A Veil of Vines by Tillie Cole (11)

Chapter Ten

Caresa

“It will be long-sleeved, as all royal dresses should be, yes? Lace sleeves and a v-neckline and a silk skirt?” I stood on a raised plinth as Julietta, my wedding dress designer, took my measurements. She whipped around me like a cyclone as she measured my legs, my waist, my chest and finally my arms. When she was done, she linked my arm and brought me to the table and chairs in my living room.

She turned to another page of the sketchbook lying on the tabletop. Her flawless design for the dress of my dreams had been on page one. Her ideas for my hair and makeup were on page two. And when she turned to the third page, I felt the tears immediately fill my eyes.

“Your dream veil, no?” Juiletta asked, in English. Since she had arrived, she had insisted that she speak English. She said she needed the practice. I had only spoken Italian in weeks. Only over the phone to Marietta did I use English. It was nice to feel my tongue wrap around such familiar-sounding words.

My finger ran along the design, sketched out in charcoal pencil, except for the silken vines that were drawn in shimmering silver. It was floor length with a long train, exactly like I had always dreamed. It had Spanish lace around the front, perfectly suited to a Catholic duomo ceremony.

It was everything I had ever wanted.

“Well?” Julietta said. “Is it good?”

I nodded, my throat struggling to push out any words. But it was not because I was left speechless by the design—even though it was as if she had taken the picture straight from my mind—but because of the heavy ache I felt in my heart as I stared down at the veil I had envisioned wearing since I was a little girl. The veil I would wear when I married my prince.

It was all coming true. I was getting the veil. I had the prince . . . but I knew the reason for the ache in my heart.

I wasn’t marrying the right prince.

The truth was, I didn’t even want a prince at all.

“Bene!” Julietta said, slipping back into Italian. “I will get these back to my studio in Florence, and we shall begin to put it all together. We will have a fitting in a couple of weeks, then again a couple of weeks before the big day.”

I hadn’t realized I was staring off at nothing until Julietta waved her hand in front of my face. I blinked and forced on a smile. “I’m so sorry, I was in a complete daze for a moment there.”

Julietta laughed. “No doubt imagining marrying Prince Zeno in just a couple of months. You’re quite the envy of Florence.”

“Yes. So I’ve heard,” was all I said in response.

Julietta bade me a good day with a casual wave of her hand and left me alone in my rooms. I needed fresh air. I made my way to the balcony doors and stepped outside. The cool breeze flicked up my hair and sent shivers down my back. It was early November, and the delayed summer air seemed to have finally cooled. I walked to the edge of the balcony, and, like I did each time I came out this way, I let my gaze drift out to Achille’s small vineyard, tucked away in the valley in the distance. And like every day, I felt an urge to run down the steps and along the fields until I got there. I could even smell the burning oak from his fire and hear the opera serenading him in his barn. It amazed me that even though I had only known him for four weeks, it felt strange not seeing him every day. Those first couple of weeks spent by his side—harvesting, riding and crushing the grapes—were some of the best and most cherished of my life.

And that night . . . the night we had made love . . .

A symphony of hustle and bustle sounded from around the estate, pulling me from that heated memory. It made me wonder what Achille was up to right then. It made me wonder if he had managed to read last night.

I was so proud of him. I didn’t think I had ever been more proud of anyone in my life. Every time we worked on his reading, he struggled. Sometimes the words were so frustrating for him that my heart wept. I knew he came close to giving up at times, but, time and time again, he would prove to me just how strong he was when he refocused, took a deep breath and tried again.

And I hated that I couldn’t be there more. I . . . I missed him. Felt as though I could barely breathe without him being close by.

I should have decided to stay away long ago. I should have cut all ties from that second day when he had showed me how he hand-harvested the vines. But like the fool that I was, I kept going back, over and over. I had tried to fool myself that I returned simply to help him read and write.

But both God and I knew that was a lie.

I was sure Achille knew it too.

I jumped at the sound of a plate crashing to the ground. The mansion was in chaos. It had been in chaos for the past eight days, as the staff outside readied for the grape-crushing festival, and the staff inside prepared the great hall for Zeno’s coronation banquet.

The banquet was tonight.

The festival was today.

Zeno had yet to return.

Today was also the day that the judges of each category of the International Wine Awards would, at three p.m., call the winner to award them the prestigious prize.

As Achille had predicted, the call would come to Zeno, and Zeno would publicly reap the reward. But I knew if Bella Collina’s famed merlot won today, that honor went to one person and one person only.

And I knew he wouldn’t come. Achille never really left his home apart from when he had to get a few groceries from Orvieto. He barely even left the vineyard but for the occasional ride outside the perimeters of his land. I knew from his expression and tone when we had discussed the awards that he would not be here today.

I wrapped my white cashmere cardigan tighter around my body to stave off the cold. A knock sounded on my door. I guessed it would be Maria, here to order me to get dressed for the festival or prep me on all the important names and faces that would be attending Zeno’s coronation dinner.

I opened the door and my mouth fell open in surprise. Zeno stood before me, as handsome as ever, styled and groomed to perfection. He wore a navy-blue designer suit, white shirt and red tie. And in his hands were a dozen blood-red roses.

My immediate thought was that they were not white. That these twelve expensive roses didn’t hold a candle to the single white one Achille had left on my pillow the morning after we made love. The one that was now pressed between the pages of Plato’s Symposium. I had found the book in King Santo’s library on the second floor.

Strangely, it had still been out on his desk, the pages worn and well read. It was curious. I had never even heard of that book before I came here to Italy; suddenly it was all anyone seemed to be interested in.

I had taken the book back to my room, where I had read it cover to cover. Every time I read about split-aparts and lost, missing souls, I would yearn for Achille until it became almost unbearable.

“Zeno,” I finally said in surprise when his black eyebrows had begun to draw down at my muteness.

He thrust the roses into my hand. “Duchessa.” He leaned in to kiss both my cheeks. As his lips met my skin, I wanted to push him off. I didn’t want him this close. It felt as if my body was repelling his affection. Achille and I were magnetic; Zeno and I were opposing poles.

“You’re finally back,” I said, heading back into my room and putting the flowers into a large vase that sat in the center of the table; I would arrange them later.

“Just returned,” he said tightly. There was an edge to his voice that made me turn and face his direction. Zeno had walked a couple of feet into my living room. Gone was the relaxed, confident man I had met that first night here. In his place was a man who was stiff and cold.

He even seemed . . . sad.

I made myself smile. “I’m glad you’re back. I thought I was going to have to host the grape festival and your coronation alone. The festival I could have managed. But the coronation? Well, I think they may have detected an imposter king in me.”

Zeno walked to my open balcony doors and stepped outside. I followed, unsure what was wrong with him. His hands were resting on the ornate stone balustrade, his back tight and arms tense as he looked out over his land.

I stopped beside him, once again finding my peace in the view of Achille’s vineyard. Zeno pointed to the track I used most days. “I used to play on that track as a child. These fields were my home each summer when I was younger. Then my mother left my father and moved back to her parents’ home in Austria, and I was sent to Florence permanently.”

I knew Zeno’s mother and father had been married on paper alone. It was yet another truth that the aristocracy pretended wasn’t real—that Zeno’s mother had left her husband and son and never once returned. Of course, divorce wasn’t an option in our circles, certainly not in our devoutly Catholic society. My heart cried for Zeno in that moment. His mother had left him. I was sure from what my own mother and father had said that they were still not that close.

“Is your mother attending tonight?” I asked.

Zeno looked at me and laughed. Harsh, painful laughter. “No, Duchessa. She is not. My mother hasn’t graced Italy with her presence in over a decade.”

“But you’re her son,” I found myself arguing.

Zeno’s laughter stopped. “I’m my father’s son.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard of my reputation, Caresa? I’m the ‘Playboy Prince of Toscana’, following in the footsteps of my equally promiscuous father.”

“I have never heard your father referred to in such a way,” I said, conveniently leaving out that, of course, I had heard that said of Zeno.

“He was,” Zeno said plainly. “In his early life, and even when he was first married to my mother, his vice was women. It was only after she left us for Austria that he settled down, threw himself into the vineyards and the production of wine. But we were alike in more ways than I can count.”

I was surprised. I knew King Santo as many things, but a philanderer wasn’t one of them. “I didn’t know.”

Zeno nodded his head, but didn’t say another word on the matter.

“Are you excited for the coronation banquet tonight?” I asked, just to try and change the subject. The topic of his parents’ marriage was clearly a sore point.

“Ecstatic,” he droned sarcastically. Zeno loosened his tie from his neck and turned to lean his back against the railing. He looked at me, arms folded. “What have you been doing since I’ve been gone? The staff seem to think you are a little wild in your ways, preferring to traipse through the vineyards for hours at a time rather than hold lunches and dinners.”

Panic surged through me. I didn’t want him to know where I had been and what I had been doing. But then I thought of Rosa and the fact that many of the staff had seen me ride her daily. “I do prefer being outdoors,” I said with a nonchalant shrug. “And one of the winemakers has a horse that I ride. An Andalusian. They have allowed me to school her in dressage. I met them in my first few days, and we agreed I could ride their horse as it needed the training.”

Zeno smirked and shook his head, presumably at some internal joke. “Another dressage enthusiast? My father was the same. Always away with the Savona dressage and show jumping team when he wasn’t here.”

I was glad he didn’t push me for more information about the winemaker. I didn’t want him to suspect Achille of anything. Then again, I was unsure if Zeno even knew the name of the man who made this estate’s prize-winning wine.

