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“Caroline was just showing Oliver and me the designs for the mansion block refurbishment I’ve been telling you about.”
Alessia casts dark eyes at me and nods, but there’s a question in her expression.
Fuck. She knows something’s going down.
I haven’t mentioned Kit’s last written words to Alessia, partly because it’s none of my business, let alone my wife’s, and partly because I don’t know what she’d think of me invading Kit’s privacy. But mainly because Alessia’s opinion of Caroline is tentative at best—I’ve worked that out for myself—and I don’t want to damage it any further.
“I’d better go. Oh, I meant to tell you,” Caroline says, her voice clipped, and she tosses her hair to one side, having reverted to her usual cool persona. “Your mother’s finally been in touch.”
Oh! “She has?”
“She wants to postpone Kit’s memorial until the autumn.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I think it’s a bit late. You know, it’s a form of closure. A way to say a final goodbye.” She looks away, probably to hide her emotion or her shame, I don’t know.
“Yes, of course. We should talk to her. I wonder what Maryanne thinks?”
Caro nods. Her lips clamp together as if containing her grief. And I have to remember that Kit found out Caro was unfaithful—because she sure puts on a good show of the grieving widow.
“Is Rowena in London?” Alessia asks.
“She is.”
Alessia looks from Caro to me. “You should talk to her. And maybe persuade her that…um…more soon. No. Sooner is better.”
“She’s coming over this evening. Maybe you’d like to join us for dinner,” Caro offers.
“We’d like that very much,” Alessia says without hesitation, taking hold of my hand so I can’t object.
What?
Chapter Thirty-One
My wife has been quietly campaigning for me to reconcile with the Mothership since Rowena’s midnight meltdown. Alessia thinks I haven’t noticed, but for her to seize the moment to meet my mother with such enthusiasm is surprising, given how awful she’s been to Alessia.
You should hear her side of Kit’s story. Sometimes women find themselves in… difficult situations.
That she would volunteer to spend any time with the Mothership is either foolhardy or courageous.
Mate. Who are you kidding?
Alessia is beyond courageous.
She steps out of the spare bedroom to where I wait in the hall.
“Is this okay?” she asks, raising her chin, her dark eyes on me. She’s dressed in her Jimmy Choos, elegant black trousers, and a cream silk blouse. Her hair is brushed and swept back in a chic fancy braid, and the pearls I bought her in Paris nestle at her ears. Her makeup is discreet, her perfume an expensive whisper of Chanel, and her engagement ring sparkles beneath the light from the chandelier.
She’s every inch a peeress.
And for a split second, I’m transported back to a time when a timid young woman with the darkest of dark eyes clutched a broom and hesitantly told me her name in my hallway.
The headscarf.
The blue nylon housecoat.
The scuffed trainers.
A lump threatens to form in my throat.
My wife fucking rocks countessing.
I cough to clear my emotion. “You’re perfect.”
With a flick of her hand, she swats my compliment away, but I know from the lift of her lips that she’s pleased. “You look perfect. Muchly.”
“This old thing?” I grin and tug on the lapels of my Dior jacket. “Let’s go and get this over with. You happy to walk in those heels?”
“Yes.”
I help her into her jacket and set the alarm, and we leave the flat hand in hand.
Our time away in Cornwall has done the trick. There are no press to hound us when we leave the building, and it’s a mild evening; the dusk air is still warmed by a gloriously bright day that heralded the coming spring.
“We should move to the new house,” Alessia says as we approach what will be our home on Cheyne Walk.
“We should.”
“I can organize that.”
“Okay.” I grin. “I’ll leave it to you. We can move at anytime.”
“The most important piece of furniture is the piano.”
“We’ll probably need to crane it out of the flat.”
She stops outside the house. “A crane!”
“There are specialists. I think that’s how we got it in there.”
“O Zot!”
“Yeah. O Zot. All manner of shenanigans. I’d buy a new one, but I’m very fond of that piano.”
“As am I,” she says dreamily. “It has such a rich tone. You know, when I was cleaning your apartment, it was my escape. I used to play when you were out. It was wonderful.”
I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. “I’m glad you had an escape.”
Reaching up, she cups my face. “In so many ways,” she whispers, and her fingertips stroke the stubble on my cheek, stirring my desire.
Enough.
“Come. Let’s get this over with before I decide to take you home and muss your makeup and ravish you.”
She grins. “That would be fine. But we should see your mother.”
