Her mouth was opening and closing ineffectually. Finally she croaked, ‘I... Well, I do... I mean, I am—’
Just then a knock came on the door and one of the wedding planner’s team popped her head round the door. ‘It’s time to go.’
Saved by the bell—almost literally. As Darcy’s mother began to flap, gathering up her personal belongings and Darcy’s bouquet, she’d never been so glad for her gnat-like attention span. Clearly she wasn’t that concerned about whether Darcy was marrying for true love or not—and frankly that one insight, no matter how erroneous Darcy assured herself it was, was discombobulating enough.
* * *
The registry office felt tiny and stifling to Max, but as he was about to ask for the window to be opened he saw that it was already open. He’d been talking to Darcy’s father, who was a pleasant affable man, completely preoccupied with his much younger glamorous girlfriend, whom Max had categorised as a gold-digger in seconds. She was busy making eyes at Max whenever Tom Lennox’s back was turned.
Max had to curb the urge to scowl at her. She was tall, slim, blonde and undeniably beautiful, but his head was still filled with the way Darcy had felt straddling his lap that night, the size of her tiny waist spanned by his hands. The feel of that hard nipple against his tongue. The scent of her.
Hell. It had been two weeks ago. He was usually hard-pressed to recall any liaison more than twenty-four hours after it had happened. Making love with women was a very pleasurable but transitory thing in his life.
He didn’t wake up at night sweating, with the sheets tangled around his aching body like a vise. He did now. Which was why he’d been in London for the last two days, putting himself through more unsatisfactorily inconclusive meetings with Cecil Montgomery.
The man was still insisting that all would be revealed in a week’s time. Damn him. The one thing easing his frustration was that Montgomery’s attitude had definitely changed since Max had announced his marriage to Darcy. Gone was the slightly condescending and derisory tone. There was a new respect that Max couldn’t deny.
So this would be worth it. The fact that Darcy was driving him slowly insane would all be worth it.
Max felt a prickling sensation across his skin and looked up just as the few people gathered in the room hushed.
She was here. And he couldn’t breathe, seeing how beautiful she looked. It felt as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks, not two paltry days.
She stood in the doorway with a woman he assumed to be her mother. But he only saw Darcy. The delicious curves of her body were outlined in a white lace dress. A short veil came to her chin, obscuring her face. But he could make out her huge blue eyes even through the gauzy material and he felt his belly tighten with something like...emotion?
She was doing this for him. A monumental favour. You’re paying her, pointed out a pragmatic voice. But still... This went above and beyond payment.
It was gratitude he felt. Gratitude that she was doing this for him. That was all.
Her mother moved ahead of her, smiling winsomely at Max, who forced a smile back. But he couldn’t take his eyes off Darcy as she came the short distance between the chairs towards him. She held a bouquet of flowers in front of her—not that Max could have said what they were.
And then she was beside him, and he was turning to the front, acutely aware of her body heat and her scent. He felt an urge to reassure her but pushed it down. Darcy knew what this was. She was doing it for her own reasons and because he was paying her handsomely.
He frowned minutely. Why had she asked for that specific amount of money?
‘Signor Roselli?’
Max blinked. Damn. The registrar repeated the words for Max, which he duly recited, and then he was facing Darcy. He felt slightly dizzy. Rings were exchanged. Darcy’s hands were tiny, her fingers cool as they slid the ring onto his finger. Her voice was low, clear. No hesitation.
And then he was lifting her veil back from her face and all he could see was an ocean of blue. And those soft lips, trembling ever so slightly.
‘You may kiss your bride.’
He heard the smile in the registrar’s voice but he was oblivious as he cupped Darcy’s small face between his hands, tipping it up towards him, and bent to kiss her.
* * *
Darcy’s mouth was still tingling and she had to stop herself from putting her fingers to it, to feel if it was swollen. Her hand was in Max’s firm grip, her bouquet in the other hand, as he led her through the foyer of the exclusive Rome hotel and into the dining room where an intimate lunch was being held.
Along with her parents, who had been their witnesses, Max had invited his brother and new sister-in-law, and some business associates from Max’s company.
Darcy felt like an absolute fraud, and was not looking forward to being under the inspection of people she didn’t know well. Max made her feel so raw—and even more so now, after two weeks of minimal contact.
Max turned at the door to the dining room, whe
re their guests were waiting, stopping her. His grip on her hand tightened and compelled her to look up at him. She’d been too wound up to really take him in before now, but his dark grey morning suit along with a silk cravat made him look even more handsome and masculine. He could have stepped out of the nineteenth century. A rake if ever there was one. Even though he was clean-shaven and his unruly hair was tamed. Well, as tamed as it would ever be.
Darcy felt a rogue urge to reach up and run her fingers through it, to muss it up.