Chapter Three
Caresa
Maria, my secretary, was just rising from her seat as I walked from my bedroom into the living area. I had been at Bella Collina for three days. In those three days, I had been fitted for evening wear and taken to lunches with the aristocrats of the Umbrian area, although not many resided this far out of Florence. And there was still no word from Prince Zeno.
Maria frowned when she saw me in my running leggings and long-sleeved top. I had thrown my hair up into a high bun and wore absolutely no makeup.
“I feel the need to get out of this house,” I said as I sat down to tie the laces of my sneakers. “I need a run in the fresh air.”
“Very well, Duchessa.” Maria gathered her things. “I would keep to the garden paths if I were you. The harvest has begun and the vineyards are busy.”
I nodded and walked toward the door; Maria followed behind. “I’ll be gone for the next several days. I am needed in Assisi. You don’t have anything pressing until your first ladies’ luncheon.” She cast me a wide smile. “You have time to relax and get to know the estate. The grounds are beautiful, and there will be lots to see.”
“And the prince?” I asked, mainly because I thought I should.
Maria shook her head. “He has had to go to Turin today. I don’t know when he will get back.” She pressed her hand on my arm. “His father was a workaholic. I would prepare yourself for his son to be the same.”
We reached the main doors and stepped out into the crisp fall air. Maria kissed me on each cheek then bade me farewell.
I cast a glance around the pathways and decided to go left toward the surrounding forest. I turned on my phone, put in my earphones and let the up-tempo beats of my jogging playlist hit my ears. I pushed my feet as fast as they would go, heart slamming in my chest with the sheer freedom of the run.
I thought back to yesterday. Maria had given me a stack of glossy brochures to look through. There had been no formal proposal, no engagement ring, yet the wedding preparations were already underway.
I ran and ran until the pathway gave out. It looped, trying to tempt me back to the mansion, but I wasn’t ready. I looked beyond the pathway. All that lay ahead were fields of vines.
In an instant, a flash of memory from my childhood came rushing back to me. Of me running through the vineyards in my Parma home, leaves kissing my outstretched fingers as I passed. I picked up my feet and ran through the rows of vines. I tilted my head to feel the midday sun on my skin.
Song after song played. I kept on running, my speeding feet keeping time with the beat of the music. I ran so far that when I stopped for breath and looked around me, I realized I had absolutely no idea where I was.
I flicked the earbud headphones from my ears and tried to listen for signs of life. I could hear the harvest continuing in the distance, but nothing close by. I rose to my tiptoes, scouring the area for any sign of activity. Nothing but fields with their rows of green lay before me. Except for what looked like a small cottage about three hundred yards away.
Walking to the end of the row, I made my way toward the cottage. Hopefully someone would be home.
As I walked, at a slow, steady pace, a sense of peace settled over me. Out here, amongst the vines, I felt a sense of freedom I had not experienced since I was a child. The past three days had been a mixture of jet-lag and duty. Sleep hadn’t come easily, and more than that, I was homesick. So very homesick that it felt like a hole had been carved into my stomach. My parents were excited for my upcoming wedding, so I hadn’t told them how I felt. Marietta, however, had immediately seen through my façade. She told me the only thing she could—that I had to keep strong.
The ground began to slope upward. I trudged forward until I could see the cottage better. I stopped where I was and blinked. The vines that I had found myself among had ended. A plain grass field stood between me and another field of vines, but that field was protected by a large wooden fence.
Forcing myself to keep moving, I noted that this field of vines was much smaller than the others I had seen on the Bella Collina estate. Yet the vines were fuller somehow, different; the soil was a deeper color.
I edged around the fence, trying to see if anyone was there. I could see that the majority of the vines were around the back of the stone cottage. Checking no one was near, I walked through the small wooden gate up the path of a pretty, well-kept garden. Though small, the garden was bursting with vibrant colors, browning from their summer hues into the golds and oranges of fall. A trickle of water flowed from an old water mill at the side of the old cottage.
By the time I arrived at the stable-style red door, I was mesmerized. The place was straight from a fairytale. I stilled, my eyes drinking in the garden and the small quaint building.
I gazed at the Alice-in-Wonderland view. “The painting,” I murmured. This place . . . this nook of heavenly peace was the painting from the main house. The one that graced the lobby.
“It was my father’s favorite painting . . .” Zeno had said.
I was standing right before it.
I knocked gently on the door, but there was no reply.
