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CHAPTER ONE
THELASTPERSONAgo Accardi ever wanted to see again was Victoria Cameron.
Particularly not clad in a simple white gown, clutching a bouquet of flowers, and walking down the aisle of the ancient chapel on his family’s ancient estate in the rolling hills of Tuscany.
Heading for the groom standing at the altar, however reluctantly.
That groom being—quite literally for his sins—Ago himself.
He clenched his teeth as she approached in a serene fashion that he could only call insulting, given the circumstances of this wedding. He was somewhat shocked that his jaw did not shatter at the impact.
For this was not at all how Ago Accardi, known far and wide for his commitment to his duty, his uncompromising commitment to his responsibilities, and his upright moral code, had intended to take a bride.
While no one was holding an actual shotgun, here in this lovely stone chapel his ancestors had built during the Renaissance, the threat remained all the same. Because there was only one reason this ceremony was taking place at all.
His gaze moved over Victoria’s admittedly lovely face—damn the woman. The dress she wore was simple, but then, she needed no adornment. By any measure, she was a beautiful woman. Tall like a willow and with golden hair she wore pulled back today, so the cheerful innocence she wore was visible to all and took the place of any intricate veil or dramatic lace.
But then he dropped his eyes to the unmistakably round and high and obviously pregnant belly that preceded her up the short aisle, making a mockery of her innocent expression.
That belly that had altered the course of his meticulously plotted and carefully constructed life.
That belly was the reason this wedding was taking place in a secluded chapel, hidden away on the grounds of the vast Accardi estate, rather than in the cathedral Ago’s consequence, wealth, and aristocratic lineage would normally have demanded. To say nothing of hers.
She and her belly and her irate father had been presented to him a mere fortnight before. They had paraded into his London offices as if they wanted all the world to see that the belly attached to the famously virginal Victoria Cameron, daughter of one of Accardi Industries’ best clients, wasinarguablythat of a pregnant woman.
And, therefore, their presence in the Accardi Industries headquarters could only mean one thing.
For a year ago, Victoria had been engaged—well,nearlyengaged, to be precise—to Ago’s younger brother, who had not had the slightest intention of marrying her despite knowing it was Ago’s wish that he do so. This was something Ago had intended to ignore, because to his way of thinking it was high time that the famously disgraceful Tiziano settle down. That he actually did something for the family, did his part, did more—in other words—than simply tomcat about the globe, notching bedposts everywhere he roamed.
Ago should have known that his little brother could not be told a thing.
For instead of following directions, Tiziano had chosen to fall dramatically and publicly in love. With a woman Ago would never have chosen for him.
Not least because the woman in question had been, before her relationship with Tiziano—or so Ago chose to believe, having decided not to question his brother’s timing too closely—a secretary. At Accardi Industries.
The entire thing had been a nightmare, because Ago had gone to the trouble not only of insisting that Tiziano married, but of picking out Victoria Cameron and arranging the match with her father. As if it was still the Renaissance.
And he already knew the whispers. His brother had called him last week, laughing at the tabloid reports that Everard Cameron’s daughter—the paragon of virtue who was too saintly to succumb to temptation, according to Tiziano—had gone and turned up pregnant.
Proving herself as unholy as anyone else.
They are certain to think it’s mine, Tiziano had said with a great big laugh.
Ago had not laughed.
He was not laughing now.
Especially as Victoria drew closer.
Her father stood like a thundercloud in the nearest pew, watching Ago like a hawk, as if Ago was likely to make a break for it. Ago’s side was empty. Who should he invite, he had asked himself, with all attendant scorn? Who did he wish to take part in this demonstration of his own distasteful fallibility and irredeemable disgrace?
It was bad enough that it was happening. Ago saw no reason why he should compound the issue by issuing invitations to his own sordid downfall.
That choice had made the past several days markedly unpleasant. For Everard Cameron was the kind of man who never vented his spleen once when he could do so consistently, and with increasing venom each time.
When he had first marched his daughter into Ago’s office, he, as Tiziano no doubt would have suspected, had not suspected Ago himself of any perfidy.
Indeed, who would dare?