“Horses over luncheons, hmm?” Zeno mused. “Maybe bringing you here to Bella Collina was a good idea after all.”

“Oh, I went to a couple of lunches with local ladies. And I hosted one luncheon. It was interesting, to say the least.” I pretended to think hard, then said, “Baronessa Russo spoke of you a great deal.”

Every part of Zeno froze, and then he sighed. “I’m sure she did.” He leaned in, so far that my nostrils became full of his expensive cologne. “I’m sure she did,” he said again, then, eyes lit with curiosity, asked, “Were you jealous?”

Zeno had told me we should always speak the truth, so I replied, “Not even a little bit.”

His eyes widened at my brazen honesty, then he laughed. Head thrown back, he laughed hard. He shook his head and turned again to stare out across the fields. “What a pair we make, Caresa.” Caresa. I found it interesting how he had dropped “Duchessa” and now called me by my name. Silence fell. I felt as if he wanted to say something, to talk of whatever was on his mind. But in the end, he straightened without confiding a word. “I had better go and get ready. The festival guests will be arriving soon.”

“Yes, me too,” I agreed. Yet I wanted to question Zeno further. Wanted to ask him if he thought this whole engagement was a farce too. But I bit my tongue. He already looked defeated, for some reason. I didn’t want to add to his troubles. And I thought of my father, thought of how disappointed he would be if I questioned my duty.

I had been born for this.

Zeno nodded his head in goodbye and left. I dressed in the knee-length Versace dress that had been selected for me, slipping my arms into the long sleeves and smoothing the burgundy fabric over my hips. I paired it with my favorite black heels—ones I knew wouldn’t cause me any pain. Maria came through a short time later with a hair and makeup stylist. In less than an hour, I sported a fall-inspired makeup look and had my hair drawn back in an elegant low bun.

“The prince is waiting for you downstairs.” Maria directed me out of my rooms. As we walked the long hallways to the main set of stairs, she said, “This will consist of mostly local people, but some guests—wine enthusiasts, sommeliers—come from all over the world just to say they have crushed wine on Bella Collina’s famous land. And of course, we will have many of the aristocracy in attendance. Some have come early for the coronation and want to see the festival. They have been awarded rooms in the east wing of the house or in the guest lodgings in the courtyard.”

I nodded, trying to breathe through the sudden onslaught of nerves that flooded my stomach.

“You and the prince will start the grape-picking contest, and afterward award the winners on the stage in the courtyard. We have planned it all around the phone call at three p.m. from the Wine Awards. Of course, we are hoping and praying that we will win. I have organized for the guests of the festival to have a glass each of the merlot if we take the coveted prize.” She laughed. “I’m sure that’s why they are all here anyway, so they can have a glass without paying through the nose for a full bottle.”

We reached the top of the stairs; Zeno was waiting below. He had changed into a fresh but similar blue suit. He looked every inch a Mediterranean prince. Maria smiled as he moved to the bottom of the staircase.

Before we descended, Maria placed her hand on my arm. “Make sure you smile a lot today. Listen attentively to anyone who speaks. This is the prince’s and your first public outing. We want the attending media and your guests to see you as a strong couple.” She leaned in even closer. “It will also help ease the buyers’ worries to see an Acardi on Zeno’s arm. Believe me, we need all the help we can get right now.”

I frowned, about to ask her what she meant, but Maria had pulled back and greeted Zeno before I could.

Was that why Zeno was so forlorn? So down? Were things even worse than before?

As I reached the bottom step, Zeno offered me his arm. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” I replied. We walked through the large house until we reached the exit to the courtyard. I could hear the sea of voices coming from outside. Music from a live band was playing, and I could smell the heady scents of succulent roasting meats, garlic and herbs floating in the air.

Zeno gave me one last look. He inhaled deeply, plastered a smile on his face and pushed through the doors. The minute we entered the courtyard, I felt as though we had been transported back a hundred years to before the royal family’s abolishment. Everyone turned to watch us enter. My hand tightened on Zeno’s arm as my legs suddenly felt a little unsteady.

I was used to fancy events, but I wasn’t used to being so under the microscope. Avoiding the stares, I looked around at the courtyard. Green shrubbery and vibrant fall flowers climbed the stone walls. The rich smell of autumn trees filled the air, and the sun shone down on the cobbled floor like a golden spotlight.

As Maria led the way to a small stage at the north side of the courtyard, I scanned the crowd. I saw lots of smiling guests who had turned out—some in fancy dress and some in team t-shirts—for the contest. The aristocrats were even easier to pick out. They stood away from the locals and tourists, watching on with amused expressions. A few faces I recognized from the luncheon. I wasn’t surprised to see Baronessa Russo here, but a genuine smile formed on my lips when Pia waved at me from her place to the left. Her sister, Alice, was with her, as was Gianmarco, her nephew.

I waved at the young boy, and he gave me a small wave back. I had worked with him several times over the past couple of weeks. Pia had brought him to the estate rather than have me go to Florence. As predicted, he suffered from dyslexia, but he was already making progress. He was a sweet, shy boy, who had simply needed a little help.

As my eyes stayed locked on his timid face, my heart clenched. I wondered if this was what Achille was like as a child. A small boy hiding behind his father’s legs because the world outside the comfort of his vineyard was just too overwhelming and daunting.

Gianmarco was struggling being in such a big crowd; I could see it. But he would be okay. I wondered whether, had Achille been given the help he needed at this age, he too would have been brave enough to come to festivals such as this, rather than hiding away from the world, starving people of both his beautiful personality and looks.

A gentle squeeze on my hand forced me away from thinking of Achille again. I realized that I did that too often. He was never far from my mind. Or my heart.

I met Zeno’s eyes, and he raised an eyebrow in question. I smiled to let him know I was okay. I heard some of the women at the front commenting on how I looked at him so lovingly. So adoringly.

If only they knew.

Zeno walked to the microphone at the front of the stage. The guests quieted.

“My friends, my fiancée and I would like to thank you all for attending the annual Bella Collina Grape-Crushing Festival.” The guests cheered. Clearly used to years of this kind of attention, Zeno smiled a regal smile and nodded his head at the cheers and shouts. When the noise died down, he said, “Today is not only about the prize money of one thousand euro, but about celebrating this region’s exceptional wine and all of the work that goes into making it the best there is!” Zeno waited for the crowd to calm from their newest cheer. His smile fell a little, and his voice became strained and somber. “My father . . . my father loved this estate. He chose to spend his time here over our palazzo in Florence. And he loved this festival. Loved seeing his treasured land filled with such an outpouring of love from his guests.” Zeno paused, then said in a rough voice, “And I am no different.” He gestured to me, waiting behind him. “My fiancée adores this land and has spent every day since her arrival exploring its beauty. We both welcome you here today. So let’s get this contest started!”

Zeno stood back from the microphone as the infectious excitement began sweeping through the courtyard. Zeno held out his arm again, and I threaded my arm through his. He led me to the opening of a field of vines. The organizers of the event rushed to place the contestants at their rows. They had eight buckets to fill full of grapes, and the quickest team of two would win the money and a crate each of Savona wines. After the competition, the crowd was invited to stomp the grapes to celebrate the harvest. The wine produced from this would then be gifted to the church in Orvieto.

Maria led us to a central spot and handed Zeno a flag adorned with the Savona crest. But Zeno passed the flag to me and said, “Why don’t you do the honors, Caresa?”

I felt every pair of eyes on me as I nodded and walked to the spot Maria had marked out on the grass. I lifted the flag, holding it high in the air, and then dropped it. The contestants rushed to their buckets and scrambled down the rows of vines.

I laughed at the hectic melee before backing away to a corner to watch the contestants competitively harvesting the grapes. Zeno came to stand beside me. “You did well,” he said, clapping his hands as a nearby group were the first to drop two full buckets at their starting marks.

“This is good.” I gestured to the many people cheering and watching the contestants. “You should encourage this type of event more. Bella Collina is loved. Of course you should protect the more private sections of the vineyards, but this, involving both the local and world’s wine communities in what we do here, would only make them more dedicated to you.”

“You think?” Zeno said. At first I thought he was being dry and rejecting my idea, but when I looked at his face I could see his expression was contemplative.

“You know, the monarchs of old were disliked for a good reason,” I continued. “They were not one with the people. They kept themselves at bay. Maybe that is why the abolishment happened, because their great estates were national treasures, yet kept away from the public eye.”

Zeno flickered his gaze to me, then away again without saying a word. I wasn’t sure if I had crossed some arbitrary line by suggesting that, but it was true. Plus, what Maria had said to me earlier played heavily on my mind. I knew the situation with Zeno and the buyers was tense—this rushed wedding was the result of that—but I wondered how dire things had truly become.

Zeno wandered off to talk to some of the dukes and barons that had just arrived for the banquet this evening. Somebody moved beside me, and I was relieved when I saw it was Pia and Gianmarco. I kissed Pia’s cheeks and smoothed back Gianmarco’s hair. I bent down, melting when the timid dark-haired boy gripped tightly to Pia’s legs. “Hello, Gianmarco,” I said softly.

“Hello, Duchessa,” he replied, his little voice strong and brave. He looked up at Pia.

“Go on, give it to her,” she said.

Gianmarco reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. I looked down at the messy two-word message written in blue crayon: Thank you.

