Chapter Two
Caresa
As my papa’s G5 began its descent, I looked out of the window beside me and waited for the plane to break through the clouds. I held my breath, body tense, then suddenly the burnt-orange remnants of daylight flooded the plane, bathing the interior with a soft, golden glow. I inhaled deeply. Italia.
Fields and fields of green and yellow created a patchwork quilt below, rolling hills and crystal-blue lakes stretching as far the eye could see. I smiled as a sense of warmth ran through me.
It was the most beautiful place on earth.
Sitting back in my wide cream leather chair, I closed my eyes and tried to prepare myself for what was coming. I was flying to Florence airport, from where I would be swiftly taken to the Palazzo Savona estate just outside of the city.
I would meet Prince Zeno.
I had met him twice before—once when I was four, of which I had no memory, and again when I was ten. The interaction we’d had as children had been brief. If I was being honest, I had found Zeno to be arrogant and rude. He had been thirteen at the time and not at all interested in meeting a ten-year-old girl from America.
Neither of us had known at the time that that our betrothal had been agreed upon two years prior. It turned out that the trip my papa had taken to Umbria when I was eight was to secure a forever-bond between the Savonas and the Acardis. King Santo and my father had planned for their only children to marry. They were already joined in business; Zeno’s arranged marriage to me would also strengthen both families’ place in society.
I thought back on my New York farewell of nine hours ago and sighed. My parents had driven me to the private hangar and said their goodbyes. My mama cried—her only child was leaving her for a new life. My papa, although sad to see me go, beamed at me with the utmost pride. He had held me close and whispered, “I have never been more proud of you than I am right now, Caresa. Savona Wines’ stock has plummeted since Santo’s death. This union will reassure all the shareholders that our business is still strong. That we are still a stable company with Zeno at the helm.”
I had given him a tight smile and boarded the plane with a promise that they would see me before the wedding. And that had been that.
I was to marry Zeno, and I hadn’t protested even once. I imagined to most modern-day women living in New York, the process of arranged marriages sounded positively medieval, even barbaric. For a blue blood, it was simply a part of life.
King Santo Savona died two months ago. The shareholders of his many Italian vineyards, the stakeholders in Savona Wines, had expected his son, Zeno, to immediately step up and take charge. Instead, Zeno had plunged himself into the party scene even harder than before—and that was quite a feat. Within weeks my papa had flown out to Umbria to see what could be done.
The answer: our imminent union.
I knew I had been fortunate—for our social circle—to get to age twenty-three and still not be married. That had been no decision of mine, even though it pleased me greatly. It had all been down to Zeno. The king had wanted his son to sow his wild oats. Get the “playboy behavior” out of his system before we wed. But no one had expected King Santo to pass away so young. We all thought he would be around for many years to come.
It was decided—mainly by my father, Zeno’s uncle Roberto and the board of Savona Wines—that Zeno needed to grow up and become responsible. And quickly.
The date for our marriage was immediately set. The board was satisfied.
My stomach lurched as the plane dipped. I opened my eyes, trying to shed the deep unease I felt in my veins, and saw the twinkling view of the Florentine city lights below. I let my forehead fall against the window and stared, unseeing, out of the glass as the plane touched down and parked in the Savona private hangar. Antonio, the G5’s air steward, opened the door of the plane and motioned for me to exit. A limo waited for me at the bottom of the stairs. The driver greeted me kindly, and I slipped into the back seat.
Before he closed the door, the driver spoke—in Italian, of course. I doubted I would speak a word of English from that day on. “Duchessa Acardi, I have been instructed by the prince to take you to the Bella Collina estate.”
My eyebrows knitted together. “In Umbria? I am to go to Umbria?”
The driver nodded. “The prince wants you to stay at his most impressive estate. He will meet you there. He has arranged dinner for your arrival.” He pointed at the limo’s lit-up bar. “The prince has organized refreshments for your journey. At this time of night, we should make it to the estate within a couple of hours. But he wanted you to relax and get comfortable. He anticipated that you would be tired from the journey.”
I forced a smile and thanked him. He closed the door, got into the car and pulled away.
Bella Collina? I had assumed I would spend all of my time in the Tuscan palazzo. I’d imagined my days to be filled with nothing but lunches, charitable dinners and meeting the crème de la crème of Italian high society.
