Now the building was dimly lit and the pews were empty, apart from an elderly man sitting in the second row, head bent over his rosary beads, fingers working silently. At the back of the church a woman was threading long-stemmed red roses and sprays of gypsophila into an extravagant display of greenery on a tall stand, while a small girl played with the flowers at her feet.
Lily watched, noticing the absorption with which the girl held the flowers, the slight frown on her small face as she walked a couple of slow, solemn steps, and realised she was playing a game. She was pretending to be a bride, holding her bunch of flowers in front of her like a bouquet. Lily smiled, feeling a lump form in the back of her throat as unconsciously her hand moved to her stomach, moving over the almost imperceptible bump of her own child.
The past weeks had been exhausting and often joyless, the constant drag of morning sickness made worse by the fact there was no one to share it with, no one to confide in. But there were moments, like this one, when she was struck by the sheer miracle of what was happening inside her body, when the astonishing privilege of having a baby of her own to love and look after almost made her gasp out loud. And she knew in those moments that she would do anything at all to protect it and to give it a safe and happy life.
‘Lily.’
She turned her head, and Tristan saw her soft smile fade slightly as she came to where he was standing with the priest. She had been looking at the child, he realised with a stabbing sensation in his chest. That was what had given her eyes that luminescence. When he spoke his voice was flinty.
‘If you’re ready, perhaps we could get on with what we came for.’
‘What we came for?’ She frowned.
Aware of the priest at his side, Tristan gave her a smooth, blank smile, hoping that she was sensible enough to detect the warning it contained. ‘Getting married, of course, querida.’
‘Now?’ Her eyes widened in shock and colour seeped into her pale cheeks. Grasping her firmly by the elbow, Tristan muttered a few apologetic words in Spanish to Father Angelico as he drew her to one side before she could say anything else that was likely to make the priest have second thoughts about conducting this highly unconventional wedding. It had taken considerable amounts of string-pulling and a more than generous donation to the church fund to silence Father Angelico’s doubts about officiating at the secret marriage between the son of one of Spain’s most important families and a socially insignificant English non-Catholic girl. Any sign of further irregularity in the circumstances might force him to reconsider.
‘Yes, now,’ he said, carefully keeping his tone level. ‘Or have you changed your mind?’
Her eyes were the dark grey of the English sky before a storm, but whether clouded by anger or by hurt he couldn’t tell. ‘No, of course not. I just thought…I mean, I wanted—’
‘What? A designer dress and a dozen small bridesmaids?’ he mocked.
Lily looked down with a sad, self-deprecating smile. ‘You make it sound so outrageous. I knew it was going to be a quiet wedding, but I thought that maybe some members of your family could be there, and Scarlet and Tom…’
Tristan wanted to laugh out loud at the idea of Juan Carlos and Allegra sitting passively by and watching him marry this English nobody, but he managed to restrain himself. Taking hold of her chin between his fingers, he tilted her face up to his and spoke very softly.
‘It’s a business arrangement, remember? You know that, and I know that, but as far as Father Angelico is concerned we are two people so madly in love that we can’t wait to marry, so if you really do want to go ahead with this I suggest you play the part of the enthusiastic bride.’ He paused, dropping his voice even further, so that it was little more than a breathy caress. ‘But this is how this marriage will be, Lily. No grand romantic gestures, no epic emotions, and if you’re not absolutely sure you can accept that, then you walk out of here now.’
She said nothing, but her eyes stayed locked on his, opaque with emotions he couldn’t interpret, and the silence that wrapped itself around them as they stood close together in the huge, high space was filled with tension. He was aware of his heart beating hard, measuring the seconds while he waited for her to answer.
And then, very gently, she pulled away from him and took a step back.
And then another.
And another.
Tristan felt his stomach twist and the air momentarily leave his lungs as adrenalin hit his bloodstream. Lily had turned and was walking away from him, back up the aisle towards the door, and for a moment all he could think, focus on, was how beautiful she was with the lamplight glinting on her hair and making it shine like a halo of old gold in the incense-scented dimness of the church.
