‘How’re you doing?’ Rafe asked as Raoul parked his chair alongside.
‘I think that’s supposed to be my line.’
‘You made it.’
‘I made it.’
Rafe swallowed a couple of times and then turned to face the front of the church. ‘I feel a bit nervous.’
‘I can tell.’
Rafe glanced at him. ‘You can?’
‘You keep tugging at your left sleeve. Dead giveaway.’
‘Got that.’
Remy suddenly appeared at the portal of the church and did a last-minute adjustment to his bow tie as he ambled down the aisle. ‘Were you guys waiting for me?’
Rafe gave him a look. ‘Glad you could make it.’
Remy gave one of his renowned charming grins. ‘Hey, Raoul, you’re looking good. Walking yet?’
Raoul stretched his mouth into a rictus smile. ‘Almost.’
The organist began playing. The beautiful cadences of Pachelbel’s Canon in D swelled to the rafters.
‘Here comes the bride....’ Rafe’s voice sounded hoarse with emotion.
Raoul looked at Poppy as she floated up the aisle. She only had eyes for his brother. Her face was glowing with love, with absolute rapture. He felt a pain in the middle of his chest. Would he ever see a bride come towards him with the same depth of love?
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together...’
The sacred vows were a form of torture. To have and to hold. For richer for poorer...
In sickness and in health.
Did his brother realise what the hell he was promising? Did Poppy? There was only so much sickness a relationship could endure. It was too much to ask someone to stick by you no matter what. Life could throw some horrible curve balls. He had caught one fair in the middle of his gut. He was still reeling from it.
Could he ask someone—who was he kidding?—could he ask Lily—to stick with him through it? He didn’t know how he would be in a week’s, two weeks’, two months’ time, let alone a lifetime. Would it be fair to tie her down to such uncertainty?
‘You may kiss the bride.’
Raoul looked at his hands where they were gripping the arms of his chair like claws. He was happy for Rafe. Of course he was. Rafe was a good brother. A great brother. He deserved to be happy after all he had done for Raoul and Remy. He had kept them together; sacrificed his own interests and at times his safety to keep them as a family.
But it was just so damned hard to be here like...like this.
He dragged his gaze towards the bride and groom. Rafe was grinning as if he had just won the lottery. Poppy was smiling with such love on her face it made Raoul feel sick with envy.
He wanted to be loved like that.
Did Lily love him like that?
Could he risk finding out?
The congregation erupted with spontaneous applause as the bride and groom walked back down the aisle as husband and wife.
Raoul felt every eye on him as he wheeled down after them as part of the official bridal procession. Cameras flashed, the frenzied click of shutters sounding like a round of artillery gunfire. His image would be plastered over every paper in the country and all over Europe tomorrow. His insides churned at the thought. What had he been thinking, coming here? Remy could have done just as good a job—better, actually. At least he’d been able to stand upright.
He caught Lily’s eye as he came past her pew. She was biting her lower lip, her gaze concerned. Troubled. Uncertain.
He should never have crossed the boundary he’d crossed with her, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. He had been spellbound by her feistiness, the way she stood up to him in spite of her initial reluctance to deal with him.
He forced himself to look away. He would speak to her later. When they were alone. He would ask her if she could love him like this.
If she did love him like this.
He had to know.
* * *
‘I’ve been absolutely dying to meet you.’ Poppy gave Lily a big, squishy hug. ‘Rafe’s been telling me how wonderful you’ve been for Raoul.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ Lily felt her cheeks heating.
‘He’s doing really well,’ Poppy said. ‘I can’t tell you how much it means to both of us to have him here. We thought he wouldn’t come. He was so stubborn about it initially.’
‘He can be pretty determined when he makes up his mind about something.’
Poppy gave her a conspiratorial look. ‘It’s a Caffarelli trait. Believe me; I know that first-hand. Have you met Vittorio, the grandfather?’