Tears rushed to my eyes when they ran over the messy scrawl. Gianmarco was watching me with huge eyes. “You did this?” I said softly. He nodded his head. “Then I’ll treasure it always,” I whispered through a thick throat.

Gianmarco’s mother came over to take him back to the courtyard for gelato. As he left, Pia said, “When we told him we were coming here today, he asked if he could write you this note.” Her hand fell on my upper arm. “We are extremely grateful for the help you have given him. And for Sara.” Sara was an American educational psychologist I knew in Florence. I had arranged for her to give Gianmarco more intense tutoring than I ever could. With the approaching wedding, my time was becoming more and more limited.

“You’re welcome,” I said, my voice finally clearing of emotion.

Pia released my arm and cast her gaze to Zeno, who was talking with a tall blond gentleman. “So, he’s returned?”

I sighed. “He arrived back this morning for the festival and banquet, but I’m sure that he will leave again shortly after. This place makes him uneasy for some reason.”

“At this rate, Caresa, you might have only spent a few days in your husband’s company by the time you marry.”

“I know,” I replied. I felt numb.

“How is the horse you’ve been riding?” Pia asked out of the blue. My head snapped up at her words, and my heart began to race. I had told Pia in confidence about Achille’s vineyard and Rosa. I had not told her about Achille . . . anything about us . . . about what had happened.

“She’s good,” I replied evasively.

Pia’s eyes narrowed. “And the winemaker?”

I knew my face must have blanched. I could feel the warm blood draining from my cheeks. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure . . .” I stumbled over my words. My strange response seemed to be all the confirmation Pia needed. Her eyes softened and she nodded knowingly.

“Will he be coming here today?”

I should have kept it from her. I should have denied everything, all her suspicions, but something within my heart wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t deny Achille. It pained me to do so. He had been pushed aside his entire life; I didn’t have it within me to add to that rejection.

I shook my head. “I don’t know how it happened,” I whispered. “But he somehow became embedded in my heart and connected to my soul. It . . . I don’t know how it happened . . .”

“Oh, Caresa,” Pia said softly. “You love him?” I froze, completely froze, opening my mouth to most certainly deny that claim.

But my mouth and my heart appeared to be in agreement that I would not deny this either.

Because . . . I . . . I loved him.

Mio Dio, I loved Achille . . .

“I don’t think you realized it, but every time I came here with Gianmarco, you always talked about the horse you were schooling in dressage, but more, the winemaker. You said nothing obvious. I’m sure no one else suspects a thing. But I heard something different in your voice when you spoke of how he taught you about his wine. About how you would ride and talk for hours. The tone in your voice and the happiness in your eyes gave your affection for him away.”

“You can’t say anything,” I said sternly. “I ended it. It happened one time, and we knew that was all we could be. We both agreed we had to leave that one night as a single moment in time.”

“I wouldn’t ever say a thing,” Pia said, just as vehemently. She sighed and, taking me by the elbow, pulled me out of sight behind a wall. I was flustered, my body consumed by an overwhelming need to protect Achille. He had no one looking out for him. I was all he had. I couldn’t let society gossip hurt him.

“First,” Pia said firmly, “I consider you a friend. I may have only known you a little while, but I like you. We share the same views about certain things and, in our world, that is something I cherish—people like you are few and far between.” I relaxed a little, my hands shaking just a little less than before. “And secondly, I feel for you. You have found someone your heart calls for, yet you are stuck in this farce of an engagement. That is heartbreaking by anyone’s standards.”

“I have no choice.” I dropped my head in defeat. “I think . . . I think that Savona Wines is in worse condition than I knew. It is our family’s livelihood. This marriage needs to happen.”

“If the business is worse than you thought, then I am not so sure your marriage will be the remedy. Zeno is at the head of Savona Wines now. It is up to him to keep that position or give it to someone who actually wants to do it. Who knows this industry and knows about the wine it produces. It would not surprise me if Zeno didn’t know his Shiraz from his Chianti, even if it were poured over whichever new gold digger was vying for his attention that week. Your marriage is not the fix; he needs to be.”

I blinked at hearing her fight so hard for me and Achille. She looked me in the eye. “I fell for a teacher two years ago, Caresa. I was on the Amalfi coast for the summer, and so was he.” She dropped her gaze, but not before I saw the pain in her eyes. “I fell for him hard, so much so that my heart breaks now even thinking of him. Like there is something missing in my soul.”

“Split-aparts,” I whispered.

Pia furrowed her brow at my cryptic remark, but carried on. “When I told my father I wanted to be with Mario, to move to his home in Modena to be with him, I was forbidden. I was told that if I married so far below my station, I would be cast from our family.” She met my eyes. “I adore my family, Caresa. My sister, little Gianmarco. So in the end I chose them. I lost him and chose them.”

“Pia,” I murmured, reaching down to hold her hand.

“As much as I love my family, if I had to do it again, I would have left. I would have been with him. I would have chosen not to live with this pain in my chest as I do now. Breathing, existing, but not living. Attending these ridiculous ceremonies and luncheons as if any of it even matters.”

“Then find him,” I said. “Go and find him. Be with him.”

“He has someone else now,” she said, her voice cracking. “He moved on.” A tear fell down her cheek. “I broke his heart so badly. I killed the possibility of us when I let this pathetic title of mine stand in the way of our happiness. Now someone else is making him happy, repairing the hole in his heart that I caused.”

I squeezed her hand as she looked away into the distance and dried her face of tears. “People think they understand our world, Caresa. They see the titles, the money and the family histories and think we have it easy. I am not a spoiled little rich girl crying because she didn’t get her way. I know people have it harder in life than we do—it would be silly to try and say otherwise. But these titles are a leash, a tight leash to our happiness. Look at the late king. He was miserable most of his life, his wife taking refuge in Austria, living like a hermit so she wouldn’t be judged for wanting another life. Zeno looks as though he wants to bolt from this festival, and has done from the minute you entered the courtyard. And you, you stand so rigidly next to Zeno, a false smile on your face because he is not who your heart wants.”

Her words were a dagger to my heart.

“Tell me,” Pia said and moved right before me. “Are your parents happy? I assume they were arranged. Does your mother look at your father with nothing but adoration? Does your father dote on your mother?”

I pictured my parents and immediately knew the answer. “No.” I stilled. “They love each other, respect each other, and love me. But they are not in love. They don’t even sleep in the same room. They haven’t done since I was a child.”

Pia leaned back against the wall of the courtyard. “What a tangled web.”

I was silent for a moment

“Are you staying for the dinner tonight?” I asked eventually. Pia looked at me, and I saw the disappointment in her face. I could see I had let her down by not entertaining this topic any further.

She released my hand. “Of course. Can’t miss the new king being officially crowned, can we?”

I stepped forward to say something to her, to tell her that my mind was a jumbled mess, torn between love and duty and panic and worry. But just as I did, a horn sounded, announcing there was a contest winner.

“Caresa?” Maria came scurrying around the corner, in the constant fluster she always seemed to be in. “We must get to the main stage to award the prize.” She checked her watch. “The phone call will be coming in soon, in about ten minutes.”

Without looking back, I followed Maria to the stage, congratulating the rest of the contestants for their efforts on my way. Their faces were bright from the exertion of the competition, glasses of wine in their hands—not yet the coveted merlot.

When I got to the stage, Zeno was already there, chatting smoothly with the winning pair. He moved to the microphone and introduced the winners. I handed over the check, and we all posed for the picture that would be printed in tomorrow’s newspaper.

When the winners left the stage, a hush fell over the crowd. All eyes fell on the phone that sat on the small table at the front of the stage.

I let my eyes drift across the assembled crowd as we waited for the clock to strike three. Then, at the far back of the courtyard, hidden in the tunnel that led to the fields beyond, I saw a familiar figure. A figure so well-known to me that my heart pumped faster the minute my eyes fell on his messy black hair and bright blue eyes. He was dressed as he always was these days, in jeans and a green flannel shirt.

I wanted to run to him. To stand by his side as the call came in. I wanted every person here to know that the wine they were all here celebrating belonged to the genius of one man.

Yet I didn’t move.

But I saw the moment he knew I had seen him. Achille pushed off the wall and stepped further into the light. My lungs struggled to find air as his warm eyes met mine. Then my stomach fell when I saw the pain in their depths—deep pain and sadness. I didn’t understand it, until I felt Zeno at my side, his hand on my back. I went to move, to pull from under his hand, when the phone began to ring.

In my peripheral vision I saw Zeno answer the phone, but my gaze stayed locked on Achille.

And his on me.

I heard Zeno’s deep voice in the background, but to my ears, it sounded as if he were underwater, words muted and blurred. Then the crowd broke into loud shouts of celebration, and I knew.

Achille’s wine had won again.

Achille blinked and cast his stunned eyes around the celebrating crowd. And I saw it, I saw the moment he realized he had won, and I saw the pride and passion flare on his handsome face.

But my heart broke anew as he looked around him, as he stood alone, no one to share in his joy. No one to tell him that he deserved this, that they were proud of him for all that he had achieved.

That he was worthy of all this adoration.

Looking lost and so very alone, he stumbled back into the shadows. He turned and made his way down the tunnel. The crowd descended upon the servers that had appeared with small samples of the award-winning merlot. Acting on instinct, I left the stage and rushed toward the tunnel.

Pia was beside the mouth of the tunnel. I met her eyes as I passed. They narrowed at my hasty retreat toward the fields. But I didn’t stop. I kept running through the tunnel until I arrived at a field and saw Achille disappearing through a far row of vines.

