‘Oh.’ She blinked her eyes open and nodded. ‘Yes. What is it?’
‘Your father is coming for dinner tonight. Seven o’clock.’
Silence prickled between them. Then, ‘Daddy’s coming...here?’
‘Certamente. Naturally I presumed you’d want to see him again before he leaves for the States.’
Emmeline nodded, but consternation ran through her. She had intended to see her father again—only for coffee the following morning, when it could be just the two of them.
‘Right.’ She bit down on her lip.
‘My assistant will let Signora Verdi know,’ he said, referring to the housekeeper Emmeline had met once or twice. A matronly woman who filled her with a sense of awe.
‘Fine,’ she said, a little too sharply.
‘Though he knows our marriage was arranged to serve a purpose, I think it would be good for him to see that we are...getting along.’
Emmeline’s stomach churned. But we’re not.
‘Do you?’ she asked.
‘Si. He loves you very much,’ Pietro said, but his tone was weary. Impatient. ‘Seeing you happy will make him happy.’
‘So you want me to fake it?’ she snapped, before she could catch back the sarcastic rejoinder.
‘I want you to think of your father,’ he said softly. ‘As you’ve proved yourself so very good at in the past.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You married me to make him happy.’
A woman’s voice filtered through into the call and acid spiked Emmeline’s blood. She couldn’t make out what the woman said, but the tone was low. Personal.
Jealousy—unmistakable—pricked at her flesh.
‘I’ll be home by six. And, Emmeline? Perhaps wear a dress.’
Outrage simmered in her blood as she disconnected the call. Wear a damned dress? He actually thought he could boss her into wearing whatever the hell he wanted? What he thought would be appropriate? True, since their wedding she’d gone back to the clothes she felt most comfortable in, and they were hardly the kind of clothes that would set the world on fire. But of all the rude, misogynistic, barbaric things to say!
She stood up, her hands shaking as she jammed the phone back in her pocket and stared out at Rome.
She’d show him, wouldn’t she?
* * *
At ten minutes past six Emmeline walked into the formal dining room, intending to pour herself a stiff drink to steel her nerves. What she hadn’t expected was to see her husband already at the bar, shaking a cocktail mixer.
She froze on the threshold, taking a deep breath. She had only a second to compose her face into a mask of calm before he looked up. And when their eyes met she was thrilled to bits that she’d put her plan into action.
It had involved hours of shopping—her least favourite activity by a mile—but the effect was worth it.
The dress was exquisite. It had the advantage of looking as though it had been made for her—in a silk fabric that clung to her breasts and hips and stopped several inches shy of her knee—and it had batwing sleeves that fell to halfway down her hands, giving her a sense of comfort. The front had a deep vee—far deeper than she’d worn in her life before. She’d teamed it with a pair of espadrilles, which made the look a little more casual for an at-home dinner.
‘I’ll have what you’re having,’ she murmured, with a veneer of confidence she was far from feeling.
He began to shake the drink once more with a tight nod. ‘Nice dress.’
The compliment made heat flood through her body. ‘Thanks.’
‘It makes it almost impossible to remember that you’re a sweet and innocent little virgin bride.’
Emmeline fought her natural reaction of embarrassment, which he must have been trying to goad her towards. She saw beyond it. Her eyes narrowed and she moved closer, watching as he poured the martini into a glass and curling her fingers around its stem before he could even offer it to her.
‘That bothers you?’
‘It confuses me,’ he corrected, reaching for more bottles of alcohol and sloshing it into the mixer. ‘Particularly when you are dressed like this.’
‘So one’s choice of attire is an indicator of sexual inclination?’
‘No. But dressed like this you are...irresistible.’
She sipped her drink to hide her reaction, and then spluttered as the alcohol burned its way down her throat. ‘Ugh—that’s strong.’
‘It’s a martini,’ he pointed out seriously. ‘It’s meant to be strong.’
She nodded, taking another sip, and this time it went down more easily.
‘Why do you dress like you do?’ He returned to their previous conversation.