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And by God, she wanted to touch him. Grab him by the shoulders and tell him to open his ears, his heart. Tell him he was wrong, and that all the things he’d promised to his mother—to provide for his wife—she didn’t want them. Any of them. She didn’t care about his money. His name. His protection. She wanted the unconditional love her parents had raised her with. She wanted to love him unconditionally and wanted it in return. Wanted to fill their house with love, not...things.
Instead, she swallowed her words down deep, until they lodged themselves in her chest to remain unspoken. Because they wouldn’t matter. She knew that because he was not ready to let go of the woman whose grave lay behind him. Because he had not forgiven himself for her death.
She had no clue what the right words to say were. But she knew they shouldn’t be about her. Because this was firmly about him.
So she trusted her instinct, lifted one flat white pump and trod onto the mossy grass, brought herself closer to him. To the man now frozen in the graveyard, looking at her as though he’d conjured a ghost.
She reached him, stood before him. His breathing was audible, the heavy rise and fall of his chest rapid. Flora placed her hand on his chest and looked up into his eyes. His face was the sculpted face of a mystic. Dark. Tortured.
‘I followed you, of course.’ She smiled tightly. ‘We’re getting married, aren’t we?’
Reaching down, she caught his hand and gave his tight fingers a quick squeeze. Then she nodded and stepped beside him, knelt down. The hem of her dress disappeared into the grass.
She spoke to Raffaele’s mum.
‘Signora Russo,’ she started, ‘I promise to always follow my instinct and guide your son to make the best choice forhim. I hope this brings you peace.’
She took her bouquet in both her hands and pulled it apart, separating it into two parts. Then she laid half of the dainty rainbow-coloured flowers beside the white ones already there.
She stood, turning her back on the grave. ‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘For what?’ he asked huskily.
‘You wrote the list.’ She tapped her wrist and pointed to an invisible watch. ‘It’s time.’
‘Why did you follow me?’
‘I saw you leave. And I saw an opportunity to escape the photographer taking endless pictures of me being plucked and pruned and I broke free.’
He flinched. ‘In your wedding dress?’ he asked, his voice a broken husk of accusation. ‘You could have hurt yourself.’
‘You’rein your wedding suit.’
It was a suit lighter in tone than the grey one he’d worn to travel in that morning. A thick Windsor knot was tied at his throat. There was a flower in his buttonhole. And he was beautiful.
But he was not ready, was he? To claim a wife. To love a family.
‘I still can’t wear heels.’ She lifted the hem of her dress and gave him a glimpse of her white-stockinged calves. ‘The walk was easy enough.’
‘You didn’t call out? Didn’t tell me you were there?’
‘I assumed you’d be making your way here, to the church, and I wanted to be with you—not in a fancy car with strangers. I thought,If we’re doing this, we should do it together. Go inside together and get married.’
‘That is not the way this works.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m supposed to be inside. Waiting for you.’
‘I thought this could beourway.’ She held out her hand, palm forward. ‘Shall we...?’
‘But the photographer...’ he said.
‘He doesn’t matter,’ she dismissed.
‘The pictures?’ he said. ‘For your mother?’
‘We’ll have photos taken later,’ she said.
His eyes darted to the hem of her dress, her scuffed white pumps. ‘Your dress...’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
