She wasn’t sure about anything, least of all why had she agreed to dinner.
As if he knew she was wavering, he kissed his mother, thanked her for babysitting and escorted Octavia out to the waiting car. Minutes later they were at the Mayfair restaurant she liked. It was converted from an eighteenth-century town house and she only visited for afternoon tea when she was on her own, but Alessandro had brought her here on the tail end of their honeymoon and she absolutely loved it. They always had excellent music, new art and the atmosphere was very trendy and creative, the food beyond exceptional.
He’d booked them a private table in the library and held her chair himself. She let him order, too busy looking at the sketches on the walls to read the menu herself. When the sommelier came, she murmured, “I’m not sure if I should have wine if I’m nursing.”
“Water it down,” Alessandro suggested, nearly making the sommelier drop the bottle that likely cost four figures.
“He’s joking,” Octavia assured the man, biting back a smile as she admonished Alessandro with a look, but she’d just glimpsed the playboy from her honeymoon and wanted to laugh with sheer and hopeful joy. “I’ll have a very short glass and please don’t be offended if I don’t finish it.”
When the man left, she told Alessandro, “That was mean,” then clinked glasses with him. “Salud.”
He lifted a negligent brow, settling back to regard her, fingers tracing the base of his glass where he set it on the table.
She sipped again. The wine was excellent. She’d have to be careful, nervous as she was. That would go down too easily if she let it.
“Where are your rings?” Alessandro asked, stilling. He looked from her hand to her eyes, accusation sharp in his gaze.
“I took them off weeks ago because my hands were swelling. I can’t get them back on yet.” She tucked her hands into her lap.
“It’s not symbolic then?” he asked, lifting his glass, but regarding her over the rim without tasting.
She parted her lips, but found too many words coming into her mouth, all jumbled and hard to speak. Meeting his gaze grew difficult and she dropped her attention to the middle of the table.
The silence grew heavy and loaded. “You were happy in our marriage, Octavia. You can be happy again.”
Because he decreed it?
“It wasn’t a marriage, Alessandro. It was an affair.” Her voice thinned and her cheeks burned. It was hard to face the truth. Hard to speak it. “You took three weeks off work and I had a lover for the first time in my life. We did nothing but eat, swim and make love. Of course I was happy. But the minute we returned to reality, you set me aside.”
The injury of that slow realization, as their sense of closeness was eroded daily by neglect, made her voice unsteady. “I wasn’t sharing your life. I was the sex toy you took to bed at night.”
His head went back. “That’s insulting to both of us.”
“You didn’t have any use for me once we were told I couldn’t have sex.” She looked down at her hands knotting in her lap, peeled three fingers into a salute that she held up. “Three duty visits,” she reminded him.
He looked away. His grip on the stem of his glass looked as if it would snap the delicate strand.
“Is it any wonder I believed Primo when he said you were cheating?” she added.
“I didn’t even think of other women while we were apart. I only want you,” he said in a tone that fell somewhere between frustration and fury.
Yet, when he brought his attention back to her, his eyes glittered with banked lust. He looked at her like he had on their honeymoon. As if he’d battled his way past the guards and was opening the chest of booty.
Her heart stuttered in her chest. Her nerves tingled and the pit of her belly burned as though she’d swallowed half a bottle of gin. She held her breath, trying to withstand the huge rush of sexual excitement that suffused her.
“It’s not like this for everyone, you know,” he said. They were speaking Italian, were alone in the big room, but she blushed as he added, “You were a virgin, so you may not realize that, but we have something not everyone does, cara.”
“The sex doesn’t matter,” she said, the color in her cheeks increasing under his incredulous stare. “It’s not enough,” she clarified, lifting a fatalistic hand, stammering out, “There has to be something else and obviously there isn’t because nothing about me drew you here while I was pregnant. Not even your unborn son.”
The remembered loneliness crept up to sting the backs of her eyes, making it hard for her to continue.