‘Because the last time I saw you, you spent the entire night staring at very old paintings as though they were the beginning and end of your existence.’
Emmeline’s smile was genuine. ‘I’d never seen works of art like that before. The Dutch Masters have always fascinated me.’
‘So you can see, then, why I thought of history—perhaps art history—as your university subject of choice?’
‘Oh, I love art.’ She nodded. ‘And old things in general.’ She tilted her head back into the water, wetting her hair. It draped down her back like a silken curtain. ‘But I’ve wanted to do psychology for almost as long as I can remember.’
Not quite true. She could recall the exact moment when it had dawned on her that a lot of people’s minds needed fixing.
Apparently Pietro was drawing the same conclusion. ‘When did you learn the truth about your mother’s death?’
‘I thought I told you?’ she murmured quietly, feeling the night wrapping around them like a blanket. ‘I knew at the time.’
‘I’m sorry you had to experience that loss. And so young.’
Emmeline rarely spoke about her mother. Her father never wanted to talk about her, and Emmeline didn’t really have anyone else to confide in about something of that nature. But, perhaps because Pietro had known Patrice, Emmeline felt her strongly held borders dropping.
‘She’d been unhappy for a long time. I didn’t expect her to die, but it wasn’t a complete surprise, somehow.’
‘Unhappy how?’ Pietro pushed, moving closer.
His recollections of Patrice were vague. She’d been drop-dead gorgeous, and kind enough. Perhaps there’d been a coldness to her, a sense of disconnection. He’d been a young man when he’d last seen her and his thoughts weren’t easy to recall.
‘Oh, you know...’ Emmeline’s smile was uneven, her eyes not quite meeting his.
‘No, I don’t. That’s why I asked you.’
How could Emmeline answer? There’d been that morning when she’d come downstairs to find her mother passed out, two empty bottles of gin at her feet, her make-up ruined by her tears. And there’d been all the little nips and tucks, of course. But the biggest clue had been the control she’d begun to exert over Emmeline.
Even as a teenager Emmeline had known it wasn’t right—that there was something unhealthy about her mother’s desire to infantilise Emmeline, to keep her from experimenting with clothes and fashion. Discouraging Emmeline’s attempts on improving her image had been one thing, but knowingly pushing her towards unflattering hairstyles and prohibiting her from anything except the wardrobe she, Patrice, had selected...
It had taken years for Emmeline to understand her mother’s motivations and they’d left her reeling.
‘Lots of things,’ she said vaguely, shaking her head.
Perhaps it was the raw pain in his wife’s voice that stalled Pietro from pushing further. For whatever reason, he let the matter go for a moment.
‘Psychology will no doubt be very interesting,’ he said quietly. ‘When do you begin?’
‘A month.’
He nodded. ‘There’s still time for you to adapt to life here, then.’
‘I think I’m just about adapted,’ she said quietly.
He was so close now that when he moved the water rippled in response and it almost felt as though he was touching her. She knew she should put some distance between them, but she’d hardly seen him for a month. This nearness was like a highly addictive form of crack cocaine.
‘You have been bunkered here in the villa,’ he said softly. ‘It’s time for you to start coming out with me. You are my wife. There are events. Functions. Things to attend.’
‘Oh.’ She bit down on her lip and uncertainty glimmered in her eyes. She had been the one who’d suggested they needed to keep up a certain public persona. But now the idea filled her with doubts. ‘I don’t know if that’s really necessary...’
‘Not all the time, no. But there are certain things you can no longer avoid.’
‘I haven’t been avoiding anything.’
As soon as she said it she knew it was a lie. She had been holed up in his house as much as possible—reading, emailing, reading some more. Keeping her ears permanently trained on noises that might herald Pietro’s arrival so that she could scamper away.
‘My bank organises a banquet every summer. It is a Midsummer’s Eve theme—very beautiful and enjoyable. You’ll come with me.’
She arched a brow, instantly resenting his imperious tone. ‘Oh, I will, will I?’