The Billionaire's Neglected Wife, Hidden in Public

Chapter 1 Where We Learned to Hide

YSABEL

When I married Leon Rosciano, I thought the hardest part would be convincing his world that a maid’s daughter belonged beside him.

Loving him was never the difficult part. Even now, two years after our wedding, I can hear his voice somewhere in the house and find myself listening for whether he’s coming my way.

This afternoon, he is.

I’m halfway down the corridor toward our bedroom when he rounds the corner. The moment he sees me, he smiles, and I forget I was trying to get somewhere.

“Found you.”

Leon slows in front of me, his smile widening as I turn toward him. There’s something about having his attention settle entirely on me that still makes me feel a little foolish with happiness.

“Were you looking for me?”

“Since I finished my meeting.” He reaches for my hand, brushing his fingers against mine before closing them around it. “You’re surprisingly difficult to find.”

“I live here,” I remind him, trying to sound sensible while he draws me closer. “And what do you want?”

His thumb passes over my wedding ring, and his gaze lifts to mine. “A few minutes with my wife. Is she available?”

I pretend to consider it, though I’ve already rested my free hand against his chest. Beneath my palm, he takes a slow breath, his eyes dropping briefly to my mouth.

“She might be persuaded.”

“Good. I’ve missed her.”

The teasing leaves his voice just enough for me to hear that he means it. I smooth a crease in his shirt, reluctant to take my hand away now that I have him here.

“She’s missed you too,” I admit, straightening his collar even though there’s nothing wrong with it. He lets me fuss, his smile deepening as my hands linger. “Although you did see me at breakfast.”

“Across a table, while my mother talked. I couldn’t do this.”

He bends to kiss me, and I’m smiling when his mouth meets mine. My fingers curl into his collar, keeping him close for another moment before I let him draw back.

His gaze shifts to the tapestry beside us. I know what he’s thinking even before he reaches to lift its edge, and the warmth in my cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment.

“Leon,” I murmur, though I make no move to let go of his shirt. “Your aunt’s birthday dinner.”

“It isn’t for hours.”

He lifts the heavy fabric, and I let him draw me into the alcove.

The narrow stone bench leaves little room between us, though he doesn’t seem inclined to give me any. His hand settles against my cheek, and I turn into it, remembering how carefully he touched me here the first time.

“What?” he asks.

“Your hands used to shake.”

“You noticed that?”

“I noticed everything. I was trying to work out whether you wanted to kiss me.”

His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth. “I thought I was being painfully obvious.”

He probably was. But back then, believing the Don’s heir wanted me had felt considerably more dangerous than pretending he didn’t.

I lean into his touch and let myself remember that afternoon, years ago, when he finally gave me no room to doubt it.

I was twenty, carrying clean linen back to the kitchen, when Leon, who is still Signor Leon to me, stopped me beside this tapestry. He lifted the edge and held out his hand, looking far too pleased with himself for someone about to get me into trouble.

“Signor, I have to take these to…”

“I told you not to call me signor. Thought we’re closer than that already, huh? Come on, give me one minute. Please?”

I glanced down the corridor before letting him draw me inside. The cloths slipped against my arm, and I caught them with my chin, glaring at him over the top of the stack.

“If these end up on the floor, you’re washing them.”

“Sure.” He reached to steady them, his fingers brushing mine. “I only wanted to talk to you.”

“You could have done that in the corridor.”

“Would you have stayed?”

That was an inconvenient question.

Lately, I had become very good at finding reasons to leave whenever he came looking for me.

There was always something to carry, someone waiting in the kitchen, a task that suddenly required my immediate attention.

Anything to keep him from noticing how quickly I lost track of what I was doing when he smiled at me.

I set the linen on the narrow stone bench, making more of straightening it than necessary.

“Well?” I asked. “I’m here now.”

When I turned, he was watching me with an expression that made me wish I had kept the cloths between us.

At twenty-two, Leon could already hold a room’s attention without raising his voice. I had seen men twice his age wait for him to finish speaking. But alone with me, he rubbed his palms against his trousers before seeming to realize what he was doing.

“Have I upset you?” he asked.

The question caught me off guard. “No. Why would you think that?”