Following the garden path that led to the back of the house, I continued to be awed. The back of the house was no less enchanting than the front. An oak deck graced the rear. From there I could see the mansion in the background. And if I was not mistaken, the view looked onto my rooms. It was far away, little detail could be made out, but I was sure that’s what it faced.
Even though I now knew the direction of the main house, my feet kept moving. An imposing barn-type structure sat just beyond a sprinkling of tall trees. I narrowed my eyes but was unable to see exactly what it was, so I kept going.
Next to the barn was a fenced paddock with two wooden stables at its edge. A smile tugged on my lips when I spotted two horses grazing. If there was one thing I loved as much as the wine industry and psychology, it was horses. I had competed for years in show jumping and dressage competitions. In fact, I was the Hampton’s dressage champion for five years running.
One complaint I’d had over the past few years at college was not being able to ride as much as I’d have liked. When I reached the fence, I clucked my tongue in my mouth, trying to coax the horses to join me. The one closest to me raised his head. The black gelding looked at me, his ears flicking back and forth as he tried to figure me out. “Come here, baby,” I called, leaning forward when he carefully began to approach. He was at least seventeen hands, with long white feathers cascading down to his large round hooves. He had a thick neck and solid, heavy legs. If I wasn’t mistaken, he looked to be a mixture of Shire and what could be Friesian. He was absolutely beautiful. His mane was long, a deep glossy black. It had a slight wave to the strands, as did his tail. When he stood before me, I held out an open hand, allowing him to huff and sniff my skin. After a few seconds, he ducked his head and gave me permission to pat his neck and rub the center of his head.
I laughed as he nuzzled my hand. The dull sound of a second set of hooves drew my attention. A slightly smaller, leaner horse drew up at the fence. My heart soared. She was an Andalusian—my favorite breed of horse. Better still, she was dapple gray. I had never seen a dapple-gray Andalusian in the flesh. Years ago I had a black Andalusian, Galileo. As a young girl, he had been my life. I had had him until he died just a few short years ago. I had been with him as the vet put him down, stroking his neck and laying kisses on his face when he had failed to stand up for the last time.
To many he was just a horse, but losing him had broken my heart.
This Andalusian mare was bigger than Galileo, perhaps fifteen-three hands, with a stronger, more robust frame. But she was no less beautiful than Galileo had been. Looking at her brought tears to my eyes.
It was funny how memories could sneak up on you and bring the most hidden, dormant emotions to life.
“Hello, little lady,” I said as the mare allowed me to run my hand over her nose. “You’re so beautiful. You remind me of someone I used to love very much.” Her platinum mane and tail shone like molten silver in the bright sunlight. The long waves hung down to the top of her flanks. “What’s your name?” I asked. Her nose searched for food in my hand. There was a stone bench beside me. On it were some already-sliced carrots. I took a few in my hand and fed each of the horses with my palms stretched flat.
The black gelding came further forward. I had earned his trust. I kissed him on the nose and asked, “What is this place, huh?” Realizing I had no more food to give them, the mare and gelding sauntered back to the center of the paddock to graze. I watched them for a while, then I noticed a small but full tack room to the left of the stables. So someone rides them, I thought. These two horses were exceptional breeds, expensive too. For them not to be ridden would be a travesty.
I glanced around, searching for any other kind of life, but none was present. I left the paddock to recommence my investigation, ducking under the low-hanging branches of the surrounding trees until my view of the rest of the land was unobstructed.
I gasped. Rows and rows of full-to-bursting vines were spread out before me, just like the ones at the front of the villa. There were only a handful of acres—maybe eight or nine—but the ripe grapes gave off an incredibly strong, heady, addictive musk. The fragrance of the fruit in this particular corner of the estate was much more potent than elsewhere.
It was quite simply the most beautiful sight I had ever laid eyes on—a landscape worthy of the finest oil paints and canvas. I could see why the old king had been so taken by this vista—a piece of heaven tucked away from prying eyes.
Pressing on, I walked along a small man-made path beside the high wall of the barn until I reached the main doors. They were locked. I exhaled, disappointed.
Just as I was about to walk away, I suddenly heard the distant melody of familiar notes drifting on the gentle breeze. I turned, following the lively sound of a chorus. I was three rows deep into the private, cornered-off vineyard before I recognized the music that seemed to be coming from the center of the field—Verdi.