Not giving up on my chase, I stumbled over the uneven ground until I hit the row. He was almost at the other end. “Achille!” I shouted. He froze in his tracks.

He didn’t turn around as I hurried to meet him, but he didn’t run away either. When I caught up to him, out of breath, his shoulders were tense.

“Achille,” I said again. I reached out my hand and pressed it against his back. Achille heaved out a long sigh and turned. My hand slid to his stomach. But his eyes never met mine. They stayed focused toward the sounds of laughter and music coming from the courtyard.

Distant.

“Achille,” I repeated one last time, stepping closer to him. I wanted to close my eyes and savor his addictive scent. But I kept my composure. “You won, Achille. Your merlot won again.” He didn’t seem to react. His face was blank, only the slight crinkles around his eyes showing that he’d heard my words.

His skin under my palm was scalding, the muscles hard. This was as close as I had been to him in weeks. When we’d studied lately, I had forced myself to keep my distance, as difficult as that was. But right then, I wanted nothing more than to be close. I wanted him to look at me and smile. I wanted to share this special moment with him.

But that was all crushed when his jaw clenched and he said, “You looked good together on that stage, Caresa.”

His eyes finally found mine. Pain, raw and uncensored pain, shone back at me. “Achille,” I whispered, hearing my voice crack. He made himself smile, but if anything that was even more devastating. Because I had seen Achille when he was happy.

This was nothing like that.

“You had better get back to your guests,” Achille said. “The prince will be looking for you.”

He moved to turn away, but I found myself wrapping my arms around his waist and holding him as close as I had wanted to from the minute I saw him in the tunnel. I pressed my cheek against his chest and refused to let him go. Achille was a statue in my arms, until, with a pained sigh, he wrapped his arms tightly around my back.

“I’m so proud of you,” I whispered into the warm fabric of his flannel shirt.

I squeezed my eyes shut and fought back the rising lump in my throat as his lips brushed a soft kiss to the top of my head. I held him tighter. I wasn’t sure how I would ever let him go now that I had allowed myself to fall once again into the safety of his arms. “You deserve this. I’m so very proud.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, a rasp in his voice. And then he pulled back. My arms dropped to my sides as he gave me one last long, agonized look and left the row of vines for the protection of his small, isolated vineyard.

I felt cold without his warmth.

I let the tears that had built fall. I allowed myself to face the truth—I was completely, soulfully, in love with Achille Marchesi.

And that had just complicated things exponentially.

“Caresa?” I turned to look back toward the courtyard, only to see Zeno at the bottom of the row wearing a confused expression. As I walked toward him, I schooled my features, once again the duchessa approaching her betrothed. “What are you doing down here?” he asked, searching the now-empty vines for clues.

“I just needed to get away for a moment. The atmosphere in there became very overwhelming.”

I could see Zeno carefully assessing my answer. But then he shrugged. “You are expected to be present to mingle with the guests. Some of the ladies from the furthest points of Italy were looking to meet you. Maria said we have about an hour before we must get ready for the dinner tonight.”

“Of course, the coronation,” I said dully as we walked back through the tunnel that, moments ago, had led me straight to Achille. Now it was guiding me back into the life of a duchessa, the future queen.

A future queen whose heart was currently trailing behind its counterpart as he trudged alone, back to his simple life, with tears in his eyes and, it seemed, a fracture in his heart.

*****

“Your father was a great king, a true leader for those of us who still regard true Italian history and heritage as a priority.”

I feared my face would twitch with the effort of sustaining my smile. As I glanced at Zeno beside me, I could see he was living the same lie.

The lie that we were happy.

Barone De Luca sat in the seat next to Zeno, holding up his glass of champagne. There were at least fifty people at our table. The decorations were grand and the courses many. The great dining room was swathed in red and gold, hung with oil paintings dating as far back as the Renaissance and before. This room had seen many monarchs.

I wondered what those days had been like. Coronations back then would have been public, of course, but then the king or queen would have been brought back to celebrate quietly in estates such as these. I wondered what these oil paintings would tell us of those coronations, if they could talk. Would they speak of money and politics and crowns and elegant jewels? Would they talk of palaces being constructed, red velvet cloaks and gilded thrones?

Of course, in this relatively modest gathering, there was nothing of the sort. No crown was being placed upon Zeno’s head. No orb made of gold sat on Zeno’s lap. No golden staff was in his hand, no ampulla and spoon anointed his head, declaring to God and country that he was the newly chosen, holy king.

Instead there was a dinner, speeches that reminisced about monarchs of old. There was wine and laughter, and talk of the “good old days” before the people overthrew the royal family. But it was nothing like I imagined tonight would be. I actually felt sad for Zeno, sitting at the top of the table, listening to how great his family once was, knowing he was failing in his family’s business now.

“Your father was a great man, Zeno. And I am sure you will be just the same. The country may have forgotten the true ways of Italy, but we in this room have not. We bow to you as our true king.” The barone raised his glass. “Il re è morto, lunga vita al re!”

The king is dead, long live the king!

Every glass was raised, the toast was echoed and we all took a cementing sip. Barone De Luca sat back down. Zeno signaled for the table to rise, and we slowly adjourned to the great room next door. Pia fell in step beside me. I knew whatever tension had arisen between us today had passed.

Pia linked her arm through mine. She was dressed in an elegant white and black Chanel dress with her hair pulled back in a French roll. My long-sleeved, floor-length gown was silver and encrusted with Swarovski crystals. I wore my hair pulled up at the sides by two delicate 1920s diamond clips. The gown was perfectly fitted and shimmered like glass in the light of the low-hanging chandeliers, the low back of the dress leaving my skin completely bare to the bottom of my spine.

“You look beautiful,” Pia said. She looked over at Baronessa Russo, who was pawing her hands all over Zeno, desperate for his attention. “It’s why she’s acting that way, I’m sure,” Pia said, tilting her head in the baronessa’s direction.

But as I looked at her, all I felt was pity. No doubt she had been raised to believe she could have one day married the much-coveted prince. Every day I was here her chances of that fell greatly.

“I feel sorry for her,” I said aloud. Pia just laughed and shook her head.

Pia and I sat down across from the fireplace with Contessa Bianchi. The guests milled about the room, making idle conversation. After a while, Zeno moved toward the roaring fire, and the sound of a spoon hitting a crystal champagne glass chimed around the room. The chatter stopped, and when I looked up, I saw that Zeno had his head cast down, waiting for the room to hush.

He lifted his head and looked around at his guests. “Tonight is not only a memorable night for me, but one for my fiancée too.” My muscles became blocks of ice, and a trickle of unease ran down my spine. In my peripheral vision, I saw Pia’s head turn to face me in alarm, but my eyes were locked in Zeno’s direction.

Zeno smiled and met my eyes. “The wedding date is set, and our two houses will soon merge.” He paused—for effect, I was sure. “Could you please come up here, Duchessa?”

Quiet murmurs ran around the room like a slow rolling wave. But I stood and made my way to his place beside the fire. He turned to face me. I was sure my eyes were wide as I waited for what would happen next.

Zeno took my hand. “Duchessa, we have been betrothed since we were children, and now have a wedding set for only weeks away.” I swallowed as he reached for my hand—my left hand.

My bare left hand.

Zeno’s thumb ran over my ring finger. He smiled. “We are engaged, yet you have still to receive a ring to let everyone know that you are mine. I think this is long overdue.” I shuddered as he said the word “mine”. It was as though my heart physically rejected his claim. And of course it would. It already belonged to another.

The room was tense, the air thickening with expectation. Zeno reached into his pocket and, in front of the blazing fire, dropped to his knee and stared up into my eyes. “Caresa Acardi, Duchessa di Parma, would you do me the honor of becoming my bride, the woman who will live her life by my side?”

Zeno opened the red velvet box in his hand, and the ladies in the room gasped. Inside was a princess-cut diamond ring. The gold of the band shone like the brightest of suns, and the huge diamond threw its reflection around the room like a spray of perfect little rainbows.

It was at least five carats.

But all I could see when I stared down at this most impressive ring was Achille. All I saw when I looked into Zeno’s face was Achille’s blue eyes as he praised me for choosing a bunch of grapes correctly. I saw his timid smile as he allowed himself to laugh at one of my jokes, at the moments my upper-class breeding caused me to say something superficial and Achille, with his quick wit and sarcasm, reminded me of how silly it sounded. But more than that, as Zeno kneeled before me, all I saw was the dream of it being Achille who was asking me to be his bride. To be the woman who would help him harvest the grapes then lie with him at night in front of the fire. And he would read to me . . .

. . . of Plato and split-aparts.

My throat was thick as the vision in my head became so very real it tricked my heart. Tears ran down my cheeks, but not for the reason the guests believed.

Because this moment was my ruin.

This moment, where the reality of what my life would become hit home.

This ring, this symbol of eternal, never-ending love, as beautiful as it may be, felt like a prison collar as Zeno slipped it onto my finger. An expensive collar, but a collar nonetheless.

The room broke into rapturous applause, taking my tears as a sign of being overcome with happiness. The duchessa finally getting a token of love from the prince.

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

Zeno’s eyes narrowed as he got to his feet. He knew I did not care for him in a romantic way, and I knew he grew suspicious of my tears.

“Bacio!” a member of the crowd called out, prompting murmurs of agreement from the rest of our guests.

Kiss!

