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She ran her tongue over her teeth. “What is it you expect me to do?”
Pascal studied her a moment. “I suppose you could clean my floors if you desired, but my housekeeper would not be best pleased.”
Her eyes flashed. “There’s no shame in cleaning a floor.”
“In general, no,” he’d replied. “But we are talking about the wife of Pascal Furlani, not a nameless single mother in a remote mountain village.”
And he didn’t have the slightest intention of telling her that the way she glared at him made him want to poke at her more, not less.
“There will be certain expectations upon you,” he said.
“You mean your expectations.”
“Mine, yes, but sadly for you, not only mine.” Or he would keep her naked and tied to his bed. He didn’t know quite why he didn’t say that out loud. But he had to shift to keep that image from making him reveal too much to her. “You have to be outfitted with an appropriate wardrobe, first and foremost. Then I will have to consider the best way to instruct you in how best to move in the society I keep. Appearances, you understand.”
“You must be joking.” When he only gazed back at her, she scoffed. “It’s not as if you’re royalty, is it? You’re a businessman.”
“There are many things I learned the hard way,” Pascal said quietly. “If you do not wish to profit from my example, that is all the same to me. You can flail around, making a spectacle of yourself if that is what you wish. I will allow it.”
Not that he could actually imagine this womanflailingin any capacity.
“Will it embarrass you?” she asked coolly. “Because if so, it holds a certain appeal.”
“I can handle the embarrassment,” Pascal replied easily. “But can Dante? Children can be so cruel.”
And he had allowed himself a smile when she simply stalked off down the hallway, slamming her cleaning tools about with entirely too much force.
Their wedding day could not come soon enough to suit him.
“I thought you would lecture me,” he had said to Mother Superior earlier today when he’d seen her after he’d dressed.
“Would that work, do you imagine?” the old woman asked him, that canny gaze of hers on him. “Would you listen?”
“I listened to you last time,” he reminded her as they made their way to the church. “Why not again?”
“You listened to your fear, child,” she said when they made it to the door. “I was nothing but a catalyst. And I’ll thank you to remember, when fear starts whispering in your ear again, that all it made you was alone.”
“And very rich,” he’d said drily.
“The abbey looks forward to your significant donation,” she’d replied tartly.
And Pascal didn’t know why he was thinking about an old, interfering nun’s pointed remarks at a time like this. When he was standing here in this church and Cecilia was floating toward him like one of those dreams that had chased him through all the years they’d been apart.
She wore a cream-colored gown and a demure veil, but he could still see her.
Once upon a time she had saved him. Then she had betrayed him. Now she would marry him, and he couldn’t help thinking that he’d find the balance in it there. In their marriage.
And better still, in the marriage bed.
He had already kissed her far too thoroughly and long in this very same church, and lightning had failed to strike him down. Thoughts of marital congress were hardly likely to bring the walls down around them.
She arrived beside him and he took her hand, and then it was happening.
The priest was quick. The nuns made approving noises.
Pascal said, “I do” loud enough to be heard in that stark white clinic room he never planned to enter again.
Cecilia’s vows were more measured, but she said them. She didn’t stumble. She didn’t pause for effect.
