsible, Isobel.’
Moving a couple of paces away, he picked up a pair of jeans that were lying by the pool and after unceremoniously dropping the towel started to tug them on. Isobel tore her gaze away.
‘In fact my sense of responsibility has led me to an important conclusion.’
‘Really?’ She wasn’t going to look back until she was sure he was decent. ‘What conclusion?’
Flies buttoned, he was beside her again, looping his arm around her bare shoulders. Isobel felt the cold weight of it making her skin tingle as he turned her to walk back towards the castello.
‘The accident yesterday...’ Orlando spoke softly. ‘I realise now that you were right. I shouldn’t have dismissed it so lightly. Life can be cut short very quickly.’ He slanted her a glance. ‘Something you know only too well.’
Isobel nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
‘For that reason I think we should get married.’
‘Well, I know that.’ Isobel continued purposefully putting one foot in front of the other, the newly mown grass springy beneath her feet. ‘We’ve agreed that after the baby is born—’
‘Not after the baby is born, Isobel. I mean straight away.’
They stopped. Orlando’s eyes raked across her face as he waited for her reply, commanding her to agree.
‘Straight away?’ Isobel blinked against the sheer force of his power. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want our child to be legally protected now, not leave it to chance any longer. After what happened yesterday I am not prepared to take that risk any more.’ His voice was quietly controlled, but it held that familiar hint of steel. ‘We marry now, Isobel. It’s the only solution.’
Isobel sucked in a breath, recognising that once again she was being manipulated by Orlando Cassano. Now it seemed he was determined to override her last stand.
And that was all it was. A pointless exercise in proving that she had some control. Although maybe there was one other reason—something it was high time she faced up to and then buried for ever.
By delaying the wedding she had been hoping that Orlando might change his mind. Not about marrying her, but about his reasons for doing so. She had been pathetically waiting for a sign that Orlando might want to marry her for who she was, not just because she was the mother of his child. Well, she was done with that now. She had to accept it was never going to happen. She had to accept the stark reality of the situation and try and focus on the positives.
A few short hours ago she had been terrified that Orlando was dead, and yet here he was, strong and proud and as controlling as ever. She thanked God for that. And she accepted that he wanted what was best for their child. Their child, at least, obviously meant a great deal to him. Even if she meant nothing. If Orlando wanted to marry now, what difference did it make? To insist on waiting for a few months would be nothing more than churlish.
Turning away, Isobel started heading back towards the castello again, leaving Orlando in her wake.
‘If that’s what you want, Orlando, I will agree.’ She tossed the words over her shoulder. ‘We can have the wedding as soon as you like.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FROM ISOBEL’S BEDROOM window there was a perfect view of the wedding venue. Rows of white chairs were neatly laid out on the grass in front of the twinkling lake, where an archway covered with pink and white roses had been positioned. The place where she and Orlando would very shortly be standing to make their vows. Isobel stared at the scene with disbelieving eyes, still not able to fully comprehend that she was marrying Orlando at all—let alone that it would be happening in an hour’s time.
Tearing her eyes away, she retreated into the room.
It had been agreed that she should move into her own suite of rooms two weeks ago, leaving Orlando in the master bedroom, ostensibly to recover from his accident.
Isobel still remembered Orlando’s expression when he had suggested it—guarded, wary, as if he were telling a young child it was being sent to boarding school for its own good. But he needn’t have worried. Isobel had been only too happy to give them both some space, because sharing a bed every night with Orlando would have been torture. Whether they had made love or not made love—both would have been equally agonising. Both would have had the power to break her heart.
Just living in the castello with him had been bad enough: the forced politeness, the quickly eaten meals, with one or other of them hurrying to excuse themselves to ‘get on with some work’. Since the night of the accident it had felt as if Orlando had deliberately constructed a wall between them, as if he was determined to keep her out.
Walking over to the bed, she stared at the wedding dress that was carefully laid across it. Picking it up by the hanger, she held it before her. It was beautiful—too beautiful. Chosen on a day trip to Milan with Maria and her teenage daughter, Elena. Isobel had opted for a simple style in cream silk. The strapless bodice was decorated with tiny seed pearls and the sweeping skirt fell in fluid folds to the floor. Maria and Elena had clasped their hands to their chests in unison when she had stepped from the dressing room, immediately declaring it ‘molto bella’.
There was a tap on the door now, and a beaming Elena entered, a small bunch of roses in her hand.
‘The guests will be arriving soon, Isobel. Mamma—she says it is time for me to help you dress.’
‘Grazie, Elena—thank you.’
‘I have some flowers left over from the decorations. I am thinking maybe we could put them in your hair?’
