‘So I will be going,’ she said, staring up at the stone effigy that her husband had become. ‘You, however, don’t have to. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. Because I find that I don’t want you to spoil this evening for me, in the same way that you have spoiled almost every day since our wedding,’ she said on a shaky breath, drawing strength from her new determination. ‘I refuse to live like this, Matthieu. Yes, you might have offered me every material comfort within our marriage, but a person, a human being, cannot live in isolation and it’s driving me crazy. I don’t think that I’ve actually had a longer conversation with anyone beyond, “Hi, how are you?” “Fine, thanks, and you?” in over three and a half weeks! I know more about Tomas, your driver, than I do about you. He has three children, by the way—not sure if you know that—and he likes his coffee with a hint of caramel, though he doesn’t like his wife to know as she’s been after him to watch his calorie intake. Matthieu, tell me, how do you like your coffee?’
It was as if the dam had broken within her against the almost unending silence of the last few weeks and words—nonsensical words—had flowed forth like a flood. She was almost breathless from the speed with which she’d delivered her little speech, and now she held her breath, waiting to see how Matthieu would respond.
‘How I like my coffee is irrelevant, Maria. We, you, I, or any combination thereof, will not be going to the gala. If you want to go out, Tomas will take you anywhere you wish to go. But only if that somewhere has the very limited possibility of your outing being uncovered by the press. And as that will not be the case of the gala this evening, you will not be attending.’
She shouldn’t have been surprised. He stalked from the room without a word and she felt even more furious than she had before. Press or no, she would not be a prisoner here any longer.
* * *
Maria sat in the back of the limousine, the partition down between her and Tomas, who had kept a gentle running commentary since leaving Matthieu’s estate in Lucerne, and she was thankful because if he hadn’t the two-and-a-half-hour drive would have given Maria too much time to think. To wonder at what she was doing and how Matthieu would react when he realised she had defied his decree and sneaked out of his estate like a runaway child. This was the first time that she would have crossed him. But he didn’t understand. She had needed to. She needed this.
Mrs Montcour.
Was she? Really? Given they hadn’t consummated the marriage. Did something like consummation work retrospectively? And even if it did, who was this strange Mrs Montcour? Maria had been many things, the daughter of an exiled Duke, the sister of an international playboy, an art student, coffee-shop worker, jewellery maker. But now she was a wife, and would be a mother. And somewhere swirling amongst the discomfort in her belly was the fear that she didn’t know how to be this person.
She had considered reaching out to her brother, but Sebastian had been unusuall
y preoccupied recently, simply accepting her explanation that she had gone to stay with a friend in Switzerland for ‘a while’, rather than interrogating her over every minute detail as he usually did. As for her father, well, months could go by without speaking to him and she couldn’t help but hide behind the familiar feeling that it was easier for her father not to see her and be reminded so painfully of his dead wife.
She had thought of reaching out to Anita and Evin, but what would she say? I tracked down the father of my child, happens to be a billionaire several times over, we married for the sake of the child and he whisked me off to his secluded lair?
The only person she had to tether her to her new role was Matthieu and he seemed hell-bent on leaving her alone and untouched.
‘We’re here, Mrs Montcour,’ Tomas said, in his crisp Swiss-French accent.
It was then that she realised she hadn’t really thought this through. She hadn’t expected a red carpet, even pre-warned, she hadn’t expected the sprawling mass of paparazzi lining the street to the entrance of the grand building where the gala was being held.
Maria stepped out of the limousine on autopilot. What had she been thinking? Would they even know who she was? Or would they think her some impostor trying to sneak into the gala? As far as she knew, no one had identified her, no one knew her as Mrs Montcour. She cursed as she drew to a halt, staring somewhat in horror at the huge sprawling mass of reporters and photographers quite possibly about to witness the ultimate humiliation of her being refused entry.
Tomas closed the door behind her and stood beside her as if ready to reopen the door and shove her unceremoniously back into the sleek black machine. Until a small, suited man holding a clipboard rushed up to meet her.
‘Welcome...’
The query in his voice was so clear that it echoed within her chest. All her fears, all her questions, it was now down to her to own this new person she had come to be, whatever the consequence.
‘Mrs Montcour,’ she replied, hiding behind a steady voice.
The look on the man’s face would have been comical under any other circumstances and she couldn’t help the feeling that perhaps he wasn’t going to believe her. Her fingers gripped the embossed invitation ready to thrust it towards him as if in evidence of her claim.
‘Of course,’ he said, shaking his head as if she might disappear at any moment. ‘It is...wonderful to meet you. We had not expected your attendance this evening, given that...’ Whatever he might have been about to say was cut short as he stepped back slightly, his gaze drawn to the bump positioned almost between them. ‘May I offer my congratulations, Mrs Montcour?’ The pure beam of happiness shining from this small, suited stranger was oddly infectious, and she couldn’t help but sweep a hand over her unborn child.
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling, as the first flash of the bulb cut through their conversation, nearly blinding her. It was then that the shouts started and starburst-like strobe lighting covered her from head to toe. She vaguely saw the man gesture for her to follow him and, keeping her gaze down on the red carpet and away from the bright lights, she made her way into the gala, her heart pounding and irrationally slightly afraid.
Once up the stairs and through the grand entrance to the museum that had been co-opted for the gala, Maria blew out a shaky breath.
‘My apologies for the scrum, Mrs Montcour, it is a necessary evil, but the notoriety brings much attention and finances for our charity.’ The seemingly endless stream of dialogue coming from the small man was as much of a shock as the press had been. And suddenly Maria wasn’t sure that she wanted to be here. Couldn’t help herself longing for the quiet peaceful solitude of Matthieu’s estate.
‘Mr Montcour regrettably has been unable to attend our events in Lausanne for many years, the invitation is usually sent out as a courtesy, but we are truly honoured that you have come.’ Maria found nothing but sincerity in the man’s words, soothing some of her initial reluctance.
‘That’s very kind of you to say...’
‘Benjamin Keant,’ he supplied.
‘Benjamin. It is lovely to meet you.’
‘Charmed, Mrs Montcour. Simply charmed. Would you allow me to introduce you to some of the other patrons and guests? I can also tell you anything you’d like to know about our charity.’
Maria smiled, thankful that she could disguise her ignorance. ‘Absolutely. And why don’t you imagine that I know absolutely nothing about your charity and start from the very beginning?’