I inhaled deeply as the Dies Irae from Verdi’s Messa da Requiem filtered through the surrounding leaves. My heart beat faster. Being from Parma, Giuseppe Verdi’s masterpieces sang in my blood. Some of my favorite memories were of me, as a child, in the Piazza Garibaldi in the center of Parma, attending the opera with my family.
I followed the music until it led me to an old silver cassette player sitting alone in the middle of a row. The music was straining from the dirty, scratched speakers. I frowned in confusion as I stood beside it. Who even owned a cassette player anymore, let alone cassette tapes?
Then, through the thick foliage, I saw a flicker of movement from a few rows over. Someone was moving, presumably a worker bringing in the harvest on this comparatively small plot of land. The breeze around me chose that moment to pick up, and it grew colder, the fall chill beginning to close in. I wrapped my arms around my waist, trying to fight off the cold. I passed one row of vines, then two . . . and when I reached the third, I completely froze in my tracks.
A man stood about twenty feet away. He was facing away from me, but I could see that he was tall with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He had messy black hair and deep olive skin. He wore heavy brown work boots, and a pair of worn jeans on his long, muscular legs. I stood, mesmerized, as he reached up to a high vine to his left.
With meticulous concentration, he examined the bunch in his hand. He ran his fingers over each grape, feeling the weight of the bunch in his palm. Next, he leaned in and smelled the fruit. Finally, evidently happy with whatever he was testing, he brought up the set of secateurs in his hand and cut the bunch from the vine. He placed it delicately on top of the already brimming bucket at his feet. The man straightened, slowly rolling the strain from his neck. He tipped his head back and drew in a long breath, pausing to take in a lungful of the crisp early-afternoon air. A shiver ran down my spine at the sight of his slightly sweaty skin shining in the bright sunlight.
Then I completely stilled when he bent down to lift the bucket . . . and turned directly to face me.
I was sure the wind was rippling gently and that time had not completely stopped, yet in that very moment, as my eyes gazed on a beautifully rugged face, I felt as if it had. A strong angular jaw sporting scruffy black stubble, smooth tanned skin lying over sculpted cheeks, one showcasing a small scar, and plump pink lips—they all stole my breath. But, most striking of all were his almond-shaped eyes . . . the brightest, bluest irises peeking from under long black lashes . . . eyes that I quickly realized had landed straight on me.
The man had stopped in his tracks, the bucket of grapes slung over his shoulder, hanging heavily down his back. His impressive biceps were tensed with the strain of the weight . . . and so were his almost-turquoise-blue eyes as they remained transfixed, in surprise, on me.
Swallowing hard, I forced my mouth to open and words to pass my lips. “Hello,” I offered weakly, my throat still rough and dry from my run. I winced at the slight shake in my voice. The man did not move.
Clearing my throat, I took a step forward and pushed a smile onto my lips. The man’s eyes crinkled slightly in suspicion. Unraveling my arms from around my waist, I said, “Sorry to disturb you. I found myself slightly lost and saw your house. I came to ask for directions, and” —I laughed nervously— “found myself mesmerized by your vines, gardens and horses.” The man still didn’t speak. He had not moved one hairsbreadth. I filled the silence with more nervous chatter. “You have the most beautiful home.” I blanched. “I mean, I didn’t go inside your home, I promise. I meant the building itself—the gray stone, the red roof—and the garden . . . and your horses. I just love horses. I used to ride competitively—” I cut myself off, gritting my teeth to shut myself up.
Taking a long, controlled breath, I walked the last few steps forward until I stood right before him. I held out my hand. “I should have started with an introduction. My name is Caresa. It’s nice to meet you.”
The man’s blue gaze, which had been so firmly fixed on mine, dropped to my outstretched hand. I watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and his already flushed-from-work cheeks seemed to grow a little pinker.
This close, I could feel the heat from his skin radiating across the cool air between us. I glanced up and noticed, again, how tall he was. Maybe six-four? He was an inch or two taller than Zeno. And he was definitely broader than the prince. His torso was packed with muscle, and there was a scattering of dark hairs on his chest. There was not a part of him that wasn’t muscled, but not in the manner of a body-builder. This man was fit, lean and toned, not bulky. He . . . he was . . . breathtaking. There really wasn’t any other way to put it.
His sudden shift of movement caught me by surprise. The man, without looking at me, slowly lowered his bucket to the ground, dropped the secateurs and carefully straightened up. He wiped his dirtied palm on the worn jeans that hung low on his waist. A sharp, defined V led the way to his waistband. I felt heat rise to my cheeks as I noticed it.
