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* * *
Once I’ve relaxed into what this is, it’s actually rather lovely that Caroline has organized brunch. It’s good to reconnect with my friends after our honeymoon and to introduce Alessia to everyone in such a casual setting. And it’s a joy to see Henry. Alessia looks relaxed too, or maybe she’s just tired. But she’s tucking into her smoked salmon, eggs, and avocado toast and happily chatting with Henrietta, who has the rare ability to put everyone at ease.
Even Tom.
Maryanne tells me they all came home from Albania with Rowena on a private jet.
“Private?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm… I wonder who paid for that.”
“You did, probably,” Caro says as she picks at her food.
So, my mother is still charging her shit to the estate.
Well, not for long.
“Your parents did a splendid job at the wedding, Alessia. I have to say it was quite the highlight of this year so far.”
“It’s only March, Tom,” Caro interjects.
He ignores her. “It also inspired me.” He stands, looking his usual proud and pompous self. “I’m very honored to say that Henry, mad woman that she is, has consented to be my wife. We are officially engaged.” He beams at Henrietta, who smiles back at him and blushes prettily under our collective attention.
“Congratulations, bro,” Joe says and raises his glass. “To Tom and Henry!”
A chorus of congratulations echoes around the room, and we take turns to hug and kiss them both.
“Of course, you’ll have to time your wedding with Trevethick here for when he marries again,” Joe says and takes another sip of champagne.
“Again?” ask Caroline and Maryanne in unison.
Damn.
“Um… yeah.”
“Can you do that?” Henry asks with a slight crease on her forehead.
“I hope so. I’ll have to find out. We want to get married here too. Don’t we, Alessia?” I reach out, and she grasps my hand, a slight frown marring her brow as she digests my panicked expression. Maryanne or Caroline cannot know about the questionable circumstances of our marriage and that we haven’t followed the usual protocols.
“Yes. Of course,” Alessia responds. “This way all of Maxim’s friends can join us,” she says sweetly. “We have accom…accommodated…” She glances at me, and I think she’s checking her English. I nod and she continues. “…my friends and family, and now it’s Maxim’s turn. We want to honor his family and friends too.”
Alessia, you fucking goddess.
Caroline narrows her eyes and she takes another slug of champagne. “Another wedding? Well, that will be lovely. In London, Cornwall, or Oxfordshire?”
“We’ve just got home from the last one, Caro. Give us a break,” I retort.
Her lips thin, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she turns to Alessia. “Of course, all the staff at each of the estates are dying to meet you. Do you ride?” she asks.
Alessia gives me a quick, dark look, and an image of her naked, on top of me, breasts bouncing, head back, hair tumbling over her shoulders, mouth open celebrating her passion, comes unbidden to mind.
Fuck.
It’s arousing.
My sweet, innocent wife. She gave me that look deliberately.
“No,” Alessia says, and I hide my smirk. Caro looks from her to me, and back to my wife, and I half expect Alessia to say, “Only my husband,” but fortunately, she doesn’t.
Mate. Grow up.
“We’ll have to see what we can do about that,” Caro mutters.
“Caroline is a keen horsewoman, as am I. Maxim, not so much. But, of course, he and Kit used to play polo,” Maryanne says.
“You have horses?” Alessia turns her attention to me.
“We do. In Oxfordshire,” I respond. “We’ll do a tour, don’t worry.”
* * *
A tour. What does he mean?
“Of the estates,” Maxim answers her unspoken question. “You’ve been to Cornwall. We have another in Oxfordshire. And one in Northumberland, but that’s rented to an American who’s made his millions in tech. Why he doesn’t buy his own estate, I don’t know.”
Alessia nods as she absorbs this new information. During their entire honeymoon, he did not mention more estates.
More land. More property!
Just how rich is her husband?
“We should be going. Let you two get some shut-eye,” Tom announces. “But I do have one request.”
All eyes turn to Tom.
“I missed your epic performance on the piano before the wedding, Alessia, as I was with Thanas at the hotel. Please, will you play for us? I’ve only heard good things.”
“Oh yes, please!” Henrietta claps. “I’d love to hear you. Joe has raved about you.”
Oh.
“Are you up for this? You don’t have to,” Maxim is quick to reassure her.
“No. It’s okay. You know I love to play.” She smiles, delighted that she can do something for Tom after all his help in Albania. Rising from the table, she makes her way over to the piano. She feels everyone turn to watch her.
Why does she feel so nervous?
Opening the lid that covers the keys, she takes a deep breath and sits down on the stool. She decides what she wants to hear and the colors she wants to see, places her hands on the keys, and closes her eyes. She launches into Rachmaninoff’s arrangement of Bach’s Partita No. 3. Her fingers find every note as they blaze through her head in soft pinks and lilacs while the prelude echoes delicately through the room—comforting her and consuming her until she’s part of the music and the colors.
