I didn’t know why, but a sudden tension materialized between us until it became stifling. Achille’s bright blue eyes were huge, the whites stark in the low light of the windowless barn.
“Achille?” I asked, leaning forward. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, but his paling face made me think otherwise. I was about to push further when he shakily took the paper from my hands and sat on the edge of his seat. I watched, concerned, as his eyes flicked over the text. His eyebrows pulled down in concentration as he began reading the long piece. I drank my coffee and waited anxiously.
“It . . .” Achille eventually said through a thick throat. “It just talks about the prince, and how in the aristocratic circles he will now be seen as their king. It talked about how you were coming back to Italy and would be staying at this estate until the wedding.”
I frowned, wondering how a journalist from Florence knew that the prince had planned to bring me here, rather than the Palazzo Savona in Florence as predicted. Achille stood up abruptly, throwing the paper in a large trash can. He headed for the doors of the barn.
He stopped dead, hands clenched at his sides. “I have completed my three rows of vines for today. I will not be crushing the grapes until tonight.” All of a sudden, he was acting strangely distant. He looked at me still sitting on the chair and curtly dipped his head. “Thank you for your help today, Duchessa. I hope I’ve answered all of your questions about the wine, but I have much to do this afternoon and cannot be delayed any further.”
With that, he swiftly left the barn, leaving me alone and speechless. Duchessa, I thought, hearing the faint sounds of the horses moving outside and a gate being opened and closed. He had called me Duchessa. He had addressed me as Caresa all morning . . . until just now.
What just happened? My stomach caved slightly as I replayed his words. They were a dismissal. He wanted me gone.
I got to my feet, hurt by Achille’s unexplained behavior, and left the barn. I couldn’t see him at first. But as I made my way past the paddock, I saw him saddling up Nico as Rosa looked on.
Feeling a little numb, I headed for the gate of his cottage to return home, when guilt assailed me. I must have hurt him somehow. Maybe he thought I was throwing my wealth and status in his face? Maybe I had bothered him this morning with too many questions?
I thought back to our time collecting the grapes. I could remember nothing but patient guidance and encouraging smiles. At no point did he seem frustrated or annoyed by my presence. Shy and timid, yes, but not inconvenienced or angry.
It was clear I had hurt him just now. I needed to apologize. I didn’t know what for, but he had been kindness itself to me today and yesterday. For some reason—one I didn’t let myself dwell on—I couldn’t stand my assumption that Achille now thought ill of me.
Before I had time to change my mind, I hurried back to the paddock just as Achille was leading Nico from the gate. His shoulders slumped when he saw I had come back. It cut me, slayed me.
He . . . he truly didn’t want me near him.
A lump clogged up my throat at his sudden coldness, and my hands fidgeted at my front. I blinked away the light sheen of tears that had built across my eyes. “I am sorry if I have hurt you somehow. That was not my attention, Achille. You have been gracious and kind to me, indulging my curiosity about your wine, giving me your time and lunch.” I chased back the lump and forced my weakened voice to add, “But I’m sorry for invading your space. Nothing malicious was meant. I just . . .” I sighed and let my stupid mouth say, “I am lonely here. I don’t know anyone. Zeno is away. Then, by chance, I found out about you, about this place, and I let my excitement run away with me.” I winced in embarrassment at my emotional outpouring.
I ran my hand down my face. “Please accept my apology for whatever I did wrong. I won’t bother you again.” I gave him a tight smile. “I wish you well with this year’s harvest. Though I know you don’t need it. It will be faultless, as always.”
Ducking my head, I spun around and hurried away. I had almost reached the idyllic cottage’s gray stone path when I heard Achille call nervously, “C–Caresa?”
His husky, stuttered rasp made me stop. But what had me closing my eyes, a slither of happiness settling my distress, was my name rolling from his lips. Caresa, not Duchessa . . .
Caresa.
I drew in three breaths, then looked over my shoulder. Achille was gripping the end of Nico’s reins. His dark hair was tousled from this morning’s work. And his eyes, his beautiful, stunningly blue eyes, zeroed in on me—so open and honest, so raw and exposed.
I could barely breathe at the sight.
“Yes?” I whispered, the cool wind wrapping around my damp lashes.
Achille ran his hand along Nico’s neck to calm him, then looked back at Rosa in the paddock. The Andalusian mare had her head propped over the fence, her black eyes focused on her master as he led her companion away.
If it was possible, she appeared . . . sad.
Achille exhaled heavily. “Would . . . would you like to join me on a ride?” His broad shoulders were angled slightly toward Nico, as though shielding himself from my expected refusal. “I have to check the rest of the vines. I . . . I thought that you might want to come. I know you love to ride, and you have already learned so much about the harvesting process.”
Shock rendered me speechless; my heart beat like a whirring fan. It was the last thing I thought he might say. I looked at my jogging leggings, sneakers and long-sleeved shirt. I wanted to scream yes, and accept his offer. Instead I blurted, “I have no jodhpurs or riding boots to wear.” I closed my eyes for a second after I had spoken. What are you blithering about?
But to my amazement, when I brought my gaze back to Achille, an unexpected smile had formed on his lips. And it wasn’t a crooked smirk, or a gentle tugging of the mouth. This smile was wide, free and true. Teeth bare and eyes bright.
And there was a suggestion of a laugh.
A single throaty chuckle of abandoned delight. A morsel of uncensored happiness that I felt all the way into the marrow of my bones.
Achille was amused by me. His shyness was momentarily forgotten, and he was . . .
. . . divine.
Achille’s laugh flew away like the brief passing of a falling leaf, yet with happiness still etched on his striking Latin features, he murmured, “It is only a short ride through the fields. I am sure you will be fine.”
There was a hint of a tease in his words. Unable to take offense at his dry wit, I laughed in return, lowering my head in defeat. I peeked up at him through my lashes. “On a scale of one to ten, how pretentious did I just sound?”
I did not expect him to play or respond. So I nearly fell over from shock when he scrunched up his nose, then guessed, “Mmm . . . about a hundred?”
My mouth fell open at the mock-insult. But our mutual levity broke the tension that had plagued us during the past fifteen minutes. The rediscovery of our calming peace allowed my legs to function and follow Achille through to the paddock. He tied Nico’s reins to a fence post and took a halter off the tack room’s outside hook to catch Rosa. While he did so, I ducked into the tack room and removed the remaining saddle from its saddle mount, and the bridle hanging beside it.
I was about to leave the tack room when I noticed a plethora of show rosettes pinned on a wooden wall. On closer inspection, I could see the titles. First place in some of Italy’s biggest dressage competitions. Some were for show jumping. All were dated around thirty years ago. The latest I could find was won twenty-five years ago. First place in the national dressage and show jumping Classic in Milan.
I was more than impressed. They were highly competitive events with prestigious titles. I scanned the several newspaper clippings that were pinned to the wall; one was framed, showcasing a small black-and-white picture of a beautiful woman dressed in a smart show jacket and white jodhpurs. The camera captured her mid-jump at the Roma Regional Championships. The write-up was short, but talked of her triumphant win. Abrielle Bandini. That was her name. And she looked young, maybe no older than me.
It was dated August, twenty-five years ago.
Movement in the doorway caught my attention. Achille was watching me scan this impressive wall of achievement. Whoever the woman was, she was very much loved by whoever had made this display. A flash of something rushed across Achille’s face as he saw what I was looking at. Not wanting to upset him again, I held up the saddle in my arms and said, “I’m glad you ride English saddle. I’m useless on a Western.”