Then his hand pushed out, and I stared at it as his warm skin met my palm. His rough fingers gently encased my own, and he said quietly, timidly, “Hello, Caresa. My name is Achille, Achille Marchesi.”
His deep baritone voice wrapped softly around the syllables of my name. He shook my hand once, then let go.
“Achille,” I repeated and gave a small smile. I looked into his eyes, finding him watching me with a nervous gaze. A thick strand of his black hair had fallen over his forehead, the ends covering the top of his left eye. “It’s very nice to meet you,” I said and wrapped my arms around my waist again.
He stood on the spot, head down, obviously not knowing what to do or what to say. “Your home,” I repeated, “is extraordinary.”
“Thank you,” he replied. His head tipped swiftly upward, and he looked surprised at the compliment.
Achille glanced away for a moment. When he looked back at me, he said, “You are the Duchessa di Parma, yes?”
“You have heard of me?”
“We all—the workers here—were told of your imminent arrival. About your marriage to the prince.” He drew in a breath. “That you would be staying here until the wedding.”
“Ah,” I replied. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want to talk about that right then. Today was the first reprieve from this arranged marriage I’d had in three long days. I wanted the moment to continue. It was nice to talk to someone who wasn’t advising me about luncheons or etiquette. Achille pointed into the distance. “The main estate is back that way. If you leave here and turn left, there is a direct path to the house. The grass is well worn from years of use, so it will guide you home safely.”
“Thank you,” I said. Achille turned and picked up the bucket of grapes. Spontaneously, I asked, “You are a winemaker?”
Achille must have assumed I had walked away, as he startled at my question. He looked at me over his shoulder, his dark eyebrows drawn down, and nodded. He lifted the bucket to his back again and gave me a stiff smile as he walked by. I closed my eyes in exasperation. Caresa, what are you doing? I asked myself. He obviously wants you to leave.
But I didn’t listen to the voice in my head. Instead, I watched him walk, back tensed, toward the barn. When he disappeared from view, I took a final long glance at the vineyard. Seemingly he was only a few rows into his harvest. The first section was clear of grapes, but the rest of the vineyard was brimming.
A bird called out her song from a towering tree beside me. Her high-pitched notes snapped me from my thoughts, and I pushed my feet into action. I walked through a cluster of trees until I was back at the barn and stables. To my right, I saw Achille reappearing through the barn doors. The gelding in the paddock whinnied and trotted toward him. I watched as the merest hint of a smile pulled on Achille’s mouth. My heart surged at the sight. It beat even harder as he moved to meet the horse, rubbing his hand over the gelding’s nose, pressing a kiss to his head.
I took a step, my foot breaking a fallen branch on the ground. The sound echoed like thunder in the quiet surroundings. The gelding looked my way, quickly followed by Achille. He blinked, once, then twice, his questioning blue gaze not helping my racing pulse.
I cleared my throat. “A beautiful horse you have there,” I called and approached him.
Achille nodded in agreement, his hand slowly running up and down the horse’s neck.
When I stood beside him, I reached out to rub the gelding’s nose. “What breed is he?”
Achille swallowed, ducking his head slightly, and answered, “His father was a Shire and his mother a Friesian.”
I smiled and let out a single happy laugh. Achille’s hand stopped on the gelding’s neck as he watched me. The weight of his stare was heavy, and it caused a flush to sprout on my cheeks. “Sorry,” I said, flustered. “I just guessed that mix when I saw him earlier.”
Achille smiled at me briefly, minutely, but the small glimmer of amusement crossing his face was enough to launch a swarm of butterflies to swoop in my stomach. The silence stretched between us until the mare came over. In a way that only horses can, she pushed her head between us and nudged Achille’s arm with her nose.
I laughed again, louder this time, as she flicked her hoof against the fence. “Rosa,” Achille reprimanded, his voice raspy, yet deep in tone. His displeasure didn’t last long. He sighed and ran his hand over Rosa’s dapple-gray neck.
“And an Andalusian,” I said. The gelding stepped back to give Rosa her turn with Achille and came over to me. I patted his neck, the heat from his coat warming my chilled skin.
“Yes. Purebred.”
“I had one too. A black gelding.” I paused and pressed a kiss to the gelding’s nose. “He was my favorite horse.” I felt Achille’s eyes on me. I glanced up, and our gazes met.
“Was?”
“He passed away a few years ago.”
Achille nodded and averted his gaze.
“And what is his name?” I asked, pointing at the gelding.