I shook my head and pushed my confusion aside. I made myself comfortable on the long black seat and rubbed my fingers along my forehead. I was still feeling the effects of last night. Marietta had made sure that I was sent off with a bang.
I smiled to myself, remembering her passed out in the backseat of the car after our spontaneous tour of Manhattan. I had let her be, relishing my last few moments amongst the hustle and bustle of New York alone.
I thought of Bella Collina. I knew that in Umbria there would be absolutely no hustle and bustle. Florence was a busy city; I had been there many times. But Umbria? It was sleepy and calm, completely serene—but no less stunning than its wealthier, more popular Tuscan cousin.
A true flash of excitement washed through me when I thought of the very exclusive estate in which I would reside. It was home to the famous Bella Collina Reserve. A red merlot wine so rare that the waiting list just to acquire a single bottle was years long, even despite its eye-watering cost. The process of making this wine was never spoken of in the tight-knit wine world. The entire enterprise was shrouded in secrecy. Most sommeliers in the world would sacrifice a limb just to be a witness to Bella Collina’s production.
I wondered if I would be so fortunate as to see it.
All Savona wines were good, of course, but they were also mass-produced. The merlot was the shining jewel in their crown.
The more I thought of where I would be staying for the coming weeks, the more my suspicions grew as to why—I was pretty sure it was because the prince didn’t want his betrothed “ball and chain” cramping his style on the Florence nightclub scene. He wouldn’t be able to bring his nightly conquests to the Palazzo Savona with his fidanzata stalking the halls.
I sucked in my breath as I realized that I didn’t even care. I didn’t care about my future husband at all.
Thirty minutes passed, and I grew thirsty. I retrieved a bottle of acqua frizzante from the bar. I had just taken a couple of mouthfuls when I noticed a bottle of red wine that had been left to breathe on the shelf next to the cooler. A single crystal wine glass sat beside it. Then a flash of a familiar—but very rare—label grabbed my attention.
“No,” I whispered, lifting the bottle of red into the beam of the limo’s ceiling light. A smile tugged on my lips as I read the beautiful calligraphic font spread across the center. I noted the pencil drawing of an idyllic sprawling vineyard in the background.
“Bella Collina Reserve,” I murmured quietly and brought the bottle to my nose. I closed my eyes. I inhaled slowly, savoring the unique notes of this exclusive merlot. Blackberries. Dark cherry. Vanilla. Black pepper. A gentle, subtle hint of tobacco.
Warmth filled my chest at the beautiful aromas, and I opened my eyes. I reached for the glass and poured out a small amount of the deep-red liquid. Just as I was about to lower the bottle, I caught sight of the vintage: 2008. Thought by many to be the most important year of this reserve. No one knew why this year changed the wine so much, but experts agreed that from 2008, Bella Collina Reserve went from being a fine wine to one of the world’s greatest.
With this vintage as a gift, Prince Zeno was bringing out the big guns.
I sat back and took a tentative sip. The minute it hit my tongue, I immediately felt at home.
My family knew wine; it was our business. And I knew this reserve; it was my dream flavor. My favorite. A wonder to me. Over the years my palate for wine had grown strong. I had visited hundreds of vineyards, some of the best in the world, yet nothing could compare to this. As far as wines went, it was perfect.
By the time we had turned off the main thoroughfares and traveled along a winding road that led to an impressive stone entrance, I had managed to drink two glasses. The speaker linking me with the driver sprang to life. “Duchessa, we have arrived.”
I opened the window beside me and stared at the illuminated entrance. I swallowed hard and placed my empty glass on the bar. Metal groaned, breaking through the twilight, as the massive black wrought-iron gates began to open. The limo slowly pulled onto the property’s lane, and I drank in the thick forest that shielded the estate. I inhaled the freshness of the lush green trees. The unpolluted sky was thick with stars—not a single cloud in sight.
A few minutes later, the thick woods cleared, and I gasped. Acres and acres of gold and green vineyards covered the landscape. The scents of plump grapes and damp soil permeated the warm air. I closed my eyes. It reminded me of being a child. It brought me back to the days before I was taken to New York. I could still feel the heat of the Emilia-Romagna sun on my face, the deep smell of olives, grapes and flowers drifting in the breeze as I ran around our Parma estate.
