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Her whispered predictions didn’t surprise him, his lack of anger did. But she was wrong; there would be no announcement. Things had moved too fast, so fast he’d barely noticed that they were out of the shallows and heading towards the deep water. Sophie was going home tomorrow and perhaps it was for the best. Enjoy the short time they had left, then put a stop to it before he let her down. He might not mean to, but he would. It was his hallmark after all.
* * *
Sophie had been aware of the stares before the wedding started. It was worse than the party at Epiphany. Then, she had been new to the city, unaware of the subtext. Today she knew all too well that everyone was looking at her and wondering if she would be the next Santoro bride. She had been the subject of more than a few cool, assessing once-overs from expensively clad and groomed women, the contemptuous flicker of their eyes judging her and finding her wanting.
But the stares intensified once the ceremony was over. Marco’s mother was making it very clear that she considered Sophie one of the family, introducing her to what seemed like every single one of the three hundred guests. Even worse, she told everyone she could about how Sophie had ‘saved’ Bianca’s dress. Sophie knew that if Ashleigh were here she’d be telling her to milk the situation for all she was worth, think of future commissions and suck it up, but she felt guilty taking all the credit—she’d only adapted what was already there after all.
The whole wedding party walked the short distance between the church and the palazzo where Bianca and Antonio were hosting their wedding reception. There had, Sophie gathered, been some heated family debate on the venue, the Santoros wanting to hold it at the family home, but Bianca preferring a neutral venue—and for she and Antonio to pick up the tab. ‘Mamma wants to control every little detail as it is,’ she’d explained to Sophie. ‘The only way I can guarantee having things the way I want them is to pay for it myself.’
And goodness knew what she had paid. The couple had taken over one of the most illustrious hotels in Venice for the evening, demanding sole use of the fourteenth-century palazzo for their guests. Sophie had been intimidated by the faded glory of the Santoro home, but this fully restored palazzo took her breath away, from the bright frescos adorning every wall and ceiling to the marble staircase, the huge terrace overlooking the Grand Canal, furnished with tables, chairs and throws to wrap around the hardier wedding guests venturing out in the January chill, to the ballroom in which the reception was being held. This was an immense room, decorated with elaborate, huge gold frescos, the ceiling high above adding to the feeling of grandeur and space. She had waitressed at some glitzy events over the last eighteen months, had seen some fabulous occasions, but nothing came close to the sheer grandeur of this wedding, this room, this family.
What on earth was she doing here?
‘Signorina Bradshaw?’ She jumped at a gentle tap on her elbow, turning to see a petite brunette with a wide smile, conservatively dressed in a smart, dark blue suit. ‘Hello. I am Flavia, fashion reporter for Marchesa magazine.’
That was another unexpected facet to today’s wedding. She had known the Santoros were rich, had known that the family was old Venetian blue blood, but it simply hadn’t occurred to her that there would be outside interest in the wedding. It came as a shock when she realised several newspapers and magazines had been waiting outside the church and the high society Marchesa magazine had permission to cover the early part of the reception. Sophie resisted the urge to smooth down her dress and did her best to smile. ‘Hi, yes, I’m Sophie Bradshaw.’
‘You are here with Signor Santoro?’
‘Erm...yes.’ That wasn’t exactly privileged information and Marco’s mother had already announced it to pretty much the whole of Venice. The reporter looked at her expectantly and Sophie struggled to find something else to say. ‘It was very kind of him to ask me along to such a beautiful occasion.’
There, she knew her role was to act as a buffer between Marco and his family’s expectations, but at least she wasn’t publicly staking her claim. The journalist didn’t look convinced, raising a sceptical eyebrow before plastering on her smile. ‘The big news is, of course, the wedding dress. Everyone has been raving over it and I hear you are responsible for making some big last-minute changes?’
Sophie paused. She didn’t want to say that Bianca had put on weight and she certainly wasn’t going to mention the pregnancy. ‘I...’
‘Sophie saved me.’ The bride swooped down upon them, kissing Sophie exuberantly. ‘My dress was beautiful, yes, but too plain for such an occasion, not entirely appropriate for a church wedding. And she took this beautiful dress and made it unique and special.’ She twirled round, allowing the accompanying photographer to take pictures. ‘Look at the stitching, and these beautiful buttons, and how she took it in here and here. She made the dress she’s wearing too. Don’t be fooled by how simple it looks. It is truly elegante.’
