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He held up his hands, the long tapering fingers splayed in an attitude of mea culpa that caused conversation to halt and every eye to turn his way. ‘My fault.’
Beatrice’s initial relief was immediately tempered with wariness. What was he going to say?
Lara Faure raised a delicate brow, her teasing eyes flashing between the handsome Prince and his wife. ‘It is in my experience that it is always the husband’s fault.’
Beatrice held her breath as she waited for Dante to speak. The gleam in his dark eyes as they brushed her reminded her of the Dante she had fallen in love with, the Dante who made the outrageous sound normal, and had delighted in making her blush in public.
‘I have been complaining,’ he drawled, leaning back in his seat while his long, sensitive brown fingers now played an invisible tune on the white linen as they lightly drummed, ‘that she spreads herself too thin—she has just so much enthusiasm.’ His shoulders lifted in an expressive, fluid shrug. ‘It makes her take on too many things. I have to book an appointment to see her.’ He threw the words out, along with a heavy-lidded caressing look that sent Beatrice’s core temperature up by several degrees.
Ignoring her burning blood, she focused on his ability to lie through his beautiful teeth and continued to conceal her true thoughts behind an impassive mask.
‘Books and music. Two of her favourite things.’ And both offering no physical danger that might harm mother or child. ‘Though I have to warn you, she can’t hold a tune. I can spare you, cara, go have fun.’
‘He likes to think I actually need to ask his permission before I have fun.’
People laughed and conversations started up, but under her own smile there was hope as she allowed herself to think that this was not all pretence.
