Chapter 3
Alessio
My wife wouldn't look at me the whole ride home. The delicate curve of her jaw remained stubbornly turned, her expression blank as she stared at the moving scenery.
Not that I could blame her snub. When Annabelle had emerged from where I'd last seen Millie disappear to, a cold trickle of sweat slid down my spine.
My heart had been in my throat, and I could barely concentrate on the conversation around me, especially when Millie had been MIA for quite some time.
When I'd finally tracked her down and she'd stared at me with an expression that matched the cold night air, my heart almost ceased beating. I'd made a grave mistake. One of epic proportions.
That damned Annabelle. I had no idea she would be there tonight. When I spied her hovering along the fringes of my conversation, I sent her a warning look before pointedly dismissing her. She knew better than to approach me in public.
I'd already been planning on ending our brief arrangement, even well before tonight. She was just not important enough to fit into my busy schedule. But in ignoring her, I ended up hurting the one person I cared about.
Millie. My wife.
I stared at my hand, curved possessively around her shapely thigh, yet I might as well be touching stone. My mouth twisted in frustration as she still refused to meet my gaze. I didn't care if she wanted space—she was my wife. There would be no frigid silences or cold shoulders.
Of course, the chances of ending the night buried deep in her like I'd planned to were now slim to none. Even I was not stupid enough to attempt a seduction in the aftermath of her confrontation.
Still, Millie would get over it. I glanced at her clenched jaw, and something akin to panic sank deep. Yes, she would simply get over it. She had to.
When we arrived home, I gave her the space she clearly needed. I made my excuses to work, but not before leaning over to plant a kiss on her head—and almost catching air as she swiftly turned to walk away. Her hand was already moving to remove the ring I'd gifted her.
I busied myself in my office, my mind, for once, unable to concentrate, and I ended up staring at my computer for long periods. Forty minutes was all I gave her to pout before I hunted her down.
My approach was slow while she sat in her dressing room, her arm tensing for a brief second before she resumed running a brush through her silky hair.
She was so beautiful. But more than that, she was kind, funny, and intelligent.
Generous too. Tonight, I discovered from the organisers that my wife had donated her time and gifted a few prizes for the silent auction.
I knew she did it out of the goodness of her heart and not for public praise or accolades.
My hands reached out and stopped her movements, finally causing her to lift her gaze to mine. Defiance flashed in her stare, yet underneath I could spy the undercurrent of hurt. My gut twisted yet again. I did not like this feeling.
Gently, I pulled her brush from her stiff hand and placed it on her vanity.
With careful hands, I sifted her soft hair through my fingers, gathering the strands in a twist before moving them to one side.
My hungry gaze devoured her exposed neck, and I gave in to the urge to touch her.
My hand smoothed over one shoulder, savouring the feel of her skin.
I'd become more open with my displays of affection to my wife, something I'd tried to tame in the early stages of our marriage.
Now, it took great effort not to slide my hand against her hip when I moved past her or clasp her hand when we were walking in unison.
Or kiss those soft ruby lips whenever she tilted her face to mine.
Although from the look of her pinched features, I wouldn't dare do that now.
“I’m sorry," I murmured. "She should have never approached you. I will be more discreet next time.”
Next time.
The words tasted like ash in my mouth. I wanted to draw them back, to banish them from existence. Especially when I felt her shoulder tense under my hand.
She focused on a spot on her dresser for several seconds before a look of determination crossed her lovely features. Her spine straightened, and her green-eyed gaze finally met mine. Millie nodded, just one quick tilt of her head and a ghost of a smile.
A valve in my throat released, and the air suddenly felt easier to breathe.
Despite her resolve, I knew I'd hurt her. Even though our marriage was one born out of convenience—orchestrated by our fathers joining forces to dictate our lives—there was still etiquette involved in our union, and a mistress making herself known was not part of the deal. I regretted that deeply.
I made a mental note to send Millie flowers and a cheque to her favourite animal charity in her honour. I knew she would appreciate that gesture more than a diamond bracelet.
Millie was just so damn young. Barely twenty-one, though we’d been married since she was eighteen. The same age my mother was when marriage to my father was thrust upon her.
I knew first-hand the repercussions of marrying someone at such a young age, especially one you didn't love or know very well.
Which was why I had resisted and resented our union when it was first brought to me.
“You want me to what?”
My father glanced at me over his glasses, his gaze steady and stern.
“Marry Millie Davenport.”
“Absolutely not.”
I slid the picture of the pretty brunette teenager—for that was what she was—back towards my father.
