My approach was slow while she sat in her dressing room, her arm tensing for a brief second before she resumed running a brush through her silky hair.
She was so beautiful. But more than that, she was kind, funny, and intelligent. Generous too. Tonight, I discovered from theorganisers that my wife had donated her time and gifted a few prizes for the silent auction. I knew she did it out of the goodness of her heart and not for public praise or accolades.
My hands reached out and stopped her movements, finally causing her to lift her gaze to mine. Defiance flashed in her stare, yet underneath I could spy the undercurrent of hurt. My gut twisted yet again. I did not like this feeling.
Gently, I pulled her brush from her stiff hand and placed it on her vanity. With careful hands, I sifted her soft hair through my fingers, gathering the strands in a twist before moving them to one side. My hungry gaze devoured her exposed neck, and I gave in to the urge to touch her. My hand smoothed over one shoulder, savouring the feel of her skin.
I'd become more open with my displays of affection to my wife, something I'd tried to tame in the early stages of our marriage. Now, it took great effort not to slide my hand against her hip when I moved past her or clasp her hand when we were walking in unison. Or kiss those soft ruby lips whenever she tilted her face to mine. Although from the look of her pinched features, I wouldn't dare do that now.
“I’m sorry," I murmured. "She should have never approached you. I will be more discreet next time.”
Next time.
The words tasted like ash in my mouth. I wanted to draw them back, to banish them from existence. Especially when I felt her shoulder tense under my hand.
She focused on a spot on her dresser for several seconds before a look of determination crossed her lovely features. Her spine straightened, and her green-eyed gaze finally met mine. Millie nodded, just one quick tilt of her head and a ghost of a smile.
A valve in my throat released, and the air suddenly felt easier to breathe.
Despite her resolve, I knew I'd hurt her. Even though our marriage was one born out of convenience—orchestrated by our fathers joining forces to dictate our lives—there was still etiquette involved in our union, and a mistress making herself known was not part of the deal. I regretted that deeply.
I made a mental note to send Millie flowers and a cheque to her favourite animal charity in her honour. I knew she would appreciate that gesture more than a diamond bracelet.
Millie was just so damn young. Barely twenty-one, though we’d been married since she was eighteen. The same age my mother was when marriage to my father was thrust upon her.
I knew first-hand the repercussions of marrying someone at such a young age, especially one you didn't love or know very well.
Which was why I had resisted and resented our union when it was first brought to me.
“You want me towhat?”
My father glanced at me over his glasses, his gaze steady and stern.
“Marry Millie Davenport.”
“Absolutely not.”
I slid the picture of the pretty brunette teenager—for that was what she was—back towards my father.
He sighed impatiently, as if dealing with an insolent toddler. “You knew eventually that you would marry.”
“Yes, but not at twenty-eight years old. And certainly not to a teenager.”
“She is eighteen.”
“She is still a kid.”
My dad shrugged. “So stow her away at Keating,” he suggested, referring to my country residence in Devon. “Keep her there until you are ready.”
“You want me to marry her and then hide her away?”
"These are the terms Charles Davenport has laid out. Do you want his hotels or not?"
My lips rolled in, and I cursed bloody Charles Davenport to hell and back. Millie's father owned two successful hotels: one in London and the second in Edinburgh. They were both in prime locations, both turning over a tidy profit. When we heard that he was looking to sell, I approached him immediately. He'd asked to meet with my father first, and marriage to his only child and daughter was one of the conditions he came back with. Millie had no interest in running his empire, yet he still wanted his legacy kept in his family. I could understand his sentiment...if only it didn't affect me.
At my furious silence, Cesare Ferrante removed his glasses and fixed me with a wary stare. "Son. The truth is, I want to retire by the end of the year." My eyes widened at his statement, and he held his hand up to pause me. "Katherine keeps asking me to spend more time with her and Dante, and honestly? I would rather be at home with my wife and son than deal with this."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the mention of his young wife. It was funny that he wanted to be present for her when he and my mother had divorced within a year of having me, and I'd been shipped off to boarding school in London before I could tie my laces.