I didn’t want it. I never wanted his lips to remove the taste of Achille from my mouth. I didn’t want to betray the night I had spent with Achille with this farce. But then Zeno cupped my face and pressed his mouth to mine, abruptly eradicating Achille from my flesh . . . eradicating all I had left of the man I loved.

And I hated it. I hated how his mouth moved against mine. I hated how his tongue swept around my lips and dipped slightly into my mouth. I hated Zeno’s grip on my face. But worst, as our chests touched, I hated how his heart beat. Out of step with my own—no symphony, no in-sync rhythm . . . just unmatching and distant.

Zeno pulled back and dropped his hands from my face. He was pale, as if the reality of our situation had just hit him too.

He moved away from me as the ladies rushed around me, holding up my ring for their inspection. Zeno was being slapped on the back, but he looked a little lost underneath his usual confident mask.

“Duchessa!” the women cooed. “It is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen! You are so lucky!”

I smiled, nodding my head and giving rote answers when I could find the strength. And I played the part for another two hours, until at last I could make my excuses to leave. I said my last goodbye and darted for the stairs.

With every step, my heart seemed to drain, until it was a desert in a drought, starved of life and thirsting for any kind of relief. The ring felt like a ten-ton weight on my finger, pulling me down. And with every step, Zeno’s kiss blazed hotter and hotter on my lips, ripping away the memory of Achille’s kiss that I had clung onto, with a heady desperation, for weeks.

And now it was gone. I had pushed Achille away, giving us just that one, special night, but now all I could think of was being back in his arms. I wanted him in every possible way. I wanted his arms and lips and skin on my skin. I wanted him inside me, loving me just as much as I loved him, hearts beating in unison, blood rushing for the vital touch of the other.

As I reached my room, I let the tears fall. But I also gave in to my heart. I fled through the balcony doors, allowing my pumping blood to guide my feet. The cool breeze snapped at my wet cheeks as I ran as fast as my heels would allow to Achille’s home.

The night was dark, the stars creating a blanket of diamonds and glittering golds. It was late, too late, but I had to get to Achille. Like Cinderella, I too was running from a prince at midnight. But where she had run reluctantly back to her rags and simple life, I was running into the arms of a man who boasted just the same. Cinderella could keep the jewels, the carriage and the prince. I wanted the vineyard, the faded jeans and the golden touch of a beautiful winemaker.

I slammed through the gate of Achille’s cottage, the solar lamps leading me to his wooden front door. I rattled the handle, fighting for purchase with my shaking hands until it opened and invited me inside. I ran straight through, into the living room. The fire was burning, a single chair sitting before it. The books I had given Achille to read were stacked beside it, along with a pen fitted with the tripod grip and a pad of paper.

My chest ached at the sight.

Did he sit here every night, learning and trying?

Alone, always alone.

Pavarotti played quietly from an old record player in the corner. Flickering lamps and the fire’s orange embers coated the whitewashed walls in a warm glow.

This was Achille’s life. Music and wine and loneliness. He deserved more. He deserved more than anyone could give him.

“Caresa?” Achille’s rough voice came from the doorway. He stole my breath; he was damp from the shower, his black hair wet, water dripping down his back. A towel was around his neck, and he wore black pajama bottoms.

I felt a sudden wash of peace travel through me at just being near to him. Such peace that it was a healing balm to my pained soul. A peace that I knew, with everything that I was, only Achille could give me.

Something had happened in the universe the day we had met. There was a cosmic shift, some destined alteration to the very fabric of who we were. The sun and the moon had aligned and cast us into one another’s hearts, never to be torn apart.

“He said that once you find that person, your ‘split-apart’, you are blanketed by such belonging, such desire, that you will never want to be without it . . . as Plato said, ‘. . . and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment’.” The memory of Achille’s words circled my mind.

Belonging.

Desire.

They don’t want to be separated . . . not even for a moment.

Were we those wandering lost souls reunited at last?

“Caresa? What is wrong? What happened?” Achille stepped forward, worry etched onto his perfect, beautiful face.

I threw myself against him. My arms wrapped around his waist, and I held on tightly. I felt his hot skin on mine, our bodies perfectly aligned, just like the stars that had guided us to this very moment.

To this vineyard.

To each other.

“Caresa? You’re scaring me,” he whispered as he held me tightly against him. I wanted to punish myself. How could I have walked away from this? How could I have ever left this feeling? How could I have ever left this man?

I’d seen the pain in his eyes today as Zeno was touching me. I had seen him searching for someone to smile at him as his merlot was deemed the best in the world.

That should have been me. It all should have been me.

But I had no idea how any of this could or would play out. We were destined for different paths. We were from such different worlds, yet shared the same soul. It all seemed so very impossible.

“Just hold me,” I whispered as I turned my cheek to press against his warmth. I closed my eyes, and just allowed this man to embrace me. I allowed his hands to run through my hair as he pressed tender kisses to my head.

Eventually, Achille guided me back to face him and cupped my cheeks with his palms. He searched my eyes as a tear rolled down my cheek. He caught the tear with his thumb. “What has caused these tears? Why are you so sad?”

I didn’t think my actions through. I didn’t think anything through at all. Instead I rose onto my tiptoes and pressed my mouth to Achille’s. Achille groaned as I brought our mouths together in prayer, my hands pressing in worship to his cheeks. I had barely tasted his lips or absorbed his warmth before he pulled away and staggered back from me.

His blue eyes were wild and afraid. His arms were rigid at his sides. His nostrils flared as he drew in ragged breaths. I took a step toward him, but he held out a hand. “Caresa,” he said, his small whisper of my name both a reverent benediction and a curse. “No.” He shook his head, his warring emotions flashing across his face—hurt, desperation, passion and confusion. Every single one was a stab to my heart.

“Achille,” I pleaded, physically feeling my heart breaking.

“You said we had to stop this.” He shook his head, his eyes lost and fearful. “You said we could have only one night . . . I can’t do this . . . my heart can’t . . . I can’t take it . . .”

He turned his back, moving out of my sight, and I found myself confessing what lay in my soul. “I love you.”

Achille stopped dead, as if my words were tight leashes to his legs.

My heart sprinted as the realization of what I had just admitted seeped into my bones. But I could not regret the words. They were the truth.

Achille needed to hear them just as much as I needed to express them. Every day they were kept inside was a day filled with pain.

I watched each muscle in his back cord with tension. I waited in silence for him turn around and face me. To look into my eyes and see the truth of my words reflected back. And now those words had been released, set forth into the night air, I felt a sense of freedom.

As if my soul had arrived home.

Achille turned around. He blinked, and twin tears rolled in parallel down his stubbled cheeks. “You . . . do?”

I let out a sob at the sight of his bewildered expression. As if he couldn’t believe that someone could love him. But I did. My love for him was embedded in my every cell; it inspired my every breath and heartbeat.

He was me, and I was him.

A true whole.

“Yes,” I whispered, taking a step forward.

Then he opened his eyes, and, just as he was about to say something in return, his gaze fell to my hand.

My left hand . . .

. . . and whatever he was about to confess was lost to the silence.

Any morsel of hope I had been holding on to evaporated into the air when his pupils dilated at the sight of that ring. His pale cheeks flushed red. His feet found life and stumbled away from me. I tried to give chase, but he fled the living room, and I heard the back door open. The cool air surged inside and circled around me. The flames from the fire roared and flared with life as the fresh air invaded its space.

The slam of the wooden door pushed me into action. I rushed after Achille, heart thundering in fear—fear that I had lost him. I burst into his garden to see him disappearing toward his vines.

I followed him, past Rosa and Nico in their stables. I burst through the trees he had just run through and found him on the third row of now-empty vines, head tipped back as he stared up at the moon.

His breath was white as it collided with the cool of the night. His damp olive skin bumped and shivered, and his toes curled into the soil beneath his bare feet.

I went to speak, searching for the right words to say, to explain, but he spoke before I could.

“My . . . my heart can’t take this anymore.”

His words slayed me, cut me where I stood. He still hadn’t turned to face me. I wasn’t sure if he could. His hurt was evident in his voice.

“I knew . . .” he whispered, so softly, so roughly, “I knew I saw something within you not long after we had met. Then I foolishly allowed my heart to fall, too hard and too fast. I let it happen. I let it happen because it was you and it was me. That’s how I saw it in my head. These vines, the horses and you and me.”

His breathing hitched and his voice became broken and coarse. “When you were beside me I felt strong and whole. When you were gone, I was empty and sad. There was a hollowness in my chest, and I found it hard to breathe.” He dropped his head, evading the moon’s soothing light. “Then we made love.” He raised his hand, and even though I couldn’t see it, I knew his finger lay over his lips. “We kissed, our mouths touched, and it changed something inside me. I felt it happen. I felt it like I feel the hot sun on my face each day, like I feel the vines in my hands and know they are ripe . . . You asked me once how I knew when the grapes were ready for harvesting, and I told you I just knew.” He turned to face me. He lifted his fingers to his head, his heart and finally held out his hands toward me. “I know because I know it in my head, I feel it in my heart, and I touch it with my hands.”

I felt my lips tremble at the innocence of his explanation, the sadness in his voice.

“With you it was exactly the same. I didn’t see it at first, fooled myself into thinking my soul hadn’t discovered you as its own, but when we made love, when I held you in my arms, in my bed, skin against skin, I knew. I was changed. I knew it in my head, I felt it in my heart, and I knew it by our touch . . . it was . . . it was . . . destined.”

“Achille,” I cried. I wanted to move to him, to touch him like he had just described. But he shook his head slightly, begging me not to approach.