I smiled a nostalgic smile and allowed my eyes to drift open again. I rested my arms on the window and leaned my chin on them as the limo drove on. There were several small villas peppered over the landscape, their lights twinkling in the distance. They must have been the winemakers’ residences. It was not only the Bella Collina merlot that was made on this land; other reds were too—particularly the Chianti from the region’s finest Sangiovese grapes. The Bella Collina olive oil was also up there with the best. But nothing compared to the famed merlot.
The limo turned right, and my breath caught in my throat. I lifted my head and stared disbelievingly at the property ahead. Bella Collina was a veritable Palace of Versailles tucked away in the Umbrian wilderness.
“Mio Dio,” I whispered as I took in the imposing stone structure, the sweeping steps and the vast number of windows set in the building’s walls. Large pillars of red-veined marble flanked the entrance. Cypress trees framed the estate as if it were the shining star of a fine Renaissance painting. Sculptures of famed Savona monarchs of old stood proudly on the manicured lawns, and strategically placed lighting illuminated the sheer perfection of every piece of topiary.
As a child, I had been to the Palazzo Savona in Florence. It was widely regarded to be one of the finest estates in all of Italy, if not western Europe. But this . . . this . . . there were no words. It was perfectly placed, as if it had always been there. As if it had grown naturally from the Umbrian earth just as sure as the vines and woods that kept this architectural treasure hidden from view.
The limo rounded the corner and glided to a halt. I took a deep breath as I looked up at the house that sat high above, made only grander by the many levels of stairs leading to its front door.
The driver appeared at my window and opened the door. He held out his hand, and I forced myself to abandon the safety of the car. The soothing sound of rushing water hit me first. A huge, ornate water fountain occupied a central position in the wide driveway. I had not seen it from my side of the limo. I walked toward it. The crest of Savona assumed pride of place, towering like a spear thrust from the center, spotlights adorning the intricately carved marble shield with layers of soft light.
Lost in its ornate design, I turned only when I heard the sound of footsteps descending the main stairs. A man dressed in a dark suit slowly approached. The driver immediately stood to the side of me, dutifully, waiting for the gentleman.
“Is that . . . ?” I trailed off. The driver’s reaction betrayed it was someone of importance.
“Prince Zeno,” the driver finished for me. “Yes, Duchessa.”
The prince approached at a leisurely pace, like a man who was used to people waiting for his arrival.
From this distance, I could barely make out his features, but the closer he got, the clearer they became. And Marietta had been right. He was extremely handsome, the epitome of Italian beauty. His black hair was thick, brushed over to the side and styled to perfection. His skin was olive and clear, his face cleanly shaven. His tailored navy-blue suit was most certainly designer, and it fit his lean, muscular body like a glove. I could see why the rumors of his handsomeness had reached the circles of the New York Italian gossipmongers.
When he was but a few feet from me, his blue eyes met mine. His jaw clenched briefly, as if he was fighting discomfort—or forcing himself to be here, I thought—but then a blinding smile pulled on his lips and a confident façade settled on his exquisite features. “Duchessa,” he said warmly, bowing politely before reaching for my hand. Such was the duty of any aristocratic man; he gently brought the back of my hand to his mouth and grazed his lips across the skin.
He released my hand, and I dropped into a curtsey. “Principe.”
When I stood, Zeno’s blue eyes were watching me closely, roving down over my fitted knee-length Chanel dress and down to my Prada heels. His gaze rushed over my shoulder-length hair, which was styled straight and parted in the center. On the plane, I had applied a dusting of light makeup, finishing the look with a bold red lip. Five-carat Tiffany diamond studs sparkled in my earlobes—classic Italian glamor.
His eyes finished their journey, and I caught a slight flaring of his nostrils. A nervousness washed over me. I may not have had a long history of relations with men, but I could recognize one who liked what he saw. The knowledge should have pleased me. It surprised me to find that I was simply . . . indifferent.
Zeno’s mouth hooked into a small smirk. Behind him, a few men dressed in the typical housekeeper uniforms of black pants, white shirts, black vests and smart black ties came down the stairs. Wordlessly, they moved to the trunk of the limo and retrieved the few suitcases I had brought with me.
“The belongings you had shipped arrived yesterday. They have already been put away in your room.” The prince pointed to the men now carrying my bags. “These too will be ready for you within the hour.”