Isobel glanced at Elena. Already dressed in her wedding outfit, she looked so pretty, so happy, so excited about today. At seventeen years old, she was the same age Isobel had been when the car crash had all but decimated her life. Isobel firmly hoped that no such tragedy would ever befall this lovely young woman. She hoped that one day Elena would find her Prince Charming and have a real fairy-tale wedding. Not the sham that she herself was about to go through.
Handing the dress over to Elena, Isobel took off her robe, glancing down at the wedding lingerie that Maria and Elena had made her buy: a strapless bra and flimsy silk panties, a suspender belt with white silk stockings. She felt like a total fraud.
But Elena was waiting, holding up the dress for her to step into, going behind her to fasten the row of tiny pearl buttons. Finally she reached for Isobel’s shoes, the cream satin creations that Isobel h
ad had made in the Spicer workshop, giving no hint as to who they were for. Facing her again Elena fussed with the material of the skirt before standing back to admire her handiwork.
‘Finito.’ She gave Isobel an emotional smile. ‘Il Marchese—he is a very lucky man.’
Isobel attempted to smile back, unconsciously smoothing the silky material over her very small baby bump. Reaching forward, Elena took hold of her hands and moved them to her sides. She let them drop, shaking her head.
‘You cannot see it, Isobel. Your beautiful secret is safe for today.’
Beautiful secret. Was that what it was?
Nerves, mixed with anxiety and something approaching a sickening dread, gripped Isobel. But Elena was waiting for her, standing by the dressing table now, with a hairbrush in her hand, ready to do her hair. A quick glance through the window showed her that the guests were starting to arrive, the rows of seats rapidly filling up.
Their guest list hadn’t been long. Isobel herself had invited no one, apart from her mother, who had declared herself far too unwell to travel. She had friends in London but she didn’t want them here—didn’t want to involve them in this sham of a marriage. Telling them the truth would have involved too many questions, and lying would simply have been deceitful. Far better to say nothing at all.
And presumably Orlando had felt the same. He had few friends in Italy, and no inclination to fly in friends and business colleagues from around the world, so his guest list mostly comprised tenants and workers on the estate, along with the Cassano family solicitor and a few local dignitaries.
In front of the mirror now, Isobel stared at her reflection. Pale, but poised, she appeared calm. The creeping doubt did not really show on her face, except perhaps in her eyes, which looked back at her with dull sufferance. This was her wedding day. It was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Instead she felt as if she was about to go to the gallows.
What on earth was she doing?
A wave of nausea swept over her, draining what little colour she had from her face as the full reality of what she was about to do crushed her chest with its leaden, oppressive weight. She was about to marry a man whom she loved with all her heart, but who would never love her back. The stark reality stole the breath from her lungs, slowed her heart rate to a leaden beat.
These past couple of weeks she had allowed herself to be swept along with the wedding preparations, convincing herself with a mixture of naivety and hope that it would be all right, that somehow it would all work out. Now, with the bruising clarity of a knockout blow, she knew that wasn’t the case. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t subject herself to the misery of a loveless marriage—not feeling the way she did about Orlando. Being around him would be too painful, too agonisingly raw, like exposing her heart to a thousand cuts. Marrying Orlando would be sentencing herself to a lifetime of torment.
Sudden dizziness made her clutch for the edge of the dressing table and she saw Elena’s eyes widen with alarm.
‘Could you get me a glass of water, please, Elena?’
‘Sì, certo.’
Elena hurried off to the bathroom, and Isobel found herself staring blankly into the space she had left. She needed to think quickly—work out what she was going to do. But her brain seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, refusing to process simple commands.
‘Here.’ Pressing a glass into her hand, Elena looked down at her with concerned eyes. ‘You have the nerves, I expect. Drink this and you will feel better.’
Raising the glass to her lips, Isobel watched the water ripple beneath her shaky grasp. Come on, Isobel, get a grip—do something now, before it’s too late.
‘Better now?’
She saw her reflection nod, and a relieved Elena went back to fiddling with her hair.
Find Orlando. Isobel desperately tried to order her thoughts. That was what she had to do first. She must find Orlando and explain to him that she couldn’t marry him. He would be livid, furious beyond words, but that couldn’t be helped. For the sake of her future sanity she had to do this.
The wedding was off.
‘Orlando... Il Marchese,’ she began slowly. ‘Do you know where he is, Elena?’
Elena shook her head, then took a rose out of her mouth to allow herself to speak. ‘No, not exactly at the moment.’
Isobel noticed that she didn’t quite meet her eyes in the mirror. Another, different fear gripped her.
‘When was he last seen?’
‘Um... Papà—he saw him this morning.’ Standing back, she tweaked the position of the cream rose she had tucked into the swept up tresses of Isobel’s hair. ‘There—what do you think?’