“That night, I knew that would be all we ever had. Even before you spoke those words and they met my ears, I knew.” He dropped his eyes, and the defeat in his beautiful body broke my heart. “We are made of the same soul but not of the same life. I knew that we were one of the lost causes my father told me about. Not the all-consuming, not those who find their forever peace in the other, but those whose circumstances don’t align. The unfortunates that in an alternate universe would be the happiest of hearts but are forever broken and lost in this.” He finally met my eyes. “So I can’t hear this from your mouth, Caresa . . . I can’t do this anymore . . . it hurts . . .” He laid his hand over his heart. “It hurts so much that I can’t bear it.”

He pointed at my engagement ring. “You are not meant for me after all. You are marrying the prince. I have let myself pretend that it isn’t happening, but soon, you will marry the prince. You will become his under God’s eyes. Never mine.”

“No.” I ripped the ring from my hand. Achille watched me with wide eyes as I held it up in front of him. “He gave me this tonight.” I gestured to my dress. “He gave me this to impress his guests. It is an empty promise, not given through love. I don’t care for this ring, or this damn marriage.” I threw the ring to the ground.

Achille was rooted to the spot. But in the light of the moon I could see his face reddening, his hands fisting at his sides. He raised one fist and pressed it against his forehead in frustration.

“Achille—”

“I can’t give you what he can,” he said, his voice deep and hard. His hand dropped back to his side. “I can’t give you jewels and banquets and festivals in a mansion.” He slapped his hand on his naked chest. “I could give you me, and my vines, but that is all. I have little money. I know nothing of the world you have traveled. I know Umbria and Italy, and I know my small house and horses.” His face screwed up in pain, and he gasped, “I can’t even read or write. I am not what you should have.”

“You’re enough,” I whispered, my softly spoken words seemingly daggers to his heart. Because they didn’t fall on accepting ears; they were fuel to an already sparking flame.

Achille reached for a vine beside him and ripped it from its branch. He marched toward me and took my left hand. He wrapped the brown vine around my ring finger three times and knotted it.

He knotted it.

The hands that he so struggled to use for smaller movements had tied a ring to my finger. “There,” he said harshly. “That is what I could offer. A ring of vines and earth, not diamonds and gold. Is that enough for you, Duchessa? Is this simple life enough?”

I wanted to shout back. I wanted to hit his chest and release my frustration at his cutting tone. But I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but embarrassment and agony, and I knew this was just like when I discovered the secret of his reading. This anger was his shield, his way of coping with a truth that hurt him deeply, irreparably . . . it was how he planned to push me away.

Achille watched me, nose flaring, waiting for me to go, to leave him alone. But instead I reached out and ripped off another tendril of vine. I lifted his rough left hand in my own, and wrapped the brown thread around his finger.

His finger that was shaking.

Shaking so hard.

Achille held his breath as I tied the knot, securing the vine in place. Even when I was done, I didn’t let go of his hand. I stroked my fingers over his knuckles, then guided his hand up to my lips and grazed the delicate vine ring with my kiss.

An exhale escaped his lips at my touch, its warmth ghosting over my face. Without lifting my eyes from his work-roughened hands, I said, “If my ring is made of a simple vine born from this earth, then so is yours.” A strained sound caught in Achille’s throat. I lifted my eyes, making sure I held his attention. “I love you, Achille Marchesi, winemaker of the Bella Collina merlot. I found you, my missing part, here amongst the vines, and nothing you say will ever change that fact.”

“Caresa.” Achille’s eyelids drifted shut as the fight left his tired body. I edged closer, so close that my lips hovered over his chest. Needing to taste him, to have Achille eradicate the feel of Zeno’s lips, I brushed a kiss over his chest . . . exactly where his heart lay.

It beat in perfect sync with my own.

Achille hissed at my touch, and as if a dam broke inside him, his hands threaded into my hair and tilted back my head. His mouth came crashing down on my own, a loud groan sailing from his throat. The instant his taste hit my tongue, my blood spiked with fever, my hands gliding to Achille’s back to rake at his bare skin.

He groaned as I strived to get him as close as I possibly could. We were frantic and untamed as we drank each other down, starving for the other’s touch. I broke from Achille’s mouth, searching for breath, and his mouth continued south, laying kisses over my jaw and my neck.

“I need you,” I whispered. “I need you now. I need you close.”

Achille pulled back and searched my eyes. His were almost black, his blown pupil eradicating the sweet blue. The next minute I was in his arms as he dropped to his knees, placing me gently on the flat, cold ground. But I didn’t care. I would have let him take me anywhere, just to feel him inside of me again. Just to feel his chest against my breasts and his body on mine.

Achille crawled over me, his warm skin seeping through the material of my dress. The crystals on my expensive gown sparkled in the moonlight—jewels on a bed of earth.

Achille stilled as he stared down at me. I shifted, feeling nervous at the way he studied me. As if I was everything in his world.

I was in his head, his heart and his hands.

Achille lifted his hand and stroked it down my cheek. He pressed his forehead to mine. “Did you know that you were my first? That night, when we made love, did you know it was you I had been waiting for?”

I didn’t think it was possible for me to want or need Achille more than I had. I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to expand any further. For my soul to mold any closer to his.

But I was wrong. I was so wrong. Because as his cheeks flushed pink when he drew back his head, everything magnified on an impossible scale. Like a dream, my love for him was endless and boundless. And like the simple vine ring wrapped around my finger, I knew it was eternal.

“I knew,” I said as I ran my thumb over his kiss-swollen lips. “I knew, and I was honored. I . . . I still can’t believe it was me you chose. It is me who was given a gift. Your heart.”

Achille turned his face into my hand, his cheek nuzzling the palm. He bent down and brushed his lips past mine. “Mi amore. Mi amore per sempre.”

My love. My love forever.

I crushed my lips to Achille’s. I shivered as he pushed up the skirt of my dress. He shifted until he was completely above me. And then he was filling me. He was taking me, our souls and hearts bared, and no secrets left inside. My back arched as he filled me completely. His arms shook at the side of my head as his eyes closed.

And then he moved. He rocked into me, slowly, purely, on the soil he tended, under the naked moon and twinkling stars. The rich smell of the surrounding vines merged with the fresh smell of his skin and the peach scent from my hair.

My hands explored his bare back, my fingers running through his hair as his rhythm increased and his breathing grew labored. His eyes opened, and they stared down at me with such intense admiration that tears built in my eyes.

“I love you,” I said, needing him to hear those words again.

Achille groaned and took me deeper, making me his own.

“Mi amore,” he murmured over and over as he increased his speed, my hands clutching onto his hair as a familiar pressure built at the bottom of my spine. Shivers exploded through my body, and Achille stilled.

Heads and hearts and hands.

When I opened my eyes, Achille was gazing down at me, his skin glistening in the moonlight. “How do you say it?” he asked. I blinked, unsure what he meant. “In English,” he asked. “How do you say ‘Ti amo?’”

I smiled. “I love you,” I said in English, slowly, so he could hear each word.

“I . . . love . . . you . . .” he echoed, his heavy Italian accent bringing such life to such beautiful words.

“Why did you want to know it in English?” I asked as he lifted my left hand and ran the tip of his finger over the vine ring.

“Because I wanted to be able to say it in both of your languages.” His familiar teasing smirk came to his mouth. “Though I believe it sounds better in Italian.” His smile fell. “I love you forever,” he said tenderly.

Ti amo per sempre.

I agreed; it sounded better in Italian.

“I love you too.” I wanted him left in no doubt of how I felt. But I could see the disbelief in every part of his face. I could see the slither of doubt in his eyes. I vowed to make it so I never saw it again.

He brushed back my hair. “I want to take you in front of my fire, in my home.”

I nodded. Achille got to his feet, then lifted me into his arms. “Can’t have the duchessa’s feet getting dirty,” he teased.

I laughed, deciding this playful side of Achille was my favorite. For it was as rare as a shooting star, but no less memorable. “I think they already are.”

Achille shrugged as he carried me with ease toward his house. “Then I will just hold you in my arms. You look right there. You feel right there too.”

I let my head fall against his shoulder and my arms wrap around his neck as we entered his pretty garden. He didn’t put me back down until we were in front of the fire. My feet landed on the soft sheepskin rug that sat before the hearth. Achille disappeared into his bedroom and returned with his comforter and two pillows. He placed them down before the fire. I went to sit down, but he took hold of my hand and drew me to where he stood. Silently, he pushed the sleeves of my dress off my shoulders, the delicate fabric falling to the floor. I hadn’t worn underwear, the dress’s fit not designed for anything to be worn underneath.

Achille’s eyes flared as his gaze roved over my naked body. He brought his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and stripped himself of them.

We were both bared, in both body and soul, before each other and the climbing fire.

It was perfect.

I kicked my dress to the side. Achille sat on the floor in front of the fire and held out his hand. I went to him in an instant, letting him draw me down until my back lay against his chest. He brought the comforter over us both and piled the pillows behind his back.

Blanketed by the fire, Achille and his warmth, I stared into the flames and watched as they danced, swirls of oranges, yellows and reds. I wasn’t sure how long we sat there in silence, but it could have been eternity. I had never been more content than to simply sit in contemplative silence.

Achille’s hand drifted to my stomach. I stilled; it resembled how an expectant father would hold the stomach of his pregnant wife. “Caresa?”

“Don’t worry, I am on birth control.”

Achille exhaled a long breath. “I would not feel worry if you carried my child,” he said quietly.