Prince Zeno extended his elbow, gesturing for me to thread my arm through his. “That gives us time to eat the dinner I have had prepared to celebrate your arrival.”
I gave him a tight smile and linked his arm. We had only taken three steps when I said, “Oh, excuse me a moment.” I rushed back to the limo, grabbed the half-full bottle of Bella Collina merlot and hurried back to the where the prince was waiting.
His eyes narrowed as he noticed what I held. I felt my cheeks warm and explained, “2008 is such a special vintage of this wine. I couldn’t let it go to waste. Especially because of how much it costs.”
Prince Zeno smiled. “Your father mentioned your love of our most sought-after wine.” Ah, I thought, that explains it being left for me. I wondered what else my father had schooled him on to impress me. “We can have the rest with the meal,” he added.
Zeno pushed out his elbow once again. I linked my arm through his and let him lead me up the steps. With every step ascended, I couldn’t help but look out over the gardens, to the rolling hills in the distance.
“What do you think, Duchessa?” Zeno asked, bringing my attention back to him.
I shook my head, searching for something to say. I could not quite put the beauty of this magical place into words. “It is . . . beyond anything I could ever have imagined.”
“It is quite something,” Zeno agreed.
“How many acres do you have here?” I asked.
“Bella Collina has just under ten thousand.”
“That much?”
Zeno shrugged. “A great deal of that land is woods, orchards and olive trees for the oils. And, of course, the vines. About five thousand are used for the wines.” I cast my eyes over the vast land below. “Most of our vineyards around Italy are of a similar size.” He paused, then said proudly, “Though none produce wine like Bella Collina. Whether it be the soil here, the weather, or a mixture of both, no other winemaker in the world can compete.”
I nodded in agreement. “So you spend a lot of time here?”
Zeno tensed momentarily, before schooling himself. “Not so much. The palazzo in Florence is my home.” He cleared his throat. “My father . . . he spent much of his time here.”
At the mention of the king, I felt a rush of sympathy. Pressing my free hand to Zeno’s arm, I said, “I am so sorry about your father, Zeno. It must be difficult for you right now.”
Zeno’s blue eyes flicked down to me for a second before focusing back on the final set of steps. “Thank you. He spoke highly of you.” Zeno’s jaw clenched. Nothing else was said on the matter. It was obvious the subject was painful for him.
Silence reigned until we reached the house. I stopped and stared up at the mansion. “It is breathtaking.”
Zeno waited for me to stop my admiration before gesturing toward the open doors that led into the house. The minute I entered the lobby, my eyes widened. Above was a domed roof, which reminded me of the Florence Duomo, the beautiful cathedral where our wedding would take place. Rich golds and reds adorned the walls and furniture. And in the center was a grand staircase, split into two. Impressive crystal chandeliers hung like diamonds from the ceiling, bathing the room in golden light.
But best of all were the oil paintings of all the Savonas of Italy. I walked to the long wall and smiled at the old monarchs who had shaped Italian history. It ended with a new painting: Prince Zeno. He stood in a proud pose, staring off to the side, the angle showcasing his strong jaw and dark features.
I turned away, stopping in my tracks at the sight of the huge painting that covered most of the wall. It was of a small vineyard nestled into the side of a hill. I moved closer. The vines ran in rows, green and browns, bustling with ruby-red grapes, thick and ripe. In the distance was a small villa. No, it was better described as a gray stone cottage, like something pulled from the pages of a fairytale—a hidden sanctuary tucked away from the busy world. An old-fashioned lamp shone above its door, welcoming anyone who approached.
I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I was so entranced by the serene beauty of this small piece of heaven that I didn’t notice Zeno had moved beside me until he spoke. “It was my father’s favorite painting. He would spend hours looking at it.” He shrugged. “I have no idea why. It is of a shabby villa in the middle of a field, only fit for paupers.”
My stomach rolled at the hint of sadness in Zeno’s voice. He must have felt my pity, because he immediately cleared his throat and gestured for me to follow him. He led the way through an ornate golden archway to another large room where several people in housekeeping attire stood waiting.
Zeno moved to my side and placed a hand at my back. “This is the Duchessa di Parma,” he said to the estate’s staff. “Duchessa, these are the people who keep Bella Collina in pristine condition, the men and women who will make your stay here comfortable.”