“Because every time I come into the kitchen, you remember somewhere else you need to be.” He tried to smile. “I’m beginning to take it personally.”

“Some of us have work to do.”

“I know you do, Ysabel. I’m asking whether that’s the only reason.”

I looked down at the linen again.

He had noticed. Of course he had, and now he was standing close enough that I could see the faint crease between his brows while he waited for me to answer.

“You make it difficult to concentrate,” I admitted.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then his face changed, the uncertainty giving way to a smile he seemed unable to stop.

“Do I?”

“Don’t look so pleased. It isn’t helpful.”

“I’m trying not to.”

He wasn’t trying very hard. I could feel myself smiling back, and that was worse, because once I started I couldn’t seem to remember why I had spent so long avoiding this.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. I caught his sleeve before I could help it, and we both went quiet. He stayed still while they passed, his gaze on my face. Only when the sound had faded did I loosen my fingers.

“Mamma is waiting for those,” I whispered, nodding toward the bench. “If she comes looking and finds us here…”

“I know.” His voice softened. “I won’t keep you if you want to go.”

He moved enough to leave the way clear. I looked at the opening beside him, then back at his face, horribly aware that leaving would be the sensible thing to do.

“What did you want to talk about?”

He let out a quiet breath. “I had something prepared.”

“And?”

“You’re looking at me, and I can’t remember any of it.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and the laughter caught in my throat.

“Leon...”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for months,” he said. “I keep telling myself I’ll stop finding excuses to see you, and then I hear you laughing downstairs and there I am again.”

I had imagined him saying something like that so often that hearing it felt almost unfair. I didn’t have an answer ready. All I could do was look at him while he lifted his hand to my cheek.

His fingers trembled.

That was what made me reach for him.

Until then, I had thought he understood exactly what he was doing to me, that he could flirt and smile and leave me thinking about it long after he had forgotten. But his hand was shaking against my face, and he was waiting with the same frightened hope I had been trying to hide.

I closed my fingers around his wrist.

“You could have told me,” I whispered.

“I’m telling you now.”

When he leaned closer, I met him halfway.

The first kiss was softer than I expected.

For all the time I had spent imagining it, I hadn’t imagined the hesitation, or the way his breath caught when I pressed closer and held on to his shirt. Then his arm came around my waist, and I stopped thinking about how I ought to be standing or whether he could feel my heart.

I wanted him to keep kissing me.

That was the only thought I could manage.

He drew back just far enough to look at me, his hand still warm against my cheek.

“Was that why you kept leaving?”

My face burned. “You’re going to be unbearable now.”

“Probably.” He smiled, but there was something tender in it that made it difficult to look away. “I thought I was imagining it.”

“So did I.”

We stood there smiling at each other until I remembered the linen. He helped me gather it, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing, reluctant in a way that made me reluctant too.

Back in the kitchen, Mamma asked what had taken so long. I told her I had stopped to talk, then kept my face turned toward the cupboard until I could trust it again.

That was how it began.

For the next two years, we learned to make room for each other in the parts of the day no one thought to watch closely.

Leon knew which evenings I could linger after my work was finished.

I knew when he had come downstairs because he was hungry and when he was only pretending, although he ate the broken biscuits either way.

We talked behind the tapestry, walked when we could, and sometimes spent longer saying goodbye than we had managed to spend together. I learned what worried him, what made him laugh when he was tired, how quiet he became when something mattered enough that he was afraid to say it badly.

Loving him grew easier. Leaving him at the end of every stolen hour did not.

By the second spring, I was tired of saving up my life to tell him in pieces.

Something would happen, something small and funny that he would have understood immediately, and I would turn to find him before remembering I couldn’t. I wanted to sit beside him without someone wondering what I was doing there.

One afternoon in the almond grove, with his hand around mine and nobody close enough to hear us, I finally said it.

“I’m tired of missing you when you’re in the same house.”

Leon stopped walking. I took another step before his hand brought me gently back toward him.

“Then marry me.”

I stared at him, waiting for the smile that would tell me he was teasing. It didn’t come.

“You can’t just say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe you.” My voice shook, and I hated how much it revealed. “Because I want to, and you need to think about what you’re asking before you make me believe it.”

He turned fully toward me. “I’ve thought about being married to you.”