My heart swelled.

Achille shifted his hand, and the next thing I knew, a book was placed on my lap. The title read Greatest Wines of the World. I glanced up from where my head was tucked into the crook between Achille’s shoulder and neck. His long black lashes kissed the tops of his cheeks. He chewed on his lip as though he was nervous. But I waited, with a racing heart, to find out why he had brought out this book.

Achille had improved so dramatically in the weeks that I had been helping him with his dyslexia. But having seen his pile of books earlier, I knew that was mostly down to him. He must have been reading every night, searching for the words that had been out of reach his whole life.

He was a fighter.

He wasn’t giving up this time.

Achille cleared his throat, and with careful concentration, opened the book to a bookmarked page. Achille lifted the book, placing his finger on the chosen sentence so he could track the words. I felt him swallow deeply, then take a deep breath. With my breath held and my eyes wide, I listened as he read. “It is ar . . . argued . . .” He paused and collected his thoughts. “That . . . the best . . . merl . . . merlot . . . in the world . . . do . . . does not co . . . come from France . . . but fr . . . from . . . Um . . . Umbria, Italy.” I didn’t move as he gathered his composure again and continued. “The most sou . . . sought-after wine . . . hai . . . hails from . . . Sav . . . Savona Wines’ . . . Bella Collina estate.” Achille read the final part of the sentence silently to himself, then said, “2008 is re . . . regarded as the best . . . vin . . . vintage . . . to date.”

Achille released a heavy sigh and lowered the open book. His chin rested on my shoulder as he reached down and ran his finger under the words “Bella Collina”.

“Bella Collina,” he said proudly, earning every ounce of that pride in his voice. “Bella Collina. My home. I can read the name of my home.”

This time there was no hiding the tears in my eyes, nor the thick emotion in my voice. I turned in Achille’s arms and got to my knees, hearing the book thud to the floor. I pressed my hands to his cheeks and watched as he searched my eyes. “I love you,” I whispered, then brought my lips to his. “I am so proud of you, Achille. So proud I can barely even breathe.”

Achille kissed me back, and we made long, sweet love before the fire, the flames warming our bodies as they joined on the sheepskin rug. We slept in each other’s arms, a newfound peace settling in our hearts.

I woke to Achille’s sweet lips pressing kisses to my neck. “Mm . . .” I murmured, arching my neck so he could caress me more.

“Mi amore,” he whispered, his minty breath filling my nose. “Come with me.”

I struggled to open my eyes, wanting nothing more than to make this morning last just a few hours more. I didn’t want to leave this fire, nor this rug, nor his arms.

“Please,” he begged softly, moving his lips to the edges of my mouth.

“Where are we going?” I asked, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“I want to show you something.” I sat up. Achille was already dressed in his jeans and a shirt. He held out some old black jodhpurs and one of his familiar red flannel shirts. A pair of leather ankle riding boots lay beside me.

“They were my mother’s. The shirt is mine. I didn’t think you would be able to ride in your gown.”

I playfully stuck out my tongue at Achille and was rewarded with a laugh and wide smile. I was fully awake now.

Achille handed me the clothes. He had even included socks and a pair of his boxer shorts for me to wear. He chuckled to himself as I put them on. The jodhpurs fit well enough, as did the ankle boots, but Achille’s shirt hung low, and the sleeves drowned my hands. I rolled them up to my wrists. I stood before Achille and held out my arms. “Do I still look like a duchessa to you?”

I was teasing. He knew I was teasing. But when he moved forward and kissed my lips, he still said, “You will always be a duchessa. But now you are my duchessa. And that I can live with.” He held out his hand. “Come, I’ve already tacked up the horses.”

Achille led me outside. Nico and Rosa were waiting for us beside the paddock. I glanced up at the sky. “Achille, it’s still dark,” I said. “What time is it?”

“Early.” He helped me mount Rosa and then swung himself on to Nico’s back. “But I want you to see something. I . . . I wanted to share a moment with you.”

“Okay,” I replied at the hopeful expression on his face.

Together we walked the horses out of his vineyard and onto the track outside. The birds were beginning to wake from the trees around us, but the rest of the world was still asleep. There was me, Achille, the horses and his vines. All he claimed he could offer, yet in that moment, I needed nothing more.

We walked side by side until we turned right and began climbing a hill. We climbed and we climbed at a leisurely pace until the horses were breathless and we made it to the very top.

Before I had the chance to see the view, Achille had jumped off Nico and tied him to a nearby tree, slipping his bit from his mouth so he could graze on the grass. He came over to me and Rosa and flicked his head. “Come on.” I smiled at the excitement on his face, and waited for him as he tied Rosa up beside Nico.

He placed his hands over my eyes. “Let me show you why this estate got its name.”

I laughed, pulse racing, as Achille led me forward. “Keep your eyes closed until I say so,” he said as he guided me down to sit. He sat down behind me and wrapped me in his arms.

“Can I open my eyes yet?” I asked as I melted against his warmth. The flannel shirt smelled so much of him that he was all I could feel in all of my senses.

I had never been so happy in my life.

“Not yet . . . just . . . wait . . .” he said as though he were waiting impatiently for something. So I waited, eyes closed, as he tucked me closer, keeping me safe.

“Okay, mi amore,” he whispered. “Open your eyes.”

I opened my eyes and blinked in utter amazement. We were up on the highest of hills, Achille leaning against a thick tree. We had a perfect panoramic view of the Umbrian countryside around us. Vast, seemingly unending, rolling hills stretched for miles into the distance, the valleys painted with Mother Nature’s autumn browns and deep forest greens.

“Bella Collina,” I whispered.

“It was why it was named Bella Collina, because of this view. Because of this spot, right here. Beautiful hill.”

“It is perfect,” I said, quietly, so I didn’t disturb the tranquil peace of the dawn.

Achille pointed over a far hill, and I gasped when I saw the golden brow of the sun rising to bring in the break of day. The horizon shimmered as the sun cast out its red and orange rays—not yet yellow—as it too roused from sleep.

As I watched the waking sun grow higher in the sky, Achille’s hand landed on mine and gently stroked over the vine ring.

He was so worried that he couldn’t give me what Zeno could, that he didn’t have money and status and a mansion. But not even the greatest riches in the world could give me this.

Only Achille could give me this moment. Brought here on the back of my dream horse. Being held tightly in his arms. Being roused from sleep after a long night of making love to the other half of my soul in front of his fire.

Money, titles and mansions had absolutely no place in my happiness at all. Even if I could have only this, I would still be the richest woman to grace the earth.

We stayed that way until the sun was in perfect view, a golden orb hovering in the blue sky. “I need to have this,” I said aloud. Achille tensed behind me. I turned my head to face him. His jaw was clenched as he watched the sun . . . as he avoided my gaze.

“Why are you marrying the prince?” he asked, still without meeting my eyes.

My gaze narrowed at his question. This time it was my hand that sought out his vine ring. I let my fingertip ghost over it. I let it give me comfort when sudden nerves and doubt accosted my heart. “It was an agreement from our childhood, but now it is mainly because of the king.” I inhaled, feeling the intrusion of the rest of the world raise its head. “Savona Wines has not been doing well since Santo’s death. My father can only do so much from America to help. My marriage to Zeno will help strengthen and stabilize the business here in Italy. But it’s also just what we do in our circle, Achille. Status marries status.”

“So it is mostly to help your family?”

“I guess,” I said quietly.

Achille leaned his head back against the tree. I scrambled to sit up and face him. This time he had no choice but to meet my eyes. “Achille, amore,” I murmured echoing his endearment back at him. His eyes softened as he heard it. “I want you. Yesterday, last night—the ring, the banquet, the festival—they all made me realize that I don’t want this. None of this. I want you and only you.” I gripped his left hand and brought it to my lips. “Zeno doesn’t love me. And I certainly do not love him.”

When he still didn’t speak, or even react, I pressed, “Tell me. You’re scaring me. Why aren’t you speaking to me?”

“What about my wine? My home? My horses? My vines?”

He seemed so lost as his blue eyes searched mine for answers. I sat back, casting my eyes to the horses grazing beyond the peak of the hill. “I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen when I tell my parents, tell Zeno. But I won’t deny you.”

A loving expression engulfed his face, swiftly followed by an expression so fearful my heart dropped. “The Marchesi family has made wine on that land for decades. It was my father’s home. It is my home. That land is in my blood. I . . .” He winced. “I would not know what to do with my life if I did not make the merlot.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I tried to imagine Achille without his land and his simple but worthy life here at Bella Collina. It would devastate him to lose it. And Savona Wines would never recover if the merlot were lost.

“Then we buy more time,” I said, desperate to try and think straight. Of a plan. Of something . . . “I will talk to Zeno. I will talk to my parents. I will make them understand. As harsh as it sounds, this marriage is about money. Your merlot is essential to my father and Zeno’s business. They wouldn’t let you go . . . not even for this, I think.”

Achille’s shaking hand cupped my cheek. “I won’t come between you and your family. Family is the most important thing. You will not know this until you have to live without it.”

“Achille,” I whispered sadly.

“Wait until this year’s vintage is complete. I . . . I need to concentrate this month on finishing the process. Then comes the bottling . . . then . . .”

“Then we can tell them,” I said, realizing that would give me until mid-December. It was close to the wedding, but I hated how fearful Achille was of losing all he ever knew. So we would wait. What were a few weeks anyway?