I nodded and made sure to look each employee in the eye. “It’s very nice to meet you all.” I gestured around the beautiful room we were in. “You do an excellent job of maintaining the estate. I have never seen anything like it in my life.”
The men bowed and the women curtsied at my compliment. Zeno placed his hand on my back again and steered me through a set of glass doors and out onto a large patio. The warm breeze rippled through my hair. To my right was a dining table set for two.
I made my way toward the table, but stopped when I saw the view. “Beautiful,” I murmured as I moved to lean against the stone balustrade that bordered the patio. Beyond was a panoramic view of the vineyards, acres and acres of full and blooming vines. The moon hung low in the sky, bathing the countryside with its pale blue hue.
I heard the sound of a chair scraping stone. When I turned, Prince Zeno was holding the chair out for me to sit. Tearing myself from the view, I walked to the table and sat down. Zeno moved opposite and pointed to my hand. “Are you going to let go anytime soon?”
I stared at him blankly, unsure what he was talking about, until I saw that I was still clutching my bottle of Bella Collina Reserve. A surprised laugh burst from my mouth. I placed the bottle on the table. “I didn’t even realize I was still holding it.”
“Clearly you do like the vintage,” Zeno replied with a hint of humor in his voice.
“I don’t think like is a strong enough word.”
“Then I’m glad I brought you to this estate,” he said softly.
An awkward silence descended. Fortunately it was interrupted by a female server bearing water and a bottle of white wine. She made to take the merlot, but I put my hand over hers to stop her. “I shall drink this.” She bowed and poured out the wine with an expert hand.
The next few minutes were occupied by servers bringing bread, Bella Collina’s homegrown olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and finally our appetizer of insalata caprese. The servers excused themselves.
Once again I was alone with the prince.
Inhaling deeply, I scanned the grounds and the trellis climbing up the ancient stone walls. I shook my head.
“Something wrong?” Zeno inquired.
My eyes snapped to his. “No,” I said. “This is all just . . . so surreal.”
His head cocked to the side as his bright blue eyes focused on me. “The marriage?” he asked. His voice was tense, as if he were forcing the words.
I lowered my head and played with the stem of my wine glass. “Yes. But not just that.” I pointed to the vineyard, the mansion, the food. “Everything. Being here is testimony to fact that the monarchy’s abolition may as well never have happened. You are still the prince to these people. These magnificent grounds are worthy of a ruler.”
“You are the Duchessa di Parma. You are not so unused to this life either.” I looked at Zeno to find a single, challenging brow raised in my direction.
“I know that. Believe me. As a child in Parma I was always at royal functions. In New York, it was more so. We were the exotic Italian aristocrats who lived on Fifth Avenue. We were even more under the microscope, if that is at all possible.”
Zeno sighed and tipped his head back, eyes focused on the blanket of stars above. “It is our life. The titles, the status of monarchy may have legally been revoked, but we both know we shall always be someone. You cannot erase that much history from a country in such little time.” He batted his hand. “There will always be rich and poor. And whether they like to admit it or not, the lay public love to have a royal line to admire, to wonder what our lives are like and to look up to.” He let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Or hate, as the case may be. The monarchy is officially gone, yet look at us—a dethroned prince and an American-raised duchessa arranged to be married by our fathers. You can’t get more medieval than that.”
I swallowed, and realized I felt a sudden kinship with Zeno. He didn’t want to marry me either. I saw by his expression that he too acknowledged we understood one another . . . perfectly.
“Well, to those in our strange little world, you are about to become king.”
Zeno seemed to pale. He sat straighter in his seat. “Yes,” was all he could muster in response.
“I think my parents dream of coming home to Italy one day. They love New York, but home is always home.” I tried to fill the suddenly tense air with idle chatter—it was a much better alternative to strained silence.
“The duke has taken our business to a level my father could never have dreamed of by moving to America. I know that my father understood the sacrifice your father made by becoming the distributor of our wines for North America.” Zeno fidgeted with the napkin on his lap. “And now we must start again, from scratch. My father’s passing brought unease to the investors. King Santo, the great king of both Italy and the vines, died, and the competitors that have always been pushed aside have reared their heads. They are already stealing business from us left, right and center—it began mere days after my father’s death.” His jaw clenched. “It seems the usual buyers don’t think my father’s Midas touch with wines has been passed on to me. I apparently make them nervous. Your father is holding down the fort as best he can in America. Italy is down to me.”
