Page 26 of Winter Wedding for the Prince

“Fredo is an ass,” he muttered, and she stiffened, afraid he’d read her thoughts. “I know,” he said. “You don’t want to talk about him, but I have to say it. The guy is a class-A jerk.”

She could end the discussion right there by not saying a word, but the indignation in his voice on her behalf deserved some type of comment. “Yes, he is, although he can be charming when he needs to be.”

“They always are. Isn’t that what they told us at the shelter? It’s why a lot of very intelligent women who should know better find themselves trapped.”

A woman who should know better. That certainly described her. Rosa could feel Armando holding back his curiosity. Trying so hard to honor her request in spite of the questions running through his head.

From the very start of their friendship, he’d treated her with kindness and respect. More than any man she’d known. Most people—her parents, even—thought she was crazy to leave a wealthy, successful man like Fredo; they couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t be happy. But Armando had never judged her. Never asked what she thought she was doing. He trusted that she had a reason.

Perhaps it was time she offered him a little trust in return.

“I never told anyone. About Fredo,” she said softly.

“Not even Christina?”

She shook her head. “Although I think she knew I was unhappy. Thing is, for a long time I thought the problem was with me. That if I wasn’t such a fat, stupid fool, my marriage would be better.”

“What are you talking about? You’re none of those things.”

“Not according to Fredo. He never missed an opportunity to tell me I was second-rate.” Looking to her lap, she studied the patterns playing out in the lace. Tiny red squares that formed larger red squares, which then formed ever larger squares. She traced one of the holes with her index finger. “Didn’t help that Christina was everything that I wasn’t. I loved my sister, but she was so beautiful...”

“So are you.”

Armando’s answer made her breath catch. “You are,” he repeated when she looked at him. “Your face, your eyes, your figure. The way you walk...”

“Regardless,” she said, looking back to her lap. She wasn’t trying to fish for compliments, even if his comments did leave her insides warm and full enough to squeeze tears.

“The point is for a long time I believed him. Same way I believed him when he reminded me how fortunate I was that he was willing to take me off my father’s hands.”

“I’m going to shoot the bastard,” Armando muttered.

It was an extreme but flattering response. Rosa found herself fighting back a smile. “There’s no need. Your performance tonight wounded him more than enough.”

Armando shook his head. “He deserves worse. If I’d known—”

“Don’t,” she said, grasping his hands in hers. This time he wasn’t talking about her not sharing, but about his not stepping in to defend her. She wouldn’t have him feeling guilty because her shame kept her from speaking up. “I told you, I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“But why not? I could have helped you.”

“You and Christina were in the middle of this great romance—I didn’t want to ruin the mood with my problems. And then, after Christina died, you were grieving. It wasn’t the time. Besides...” Here was the true answer. “I was ashamed.”

“You had nothing to be ashamed about.”

Didn’t she? “Do you know how hard it is to admit you spent nearly a decade allowing someone to strip you of your self-respect because you thought you deserved it?” Even now, the regret choked her like bile when she thought of the power Fredo had held over her. Power she’d given him. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She moved to swipe the moisture away only to have Armando’s thumb pass across her skin first. When he was finished, his hand remained, his palm cupping her cheek. “No one ever deserves to be abused,” he said.

“I told you, Fredo never struck me.”

“You know as well as I do abuse doesn’t always come from a fist.”

So her counselor always told her. Words could cut deep, too.

Armando’s touch was warm and comforting, calling to her to lean in and absorb its promised strength. “Took me a long time to learn that,” she said. “I figured as long as I wasn’t sporting a black eye, I didn’t have a right to complain. Besides, when it was happening...” Her voice caught. How she hated talking about those years out loud. Admitting she thought she deserved everything Fredo did and said.

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