“Okay,” I said soothingly, pressing my forehead to his. “We will wait. But there’s no going back now, Achille.” I dropped kisses to his cheeks, to his head and finally to his lips. When I broke away, with his hands running through my hair, I said, “I need to kiss you and touch you and make love to you. I will help with the wine, your reading and writing, and the horses. And I will find a way to love you each night, until I can have you forever.”

“You promise?” he said, so quietly that I lost my heart to him all over again.

“With everything I am.”

Achille brought his mouth to mine, and I kissed him against the breathless backdrop of an Umbrian dawn. I kissed him until the sun’s rays began to caress the back of my neck and the brightening sky told us it was time to go.

As we rode back toward his house, we passed the botanical garden. Achille abruptly dismounted Nico and jumped the fence. I panicked, wondering what he was doing, as he disappeared inside a greenhouse. But that question was answered when he walked out clutching a single white rose. His lip hooked shyly up at the side as he stood beside me and offered the rose to me.

I took it, as I always would. “Thank you,” I said, smelling the fragrant delicate petals.

Achille jumped back on Nico and we continued our ride back to his vineyard. He picked up Zeno’s engagement ring from the field. “You will need this for now,” was all he said as he tucked it into my pocket. Then I left Achille with a long slow kiss, a promise that I would see him soon.

My walk this morning was slow. I allowed myself the luxury of time, drinking in the countryside around me. I held my single rose in my hand, breathed in Achille’s scent from his shirt. I kicked up the dust from the track and tried to imagine Zeno playing on it as a child. I wondered if he knew Achille. If he had ever even spoken to him. And I tried to imagine what would be said, weeks from now, when I told my family I wouldn’t go through with this marriage. When I told Zeno that I chose my heart over wealth.

And I prayed that, whatever happened, Achille didn’t regret me.

That would be a punishment worse than death.

When I entered my rooms, I went straight to the bathroom and showered. I was hungry from the long, sleepless night, so I decided to go downstairs and get an early breakfast.

I made my way along the hallway and down the stairs, taking the route through the study to the back door of the kitchen. As I entered the study it was dark, the long red velvet drapes blocking out the early light.

I wondered why the housekeeper had forgotten to open them. I pulled them back, allowing in the light, when a voice from behind said, “Leave them.”

I spun around, hand on heart, only to see Zeno slouching in the large leather chair next to the unlit fireplace. “Zeno, you scared me,” I said, trying to calm my heart.

I moved toward him and saw he was clutching a full glass of scotch, an almost depleted crystal decanter on the table beside him. He was still dressed in last night’s suit, but his tie was gone and his jacket was crooked. His hair, for once, was a mess, the dark ends sticking up in every direction.

“Zeno.” I said, moving to stand before him. “Have you been here all night?” It took him a while to lift his head. When he met my eyes, his were unfocused. “Are you drunk?” I asked, beginning to worry.

“Not enough,” he slurred and threw back the remainder of the scotch in his glass. He quickly refilled it with what was left in the decanter.

“Why have you been drinking all night?” I folded my arms over my chest.

Zeno raised an eyebrow at me with a cocky smirk. “Why, Duchessa? Are you suddenly interested in me? In my welfare?”

“Don’t be absurd, Zeno. Of course I care for you. And I want to know why you are drinking yourself into a stupor.”

Zeno reached out sloppily and patted the chair next to his. “Sit down, fiancée.”

I cautiously did as he said, smelling the strong scent of liquor on him the minute I was beside him. He tried to smile at me, but it was another forced grin.

I was tired of all the pretense.

“Stop it, Zeno. There is no one here for us to lie to right now. Just tell me what is on your mind.”

“What is on my mind . . .” Zeno trailed off and bowed forward. I saw him freeze, then look at me. “Where is your ring? Cost me a pretty penny, that did. But I had to make sure my duchessa was impressed.” He leaned closer still. “I even made you cry.” He pulled back. “Or was that just a good act? I know you weren’t crying from happiness. Did I make you cry in sadness, Duchessa? Because you were tying your life to me?”

I’d had just about enough of this, so I shifted my chair to face him directly and took the scotch from his hand. Zeno’s face clouded with anger, but I held up my hand and said, “Tell me why you’ve been here in this room all night. And don’t try and joke or charm your way out of it. I want the truth.”

Zeno tried to stare me down, but then sagged back in his chair and ran his hand over his face. “I know you think I have been in Florence all of this time, screwing anything that moved, but you are wrong.” I stayed quiet, waiting for him to carry on. He leaned to the side of the chair, defeated, his head resting against the headrest. “I haven’t. I was there a couple of days when I had to be. But I have been all over Italy to our buyers, trying to convince them to stay with Savona Wines over our competitors.” He laughed a humorless laugh. “Turns out they don’t trust me. They grilled me, asked me questions about our production that I couldn’t answer. Asked me about a plan for the future—one I didn’t have. They questioned me on everything, and I didn’t know a thing. I, the prince, was put to the test by wine buyers and merchants and made to look a fool.”

Zeno sighed, reining in his anger. “And if I have to hear from one more person that I am not the man my father was, that I am not as dedicated to these vineyards as my father was, I will scream.”

“Does my father know?” I asked, feeling my face pale with worry. “Does he know that we are losing business?”

“We?” Zeno said patronizingly. He flicked his hand. “He knows some. I haven’t told him of the rest.”

“Zeno.” I rubbed my forehead. “How many buyers have you lost?”

“Mm . . . close to seventy percent,” he said, and I instantly felt sick.

“But how? That’s crazy!” I exclaimed. “And the merlot? That is not selling? I thought there was a waiting list?”

“The merlot is fine,” Zeno said, staring into the unlit fire. “It is expensive, but with the small quantities produced, it doesn’t bring in enough revenue to even sustain this place.” He sighed. “Caresa, we have eleven properties all over Italy and own hundreds of thousands of acres of land. All our wines must sell, not just the merlot. We have lost winemakers to our competitors. They took other offers when my father died because they did not know me or trust me.”

“Why didn’t you work with your father to learn the business?” I asked, feeling my anger taking hold. Zeno was a twenty-six-year-old man. How could he have lived so carelessly?

“I had no interest in it. He wanted me involved, but it didn’t appeal to me. In the end he told me to take a break and he would handle things. So I did.”

“You spent your time drinking and partying instead of learning the family business? Is it any wonder the buyers are jumping ship?”

Zeno’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. “And what the hell would you know?”

“I know that since I have been here, you have made an appearance at this property twice,” I snapped. “I know that on those days you have never once walked through your land, getting to know the people that put their blood, sweat and tears into your wines. I have been here but a short while, and I know more of the farmers and winemakers than you, who has had this estate in your life since you were born!”

I got to my feet, staring Zeno down. “You have a gift in this land, Zeno, in all of the land you own. Your winemakers are exceptional, as is the product. If the buyers are leaving, it is down to you and you alone. These wines are better than any of the competitors can provide.” I was shaking with rage. “Maybe instead of traveling to the South of France with whichever baronessa had taken your fancy that week, you should have been here with your father, sharing in the business that allows you to live in such a way. My father moved, Zeno. He left his beloved Italy to expand the business he built with your father. As his daughter, I am ashamed that all he sacrificed is going up in smoke. And this sham of a marriage isn’t going to fix it!”

“Are you finished?” he hissed, his face reddening with fury.

“No, there is one more thing.” I stepped toward him until I could see perfectly into his eyes. “It is time you started to care about this business before you are its ruin. Many people will suffer, thousands will lose their very reason for being if you let this ship sink.” Drawing one last fortifying breath, I pointed at him and spat, “It is time you began living for this vineyard, instead of living by it. You happily reap the rewards yet do nothing to earn them.” I dropped my hand. “So start trying!”

I stormed back toward my rooms, my anger chasing my hunger away. Because I was seething. I was so angry at how Zeno had been allowed to live his playboy lifestyle when Achille had worked his whole life, his lifeblood growing in this earth. And he could lose it because of Zeno’s lack of responsibility.

I thought back to Achille this morning, to the devastation on his face at the thought of losing his small vineyard, his home and land.

So I had admonished Zeno for him. Because Achille’s happiness was now my own, and his vineyard was the key. I couldn’t imagine him taken from his land, no longer listening to his opera music in the fields as he hand-harvested the grapes.

Before Achille, I never knew there could be such beauty in the simple act of picking grape from vine. It was art in living color, grace so pure and true. Through him, I saw such flawless divinity in the most understated acts—the way his hand lay so softly on mine, causing my heart to stop in my chest. His lips brushing a kiss against my lips, stealing every last drop of air from my lungs. And the way his warm breath ghosted across my skin in reverence, lighting my body like embers in a fire. Achille thought himself inferior to the likes of Zeno, but I knew differently.

He was a better man. Period.

I closed the door to my rooms and slumped on my bed. I had no idea what to do. Achille wanted me to wait to call off this engagement. And now the business was failing, Zeno crumbling, falling apart.

What a mess.

It was all such a mess.

I didn’t know what I could do to help, but I had to try and do something. I had to learn more, study Achille’s work in greater depth. Because he couldn’t lose this, whether through Zeno or me.

As my finger ran over the simple vine ring lying on my nightstand, Zeno’s expensive diamond still in my pocket, I knew I had to find a way.

There had to be a way we could all rise from these dark shadows. Because I wanted that forever with Achille by my side.

And that’s how I fell asleep.

Hearing Achille’s soft voice echoing through my mind . . .

. . . Mi amore per sempre . . .