And then, of course, it hit him. What he was seeing. What she was doing.
Walking away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PAIN shot through Tristan from somewhere, and dimly he realised it was his jaw—that he was tensing it with the effort of not calling out to stop her. Spinning round he looked furiously up at the imposing altarpiece, waiting for the moment when he would hear the door at the other end of the church swing shut behind her, signifying that it was over and he could resume the normal course of his life. The women and the parties. The aloneness that he so cherished.
Didn’t he?
It didn’t come.
Stiffly he turned round.
Lily was standing in the shadows at the back of the church talking to the woman with the flowers. As he watched she laid a gentle hand on her arm and gestured to the child. The little girl had stopped playing and was looking shyly up at Lily, her expression almost awe-struck.
The mother smiled, nodded. Then Lily dropped to her knees in front of the little girl, smoothing her hair away from her face and gathering her straggling bunch of flowers into a neat posy, showing her how to hold them. The child’s small face glowed with pleasure and pride as Lily straightened up again and took her hand.
And suddenly he understood. She wasn’t walking out on him. She was doing this her way, with her own peculiar blend of stubborn, determined sweetness that made him feel exasperated and guilty by turns.
He felt the tension leave his body, and realised his hands were shaking slightly. Not with relief, he told himself harshly. Nothing so selfless. It was vindication, that was all. Pride. No woman had ever walked out on him yet, and the feeling was unfamiliar. The child’s mother, beaming with suppressed excitement, quickly extracted one of the long-stemmed roses from her arrangement and handed it to Lily. Tristan watched as she accepted it, and briefly embraced the woman before stepping forward with the little girl beside her.
She was going to be a fantastic mother.
The thought stole into his head uninvited, causing a wrenching sensation in the pit of his stomach. She had a natural instinct for love and kindness that would make up for his own emotional sterility. And, he thought, watching her walk down the aisle towards him, an inner strength that meant she stood up to him. She lifted her head and her eyes found his. Soft as cashmere, shining with her quiet determination, they held him, and although he wanted to turn away, he found he couldn’t.
The priest cleared his throat, obviously eager to get the service under way, and Tristan moved slowly back towards him, his eyes not leaving Lily’s. She was close enough for him to see the darkness in the centre of the silver grey iris now, close enough to smell her milk-and-honey sweetness.
Close enough to touch.
His fingers burned with sudden need, and as the priest began to speak about the sanctity of marriage, his mind filled with a taunting kaleidoscope of images and memories that were wholly inappropriate for church: Lily in the field at Stowell, golden and beautiful with her dress blowing up around her bare brown legs; Lily naked in the tower, her skin silver in the moonlight, and the satin soft feel of it against his lips…
From that, had come this.
‘Señor Romero?’
They were all looking at him, he realised suddenly: the elderly priest, the little girl, and Lily. Waiting for him. ‘Lo siento. Sorry.’
Father Angelico looked at him sternly over the top of his glasses. ‘Repetid despues de mi. Yo, Tristan Leandro, te recibo a ti Lily, como esposa y me entrego a ti.’
Almost reluctantly Tristan took Lily’s hand in his. The diamond ring he had sent glittered on her finger, sending out sharp rainbows of light in the gloom, and he could suddenly see it was all wrong for her—too showy, too cold—just like the marriage she was about to submit herself to, he thought despairingly. Did she really know what she was getting into?
Of course she didn’t. She didn’t even understand the vows. He hesitated, and then said in English, ‘I, Tristan Leandro, take you, Lily, to be my wife.’
A small smile touched her strawberry-coloured lips.
Father Angelico continued, utterly matter-of-fact, as if he were reading out a report in the financial pages. Tristan felt his throat constrict around the words he had never intended to say. Never wanted to say. As he spoke them to the girl standing before him his voice was a harsh, sardonic rasp.
‘I promise to be faithful to you in prosperous times and adverse times, in healthy times and times of sickness.’ He felt his mouth twist into an ironic smile. ‘To love and respect you every day of my life.’