‘Saw him where, exactly?’ Spinning round in her seat, Isobel faced Elena full-on.
‘Papà...he say Il Marchese ask him to bring round the saloon car from the garage.’
‘To take him where? Where was he going, Elena?’
‘He say he was going to the airport.’
The airport? Gripping the edge of the stool, Isobel pulled herself to her feet.
‘He probably had to meet someone. A guest, maybe?’
Or he had boarded a flight to the US and was now thousands of feet above them in the sky.
With her heart thumping beneath the constricting bodice, Isobel forced herself to try and calm down. She was being ridiculous. Why would Orlando run away? He was the one who wanted this, who had insisted that it happened. And yet still the panic refused to subside.
‘I’m sure you are right, Elena.’ Her voice sounded odd, as if it was coming from far away. ‘Thank you so much for your help, but if you don’t mind I think I would like to be left alone now.’
Reaching the door, Elena looked back over her shoulder with a reassuring smile. ‘I am sure there is nothing to worry about, Isobel. Il Marchese—he will be here in time for the ceremony.’
* * *
Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Orlando glanced at his watch. Two-forty-five. In precisely fifteen minutes he was supposed to be getting married—slipping a wedding ring onto Isobel’s finger and finally making her his. Securing their future together. But right now he felt as if everything was conspiring against him. The final straw being this wretched traffic jam they had been stuck in for the past twenty minutes.
His morning from hell had started when Astrid, his personal assistant in London, had informed him that Mrs Nancy Spicer wouldn’t be flying to Trevente for the wedding after all. It seemed that the private jet he had sent for her, and indeed the car he had dispatched to pick her up from the nursing home, were no longer needed. Mrs Spicer had changed her mind. She was staying put.
Orlando should have left it at that, but he was far too stubborn to accept defeat. And this was more than just stubbornness. When Isobel had lightly informed him that her mother wouldn’t be attending the wedding he had seen the hurt in her eyes, and that had been enough for Orlando. He was going to do this one thing for Isobel. He was going to make this happen.
So, refusing to accept the initial setback, he had caught a flight to London, arrived at Nancy Spicer’s nursing home and persuaded her to come back with him on his private jet—all without too much trouble. It seemed the personal touch had been all that was needed. His personal touch, at any rate.
Time had been getting tight, but at that point Orlando had been confident they were going to make it. Then problems with air traffic control had delayed their flight and they had ended up spending a frustrating hour sitting on the runway.
Never one to miss an opportunity, Orlando had used the time to raise the subject of the fatal car crash with his future mother-in-law—the tragedy that had so decimated the Spicer family. It had been playing on his mind ever since Isobel had told him about it; her haunted expression, the depth of the pain, had been a knife in his soul.
Initially shocked, then hostile, then defensive, Mrs Spicer had refused to discuss the subject with him. But Orlando had said his piece, firmly pointing out that blaming Isobel for what had ha
ppened was doing neither of them any good. And he was confident that his message had hit home, no matter how much this proud woman refused to acknowledge it.
When they had finally landed in Le Marche, Orlando had settled Mrs Spicer into the back of his car, intending on a fast dash back to the castello. But that idea had been scotched when she had imperiously informed him that she refused to travel in a speeding car. Either he slowed down or she got out.
Like mother, like daughter. Suddenly Isobel’s extreme reaction to his driving had made perfect sense.
Now this traffic jam was the final straw. Orlando felt like getting out of the car himself, running the last ten miles to the castello with his future mother-in-law on his back if he had to. Impatience and something more worrying furrowed his brow. There was a nagging feeling in his gut that something wasn’t right—not just his lateness, but something more serious.
Reaching for his phone, he tried dialling the castello landline again, but there was still no answer. They must all be outside, waiting for the ceremony to start. Suddenly he desperately wanted to speak to Isobel, to reassure her that he was on his way. Just to hear her voice.
Tossing the phone onto the seat beside him he cursed yet again at the lack of mobile signal at the castello. Why hadn’t he got that sorted?
Hearing the blaring of horns behind him, Orlando glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of Nancy Spicer, applying another coat of red lipstick. Snapping her compact shut she glared at him.
‘Well, hurry up, then.’ She waved her arm impatiently. ‘Can’t you see the traffic is moving again?’
* * *
Left alone in her bedroom, Isobel gathered her skirts around her and drew in a painful breath. A glance at the clock revealed that it was almost three o’clock. The ceremony was due to start at any moment. Pushing open her window she leaned out, staring at the rows of wedding guests, at the officiant who was now standing under the rose-covered bower, checking his watch. She could hear the melodious sound of Vivaldi being played by the string quartet, the chatter of the guests’ voices, laughter, a baby crying. But there was no sign of the groom.