“Nico,” Achille replied. “He’s mine. The one I ride, I mean.”
“You ride?”
“Yes,” he said. “Mainly to check on the vines. Cars and trucks can affect the soil, so I ride.” He shrugged. “I prefer it anyway.”
I studied him, finding myself wishing he would speak more. He was incredibly shy and timid, that was for sure. I found it curiously endearing. In my life I had met very few men who were introverted and shy. Most were powerful, full of confidence, and, in some cases, full of their own importance.
Most behaved exactly like the prince.
“And who rides Rosa?” I asked. The movement was slight. If I hadn’t been watching, I would have missed it. Achille’s hand froze on Rosa’s neck the second the question left my lips.
He inhaled deeply, then said softly, “My papa used to. She was his.”
Was. The word stood out to me. She was his.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said after a moment.
Achille’s hand fell from Rosa, and he flashed me a tight, grateful smile. “I need to get back to work.” I saw by the look in his eyes that he didn’t know what else to say to me. Didn’t know how to act around me.
“Okay,” I said and, with a final kiss to each horse’s nose, backed away from the paddock toward the path leading out of the garden. Achille was standing tensely, his eyes flickering to mine and then the ground. “It was nice to meet you,” I said and waved my hand.
Achille didn’t respond straight away, but then said, “You too, Duchessa.” No sooner had he spoken than he turned and entered the barn. I sighed, feeling slightly disappointed. I would have liked to have seen what was in the barn, even talked to him about wine. But anyone could see he was not the type who engaged easily in conversation.
I left the garden and closed the kitsch wooden gate that framed Achille’s house so perfectly. Just as Achille had directed, the well-worn path was there to guide me home. I jogged all the way back, only this time I did not listen to music. My mind was preoccupied with replaying my meeting with Achille.
My heart kicked in my chest as I pictured him. His shy, handsome face, his sculpted body—he was incredible. The dirt on his hands and the sweat on his skin only added to his appeal.
As I reached the doors of the mansion, I shook my head. I could not think of other men any longer. I was here to be married, not on a vacation. I was betrothed to Zeno, and that was that.
I went into the house and to the stairs to my rooms. I had just put my foot on the first step when a flash of color caught my eye. I walked over to the painting of the stone cottage and studied it closely. It was most certainly Achille’s home. Though now I had seen it in the flesh, I realized that, as talented as the artist was, he could not do the picturesque scene justice.
“Do you like it, Duchessa?” I glanced to my right and saw one of the housekeepers smiling at me.
“Yes,” I replied. “Very much.”
The older woman nodded. “It is almost as beautiful as the wine itself, and nearly as sweet as the winemaker who lives there.” As the housekeeper turned to walk away, her words sank in.
“What?” I asked abruptly. The housekeeper turned to face me. “What do you mean ‘as beautiful as the wine?’”
“The merlot, Duchessa. Bella Collina Reserve.” My heart fired like a canon in my chest. The housekeeper smiled. “This is the home of our famous merlot’s winemaker. It has been in the same family for years. The son runs it now.”
“Oh,” I whispered. My eyes drifted back to the painting. I wasn’t sure if the housekeeper was still there or if I was alone. Blood rushed through my veins, and my lungs strove to take in air. I stood as still as a statue, hypnotized by the painting of the small house, fairytale-meadow garden and full-to-bursting vines that surrounded it.
And I thought of Achille. Achille, amongst the vines, hand-harvesting the grapes with such deep passion in his eyes and such intense concentration on his face . . .
“Bella Collina Reserve,” I whispered to myself. “Achille makes the Bella Collina merlot . . .”
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, staring at the painting. Eventually I returned to my rooms. I ran a bath and climbed in, letting the hot water envelope me and calm me with its lavender-scented vapors.
Achille was a private man, of that much I was certain. I didn’t know anything else about him. But I sensed he had been uncomfortable with my presence, at my unwanted intrusion into his world.
I knew he would not expect to see me again. But as I closed my eyes and envisioned that small private vineyard and the beautiful man who ran it, I resolved to return.
I told myself it was to speak to the man about my favorite wine, to see and understand the process, to ask the many questions I had.
As Achille’s blue eyes danced through my mind, I ignored the truth in my heart—that I also wanted to speak to this man again because of him. Not just the wine, but him.
I allowed myself to pretend the opposite.
I was betrothed to the prince.
I was marrying Zeno.
This was only about the merlot.
Nothing more.