I knew everything he said was true. It was not so much his father’s passing, rather it was Zeno’s reputation as a lothario and party socialite that required our swift union. He said the buyers weren’t sure of him. I wasn’t either; I was certain my father felt the same. Zeno was completely untested. Of course, I could not voice these thoughts out loud.
“However, you are here now. A Savona and an Acardi to make the business strong again.” And to convince the investors and buyers of the same thing, I heard in my mind.
“Yes,” I said. This time I had nothing left to say. I took a bite of my caprese. “I am to stay here for the duration of our courting period, not Florence?”
Zeno took a long drink of his wine. “I thought it would be best.”
I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. “And you are to stay here too?”
Zeno met my eyes. “I have much business to attend to in our estates all over the country, many crisis talks to attend. I will often be absent. There is much to do now that I’ve been strapped tightly into the driver’s seat.”
“That would be a ‘no,’ then,” I said, a sharp edge to my tone.
Zeno dropped his knife and ran a hand over his face. This time when he looked at me, there was no pretense. All I saw was agitation and frustration on his handsome face. “Look, Caresa.” He paused, gritting his teeth, then continued, “We both know this whole marriage is for the business. It’s nothing new in our world. Marriages have always been based on social bonds and securing family ties in Europe, since the beginning of time. Nothing has changed. I’m a royal, you’re a duchessa. Let’s not pretend this is anything beyond what it is—a contract to ensure that stability is clearly demonstrated to our business partners, and a solid, appropriate marriage for those in our social circle.” He gestured to the house. “Ancestral money can only get us so far. To keep these estates thriving, we need money by modern-day means. There are no tithes or bribes bringing in the coin. We do what we must to survive and keep our lineages alive. Wine is our key. You and I joined in marriage is what will calm the stormy waters our families have found themselves in.”
Zeno sat forward and took my hand. “I am not saying this to be cruel. But you seem like an intelligent woman. Surely you do not believe this charade is about love.”
I laughed. I truly laughed as I removed my hand from his. “I don’t, Zeno. I am very much aware of what this ‘charade’ really is.” I leaned forward too. “And seeing as I have just finished my master’s degree in educational psychology from Columbia, I assure you, your assessment of my perceived intelligence is well-founded.”
A smirk pulled on Zeno’s lips. “Educational psychology?”
“Yes.” I bristled. “Had this marriage not been arranged and I wasn’t a duchessa, it is what I would have devoted my life to. Helping children—or adults—who have learning difficulties. Any problem can be overcome; we just need to find the best way for each person. I would have either worked in that field, or something with horses.”
Zeno sat back in his chair, looking every inch the royal prince that he was. “Maybe I have underestimated you, Caresa.”
“Maybe?” I retorted.
He studied me closely and said in a low voice, “You are extremely beautiful.”
I tensed, unnerved by the sudden change of topic. He observed me closely, seemingly amused by my cautious expression. “We are a good match in every way that counts,” he said. “Looks, money, status. We both could have done worse.”
I laughed. Loudly. “So you believe yourself to be very handsome?”
Zeno took another sip of his wine. “There is no need for false modesties, Caresa. I’m very much of the opinion that we should always say exactly what we think. In private, of course. We both have reputations to protect.”
The server came to clear our plates and, for the next hour, the prince and I talked about trivial things. It wasn’t unpleasant, yet by the end of the meal, my stomach was in knots. I hadn’t expected a fairytale with this arrangement. For us to instantly fall in love the moment our eyes met. But neither had I expected things to be so clinical. So . . . cold and matter of fact.
When the last of the cannoli dessert had been eaten, I lowered my napkin and announced, “I am tired. I think I’ll go to bed.” I gave the prince a tight smile. “It’s been a really long day.”
Zeno got to his feet and offered me his arm once again. I threaded my arm through his, the warmth of his skin radiating through the fine thread of his suit. He watched me warily out of the corner of his eye. He was trying to decipher if he had genuinely hurt me. He hadn’t, of course. I was just numb. Immobilized by sudden waves of sadness.
