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Lara looked at the delicious array of food on the table and her stomach churned. The coffee she’d drunk sat heavily in her stomach.
The housekeeper came back just as Lara was standing up and Lara touched her arm gently. The woman looked at her questioningly and Lara smiled and said grazie. The woman smiled widely and nodded, and Lara felt for a second as if she’d scored some kind of tiny victory.
Ciro might think the worst of her but she knew who she was. She just needed to remember that.
* * *
By the time Lara had walked from the car and up the steps to the porch of the cathedral on Saturday afternoon she was shaking. There were what looked like hundreds of people lining the steps, calling out her name, and the flashes of cameras.
The wedding dress that Ciro had picked out was stunning, but far more extravagant than Lara would have ever chosen for herself. Designed to get as much attention as possible with its long train and elaborate veil. Not unlike the dress she’d worn to marry Henry Winterborne.
Her mother’s dress had been simple and graceful. Whimsical and romantic. But then it had been a dress worn for love. Lara was almost glad it was gone now. Hopefully some other woman had married for love in it.
She was not unaware of the irony that for the second time in the space of a couple of weeks she was glad of a veil to hide behind.
The aisle looked about a hundred miles long from where she was standing. And she was going to walk down it alone. She wanted to turn and run. But instead she squared her shoulders, and as the wedding march began she started walking, spine straight, praying that no one would see her bouquet shaking.
The back of Ciro’s neck prickled. She was here.
He’d heard the cacophony of shouts outside just before a hush rippled through the church. He knew she would be walking down the aisle alone—she hadn’t requested any bridesmaids or attendants. She had no family. Something about that lonely image of her caught at his gut but he ignored it.
She was the type of woman who could bury one man one week and marry another a week later. She was not shy or vulnerable.
You offered her little alternative, pointed out the voice of his conscience.
Ciro ignored it. Lara might not like what people thought of her, but she’d soon forget it when she got used to the life of luxury Ciro could offer her.
He fought the desire to turn around, not liking the sense of déjà vu washing over him as he thought about how this day should have happened two years ago. And how it hadn’t.
In the lead-up to that wedding he’d been uncharacteristically nervous. And excited. Excited at the thought of unveiling his virginal bride. Of being the first man who would touch her, make her convulse with pleasure. And at the thought of the life he would have with her—a different life from the one he’d experienced with his parents.
But she hadn’t been that woman.
Suddenly Ciro felt hollow inside. And exposed. As if he was making a monumental fool of himself all over again.
The wedding march grated on his nerves. For a moment he almost felt the urge to shout out, Stop! But then Lara’s scent reached him, that unique blend of lemon and roses he would always associate with her, and the urge drained away.
He turned to look at her and his breath caught. Even though he’d chosen the dress for its classic yet dramatic lines—a full satin skirt and a bodice which was overlaid with lace that covered her arms and chest up to her throat—he still wasn’t prepared.
He’d always known Lara was beautiful, but right now she was...exquisite. He could just make out the line of her jaw, the soft pink lips and bright blue eyes behind the veil. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon.
His gaze travelled down over her slender curves to where she held the bouquet. There was an almost imperceptible trembling in her hands, and before he could stop himself Ciro reached out and put a hand over hers. She looked at him, and a constriction in his chest that he hadn’t even been aware of eased.
Instead of the triumph he’d expected—hoped—to be feeling right now, the residue of those memories and emotions lingered in his gut. And relief.
It was the relief that made him take his hand off hers and face forward. The scar on his face tingled, as if to remind Ciro why they were there. What she owed him. And any sense of exposure he’d felt dissipated to be replaced by resolve.
The wedding service passed in a blur for Lara. She wasn’t even sure how she’d made it down the aisle. The mass was conducted in English, for her benefit, and she dutifully made her vows, feeling as if it was happening to someone else.
Her second wedding to a man who didn’t love her. At least she’d never been deluded about Henry Winterborne’s feelings for her.
Every time she looked at Ciro she wanted to look away. It was like looking directly at the sun. He was so...vital. He wore a dark grey morning suit with a white shirt and tie. His dark hair was gleaming and swept back from his face.
But now she had to face him, and she reluctantly lifted the veil up and over her head. There was nothing to shield her from that dark, penetrating gaze. Hundreds of people thronged the cathedral but suddenly it was just her and him.
Before, she’d imagined this moment so many times...had longed for it. Longed to feel a part of something again. A unit. A unit of love.
And now this was a parody of that longing. A farce.
