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To Sophie’s relief, once her photo had been taken, one with the bride and one posing self-consciously by herself by one of the three huge windows, the journalist moved away. Sophie scanned the crowds but couldn’t see Marco anywhere and she couldn’t face another round of being introduced as the new member of the family. It was probably a little futile checking her hair and make-up after the magazine had taken her photo, but she knew she needed a few moments to ready herself for the rest of the event.
She’d always found large social events intimidating, much preferring quiet evenings to a big crowd. Make the crowd larger, wealthier and effortlessly chic, add in a language she didn’t speak and she was officially way out of her depth.
Luckily it didn’t take her long to find the ladies’ room. The door led into a large sitting area, filled with inviting-looking seats and sofas and several dressing tables, each piled high with cotton wool, hair spray and even straighteners for maximum primping. A door at the other end led to toilets and sinks and, as another guest came through, Sophie noted the opulence of the marble sinks and the gilt fittings. She suspected the individual toilet stalls might be bigger than her own shower room back in London—not that difficult: most cupboards were bigger than her shower room.
Sinking onto one of the sofas with a sigh of relief, Sophie told herself sternly she had five minutes to get herself together before heading back in. Things were coming to a head, that was all. She was leaving first thing tomorrow—really going this time—and she had to tell Marco about the baby before she did so. He hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing each other in London, so she couldn’t assume that there would be an easy opportunity to tell him once she was back.
She closed her eyes and wished, just for a moment, that things were different. That she and Marco really were as together as his mother assumed, that she would be joining this loud, overbearing, terrifyingly opinionated, loving, inclusive family. Not once had Sophie felt not good enough. Not when she hadn’t known how to address the maid. Not when she couldn’t follow the conversation, not when she admitted she made most of her clothes, not when Marco had realised she was worrying about money.
She’d never once felt good enough for Harry. Which was ironic because now she could see she was far, far too good for him.
If she weren’t pregnant, would she act any differently? Be more honest about how she felt? It was too difficult to know; she was pregnant and although that made everything infinitely more complicated she couldn’t be sorry. Besides, Marco’s mother was right: she and Marco probably would make a beautiful baby.
Opening her eyes, Sophie jumped. Three terrifyingly elegant women had sat opposite her and were all staring at her in undisguised curiosity. She managed to raise a smile and said, ‘Weddings are tiring, aren’t they?’
They nodded as if one. All three were wearing their glossy, expensively cut hair down in the kind of swishy style Sophie always envied and were all dressed exquisitely in labels Sophie wasn’t sure she’d ever seen outside glossy magazines.
The woman in the middle leaned forward, her eyes bright. ‘May I ask you something?’ she asked in heavily accented but perfect English.
‘I suppose so,’ Sophie said warily.
‘How did you do it?’
‘Do what? Bianca’s dress? It was...’
‘No,’ the woman on the left interrupted her. ‘Although that is very impressive. No, how did you tie Marco down?’
‘How did I...? I haven’t...I mean, we’re not engaged.’
‘Yet.’ With a heavy emphasis. ‘I dated him for three years. Mamma was planning my dress, Papà was ready to buy us our own house, and then poof...’ the woman on the right clicked her fingers ‘...he was gone. He told me I had trapped him, that he didn’t want to be tied down.’
Sophie’s stomach lurched. Would he feel the same way when she told him she was pregnant? Trapped?
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I was humiliated, heartbroken, and he never told me why. Just left, went to England. Left me to pick up the pieces alone. I should hate him...’ Her voice softened. ‘I tell myself I hate him...’
‘But you...’ one of her friends chimed in.
‘Everyone is talking about it...’
‘Living at the palazzo, friends with his sister...’
‘What’s your secret?’
‘I don’t know whether to pity or admire you.’
‘Or envy you.’
Sophie swallowed. Marco had been completely up front from the very beginning. He’d told her this was temporary, fun, a one-time thing, but at some point she’d allowed herself to hope for more. There was no point deceiving herself any longer. It wouldn’t change anything. She was having his baby; he had to know. Those were the inescapable facts.