He sighed impatiently, as if dealing with an insolent toddler. “You knew eventually that you would marry.”
“Yes, but not at twenty-eight years old. And certainly not to a teenager.”
“She is eighteen.”
“She is still a kid.”
My dad shrugged. “So stow her away at Keating,” he suggested, referring to my country residence in Devon. “Keep her there until you are ready.”
“You want me to marry her and then hide her away?”
"These are the terms Charles Davenport has laid out. Do you want his hotels or not?"
My lips rolled in, and I cursed bloody Charles Davenport to hell and back.
Millie's father owned two successful hotels: one in London and the second in Edinburgh.
They were both in prime locations, both turning over a tidy profit.
When we heard that he was looking to sell, I approached him immediately.
He'd asked to meet with my father first, and marriage to his only child and daughter was one of the conditions he came back with.
Millie had no interest in running his empire, yet he still wanted his legacy kept in his family.
I could understand his sentiment...if only it didn't affect me.
At my furious silence, Cesare Ferrante removed his glasses and fixed me with a wary stare.
"Son. The truth is, I want to retire by the end of the year.
" My eyes widened at his statement, and he held his hand up to pause me.
"Katherine keeps asking me to spend more time with her and Dante, and honestly?
I would rather be at home with my wife and son than deal with this. "
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the mention of his young wife. It was funny that he wanted to be present for her when he and my mother had divorced within a year of having me, and I'd been shipped off to boarding school in London before I could tie my laces.
"I want you to take over fully by then, Alessio. I know how much you want these hotels. Locations in Belgravia and New Town? People would kill to have a piece of that real estate, and with you at the helm, you could take them to another level."
This time, I did roll my eyes. Flattery did not work for me, even if the sentence was true. I could already envision ways to maximise their profit.
But marriage…
"Think of it as my parting gift to you."
"Is it really a gift if I'm paying for it?" I dryly queried.
Cesare's brow lifted. "You are getting too old to still be sowing wild oats. Marry the girl. We both know that your freedom will not be impacted," he pointed out.
So I reluctantly agreed, still miffed that I had to do the bidding of other men. Yes, I'd always known that I would marry to secure the future of the Ferrante name. But I thought I would at least get to know her a little first; perhaps date for a bit while I decided whether we were compatible.
When I finally met the young Millie, I was taken aback by the flicker of attraction that danced between us. She was young, yes, but her eyes held a quiet wisdom. Her cool, defiant gaze matched mine, and her body language was stiff and firmly closed off. And yes, she was also drop-dead gorgeous.
But I was too resentful and angry to acknowledge it fully.
“Do you consent to this marriage?” I simply asked, cutting to the chase.
“Would you break the contract if I said no?”
I lifted my chin. She did not want to marry me? I dared her to find a more suitable candidate. “No. It is done.”
“Well, then.” One slim shoulder lifted in a careless shrug.
I was outraged. I’d expected Miss Millie Davenport to be a bashful, meek little woman.
I'd expected her to be stammering in English-rose shyness, falling over her feet to please me.
After all, I was a catch. I was consistently listed among the top eligible bachelors in the country.
I dated supermodels and actresses who clamoured for my attention.
Yet, Millie Davenport stood there staring at me like I was something she'd scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
We married quietly at Grafton House, the country estate of the Earl of Churlington, Millie's childhood home.
Unfortunately for me, Millie had looked stunningly beautiful. I could barely tear my eyes away from her, even if she could barely meet mine.
However, that was the last pleasant thought I had that day about my new wife.
The night of our wedding, we had our first big blow-up.
I'd told her what my father suggested: that she was to live in my country estate—a quaint village in Devon.
She was livid and hit the roof, but I still insisted it was the best move for both of us.
My estate was huge; it had horses, chickens, and whatever animals my nieces wanted.
She would have access to my black card and would want for nothing.
But she knew the truth: I was simply not yet ready for marriage.
I had my mistresses; one woman I saw when the urge arose.
They usually lasted around six months before I grew tired of them and moved on.
They were convenient. If I felt like sex, I could call my latest fling, and she'd come running.
They were discreet, experienced, and accomplished.
Once our arrangement ended, I sent them off with a generous trinket.
While Millie was in Devon, I went through two mistresses in quick succession. They couldn't hold my interest—because at the back of my mind stood my innocent, convenient little wife. Although, at that moment, she didn't feel very convenient.
So I stayed away and kept her comfortable in Keating. She was safe and sound, hidden away until I was ready.
Or so I thought.