Zeno led me back through the house, up the steps of the left staircase and down a wide hallway. Imposing crystal chandeliers hung from the Renaissance-inspired painted ceilings. I wasn’t sure how far back this home went, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if those ceilings had been the work of Michelangelo himself.
The red carpet was plush and soft under my feet; the air was permeated with the fragrant smell of roses. That was no surprise when every six feet or so a large vase of the white flowers stood proudly on a glass table.
Zeno stopped at a set of gilded double doors at the end of the hallway. “These are your rooms.”
I inhaled deeply. Forcing a smile onto my face, I looked up at him. “Thank you for dinner.”
He gave a curt nod and, in the gentlemanly gesture that had been instilled in him, took my hand and brought it to his lips. He laid a gentle kiss on the back of my hand. “Sleep well, Duchessa. I will not be here when you wake. I have business to attend to in Florence.”
“How long will you be gone?”
Zeno tensed, then shrugged. “I could be gone for many days. Maybe a week or two. Or more, depending on how things turn out.” He sighed. “It is the wine harvest from this week, Caresa. I must go to the vineyards and show my face. I must show an active interest in all our vineyards. Then there are all the meetings with buyers.”
I gave a tight smile of understanding. I knew the harvest was the most important time of the year for Savona Wines. Of course I did. It was when my papa was busiest in the US—securing buyers, promoting the new vintages, attending awards ceremonies, celebrations and dinners.
Zeno didn’t look enthusiastic about his duties. Also, he did not ask me to accompany him. That fact had not escaped me.
“Okay,” I murmured and turned to open my door.
“You will have some dinners and fittings, etcetera,” Zeno said. I looked at him over my shoulder. “The festive season is almost upon us. We have several engagements to appear at together: the annual Savona grape-crushing festival, the winter masked ball, and . . .”
I wondered what he was struggling to say. Zeno rocked on his feet then cleared his throat. “And the coronation dinner.”
Zeno’s eyes met the floor. The coronation—his ascension to king. Of course, he was not yet the king. He was not really a prince anymore. But in our society, he was now our king, or soon would be, after the coronation.
“Will that be here?” I inquired.
Zeno ran his hand over his forehead. “Maybe. I have not yet set a date, but it must happen soon. It” —he took a sobering breath— “it has all happened so quickly that I have not yet had time to contemplate arrangements. Business must come first.”
He waved his hand theatrically in front of his face, signaling the end of the conversation. “I’ve kept you far too long.” He began to walk away. “I will see you soon. Maria will be your personal secretary. She will inform you of all the engagements we have coming up and organize your new clothes, fittings for the ball, dinners and, of course, the. . . our much-anticipated wedding.”
I gave a quick nod and went into my room, shutting the door behind me. I leaned against the coldness of the golden panel and closed my eyes. I counted to ten, then opened my eyes.
The rooms before me were no less grand than the rest of the estate. I walked through the large living space, taking in the elegant white-and-gold walls, running my fingers over the beautiful pieces of furniture. A large doorway led to a bedroom that boasted a huge antique four-poster bed. Floor-to-ceiling French windows opened onto a balcony with a view of the vineyards. But what I loved was that in the far distance I could see the picturesque town of Orvieto. For some reason, I knew it would make me feel less lonely.
The bathroom was luxurious, with its claw-foot tub and rain shower. My closet already contained my clothes. My toiletries, perfumes and cosmetics were already at the vanity.
There was nothing left to do.
Catching sight of the moon through the balcony doors, I walked outside and leaned against the balustrade. I breathed in the freshness of the air, only to hear the sound of a car crunching on gravel. A black town car was disappearing into the distance.
I expelled a humorless laugh. The prince was hurrying back to Florence.
He wouldn't even stay a single night.
Feeling exhausted, I took a shower and climbed into bed. As I reached over to the nightstand to turn off the light, I noticed a picture hanging on the wall beside my bed. A woman, dressed in a regal purple dress, posing for the painter. I didn’t know why, but my eyes were glued to her image. She had the darkest of hair and beautiful brown eyes.
She was radiant: a former queen of Italy.
As my eyelids drooped, pulled down by the lure of sleep, I wondered what her life had been like as Queen of Italy. I wondered if she spent days here in the royal country estate.
But my last thought, as my eyes closed and my world turned to dark, was . . . was she ever happy?