Stone.
They’d visited the National Gallery. The British Museum. They’d gotten a tour of the new Globe Theatre, then bought fresh bread and cheese at the outdoor Borough Market. But her heart was completely safe. Cesare wasn’t doing this for her. He was just following through on his promise to be an amazing father to Sam. That was all.
But he was keeping that promise beyond her wildest dreams.
Just yesterday, he’d insisted on going to Hamleys on Regent Street, where he’d bought so many toys that they’d needed to order an extra car to bring all the bags back to the Kensington house.
“When exactly are you expecting Sam to be interested in this?” Emma had asked with a laugh, looking from their sleeping five-month-old baby to the cricket bat and ball on the top of the toy pile.
“He is already fascinated with cricket. Can’t you tell?” Cesare had leaned the foam cricket bat across Sam’s lap, placing it in the baby’s tiny hand as he slept on with a soft baby snore in the stroller. He stepped back. “Look. He’s clearly a prodigy.”
Holding a foam ball, Cesare elaborately wound his arm, then gently tossed the ball underhand. It bounced off the plastic edge of the stroller and rolled across the floor.
“Prodigy, huh?” she said.
He picked the ball up with a grin. “It might take a bit of practice.”
“For him or you?”
“Mostly me. He already seems to have the knack.”
“You’re just a big kid yourself,” she’d teased. “Admit it.”
They’d looked at each other, smiling—then the air between them suddenly changed, sizzled with electricity.
Cesare had looked away, muttering something about going to the cashier to pay. And Emma’s hands had gripped the stroller handle, as in her mind she repeated the words In name only about a thousand times.
Now she shivered as she went up the stairs of the Kensington house. He’d shown her every bit of attention he’d promised, and more. And as promised, he hadn’t once tried to kiss her. Not even once.
But that was starting to be a problem. Because in her heart of hearts, she was starting to realize that she wanted him to...
She veered past his bedroom, and continued to her own bedroom, down the hall, where Sam was currently sleeping.
Emma told herself she was being stupid. They weren’t even married yet, and she wanted to give him her body? Stupid, stupid. Because how much harder would it be not to give him her heart in the bargain?
We won’t be lovers, he’d said in Paris. We’ll be equal partners.
Her brain had accepted this as the best possible course when she’d agreed to his proposal. And yet...
She was supposed to be planning the wedding right now. But every time she started, something stopped her. Something that had nothing to do with choosing the cake or venue or church.
She was sacrificing her heart. For her son. She could accept that. There was one thing she was trying not to think about.
A marriage in name only would inevitably mean that Cesare would take lovers on the side.
What else could it mean—that Cesare would do as she planned to do, and go without sex for the rest of her life? No. For a red-blooded man like him, that would be impossible.
She was trying not to think about it. Trying and failing.
Emma leaned heavily back against her own bedroom door, closing it behind her. She didn’t want to be jealous. She didn’t want to be afraid.
But the day they’d returned to Kensington, Emma had fired the housekeeper. Miss Maddie Allen was an attractive young blonde, and Emma had instantly felt she hadn’t wanted her within a million miles of Cesare. He’d said he was glad to see her go, that she was the worst housekeeper imaginable and had regularly left iron marks on his shirts. But Emma had given her a year’s salary as severance, out of guilt for the real reason she’d fired the beautiful Miss Allen—out of pure, raw fear.
She didn’t want to feel this way. With a sigh, Emma walked across her bedroom. A garment bag from a designer shop on Sloane Street was laid carefully upon her bed. Zipping open the bag, she looked down at the gown she would wear tonight at their official engagement party.
For a moment, she just stood there looking at it. Then she reached out and stroked the slinky silver fabric. Pulling off her clothes, she put on a black lace bra and panties and black garter she’d gotten from a French lingerie shop. She didn’t dare look at herself in the full-length mirror as she put them on, for fear she’d lose her nerve.
Tonight, she would be introduced to Cesare’s friends, and London society in general, not as his housekeeper, but as his future wife, and the mother of his child. She didn’t want to embarrass him.
And if, by some miracle, he thought she looked pretty, maybe their marriage could become real. Maybe he’d take her in his bed, and she’d never have to feel insecure again....
Even Angélique couldn’t keep his attention for long. Don’t think you will, either.
She pushed away the memory of Alain’s words. She had to stop this ugly insecurity! After all her jealousy, she’d found out Cesare hadn’t slept with Maddie Allen anyway. Emma knew this because—her blush deepened—she’d blurted out that question immediately after the housekeeper had departed. His reply had been curt.
“No. I did not sleep with her.” His jaw had been tight as he looked at the fire in the fireplace, leaving flickering red-and-gold light across the spines of the leatherbound books. He’d parted his lips, drawing in breath as if he meant to say something more, then stopped.
Nearly jumping out of her own skin, she’d said, “But did you ever...”
“No more questions. I won’t have you torture us both by asking for a list of my lovers. You of all people know the list is long.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he’d looked down and said softly, “This home is yours now, Emma.” He’d cupped her face. “I will never disrespect you here.”
His words had thrilled her. Then. Later, she’d parsed his words. This home is yours. I will never disrespect you here. Meaning—he’d disrespect her elsewhere? At a hotel?
Now, reaching down for the silver dress, long and glamorous like the gown of a 1930s film star, she let the whisper of fabric caress her skin as she pulled it up her body. She didn’t want to be jealous. She didn’t want to worry.
She wanted him to want—her.
Emma’s throat tightened. Sitting in the chair at the vanity desk, she began brushing her dark hair with long, hard strokes. She looked at herself in the antique gilt mirror. She was nothing special. Just a regular girl, with round cheeks and big, vulnerable green eyes, who looked scared out of her mind.
How could she marry him, even for Sam’s sake, knowing that Cesare would never uphold the promise of their wedding vows? How could she allow Sam to grow up watching his father repeatedly cheat on his mother—and her explicitly allowing him to do it? What kind of sick ideas would that teach her precious boy about love, marriage, trust and family?
If only Cesare would want her. Her hand slowed with the brush. If only they could truly be lovers, in the same bed, maybe he’d stay true to their wedding vows, and they could be a real family....
“Not ready yet?”
She twisted in the chair to see Cesare in the doorway. He was wearing a tuxedo a little different than the one in Paris—less classic, more cutting edge. But with his dark hair and chiseled good looks, he melted her, whatever he might be wearing. Even wearing nothing.
Especially wearing nothing.
She