Each generation had become more powerful, with a better title to pass on to their heirs. His elder half brother Otilio had been born with the title of marqués, raised to be the next duke. But now his brother was dead.
Brother. Such a meaningful word for what had been, in their case, such a nonexistent relationship. Second only to father.
Today, at Otilio’s funeral, he would finally meet his father in person. All Santiago knew of him came from the news and from his mother’s scant stories, when he was very young. And he would see Nadia, the woman he’d once loved, whom he’d thought a kindred spirit. They’d both achieved the dreams they’d had at the orphanage, some twenty years before. He was a billionaire. She was a world-famous actress.
But not a duchess, he thought. That dream, at least, had been lost to her, from the moment her husband died.
He looked out at the weak morning light of Madrid. The September weather was chilly, the sky drizzling rain. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect setting for a funeral.
Belle was sitting beside him in the back of the vintage Rolls-Royce limousine, wearing an elegant black shift dress with a long black jacket. It should have been chic, but was somehow ill-fitting and uncomfortable-looking on Belle’s pregnant, curvaceous body. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
She’d barely spoken two words to him on the overnight flight across the Atlantic, leaving him alone with his own dark thoughts. She hadn’t reproached him about canceling their wedding. Not a single word.
Not one woman in a million would have been so understanding, he thought. But of course Belle was always so kind. So loving.
Emotions were bubbling up inside him, hot as lava. He’d pushed his feelings down for most of his life. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it up.
He hadn’t gone to his mother’s funeral, twenty years before, because there hadn’t been one. She’d had no money, the husbands she’d divorced were long gone, and in her frustra
tion and bitterness, she’d alienated most of her friends. Her son was the only one left, and she’d done her best to make him hate her as well, knowing he couldn’t leave.
As a young boy, he’d noticed other boys getting hugs and kisses from their mothers, and wondered why Mamá never treated him with such devotion. “Because you’re bad all the time,” she told him angrily. “You make your stepfathers angry when you don’t put away your toys. You make them leave.” It had hurt him when he was young. But by the time he was fourteen, he’d realized the real reason she never loved him. She blamed him for all the fairy tales gone wrong. Starting with his father, the duke.
Living in the orphanage, at least he’d known where he stood. He was on his own.
He’d loved New York from the beginning. The city was heartless and cold? Well, so was he. They were perfect for each other.
“Oh, my word,” Belle breathed next to him. “Is that the crowd for your brother’s funeral?”
Santiago blinked as he saw huge crowds of well-wishers and gawkers standing on the sidewalk outside the cathedral, held back by police. The driver pulled up to the curb, then opened their door.
Santiago got out of the backseat, turning back to assist Belle, who glanced nervously at the crowds, then looked up at him with dark stricken eyes.
Reaching for her hand, he helped her from the limo toward the gothic stone cathedral. The driver held an umbrella over their heads as the rain continued to drizzle from the gray clouds, falling against the vivid yellows and reds of the trees in September.
“It’s like all Madrid is here,” she whispered. “How famous was he?”
“They’re not here for him,” he ground out.
Belle frowned. “What do you mean?”
“There’s something you should know about his wife...”
But before he could finish, the oversized door of the cathedral opened, and they entered. The nave of the cathedral was crowded with people who’d come to pay their last respects to Otilio, Marqués de Flavilla, the only legitimate son and heir of the powerful Duque de Sangovia, and the husband of the Most Beautiful Woman in the World.
“He died so unexpectedly,” he heard someone say sadly as they passed. “Of a heart attack, and at only thirty-six. Such a tragedy to die so young.”
“His poor wife...”
“Oh, her. I heard they’ve been separated for years. She’s probably already thinking this will make spectacular PR for her next movie.”
Setting his jaw, Santiago walked heavily up the center aisle of the cathedral in his black suit, holding Belle’s hand tightly. The crowds parted for them like magic, people whispering around them, their eyes popping out of their heads.
“The duke’s secret son...”
“His bastard son...”
“A self-made billionaire from America...”