Taking a pen from his pocket, he clumsily drew a tick at the bottom of the paper and placed it back down. He held the pen tightly in his fist rather than with his fingers; I could see it shaking. It was obvious by the way he averted his eyes from me that he did not want to talk of what had happened between us.
“The tack was beautiful,” I said, trying to get him to at least acknowledge my presence. “Thank you for letting me use it.”
Achille briefly glanced my way, then nodded. He moved back to the press. Out of natural curiosity, I looked down to see what had been delivered. I recognized the familiar grayscale drawing of Bella Collina and the cursive script of the well-known title.
“The labels for this year’s vintage?” My own question was answered when I saw this year’s date written on the bottom of the sample label.
“Yes,” Achille said, without turning around.
I picked up the sheet and scanned the text. Achille had ticked the box that approved the sample. His tick was a messy scrawl, barely legible. I remembered his shaking hand and instantly felt guilty. I had completely thrown him off guard. So much so that he couldn’t even write.
I looked at the text again. Two. I counted two misspellings on the label. An l was missing from “Bella” and the r from “Merlot”.
“Achille?” I said. “Have you signed off on the labels?”
He stopped what he was doing and came closer. He wore a wary, almost fearful look on his face. I studied him as his blue gaze ran over the label. His dark eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were pursed.
I pointed to the mistakes. “There are two letters missing, here and here.”
Achille blinked and blinked again, then handed me the pen from his back pocket. “Could you circle them, please?” His hand was still trembling. Obviously I had completely shaken him.
It had even affected his work. Work that was his entire life, details that I knew he would never have overlooked had he not been distracted.
I took the pen from his hand. “Did you not see them?” I asked, trying to make conversation. “It was a silly mistake for the printers to make. They should have been more careful.”
Achille didn’t reply. I circled the mistakes, writing a note along the bottom of the sample to explain to the printers what was wrong. I lifted my head to see Achille standing by the countertop, gripping the edge tightly.
His back appeared to be trembling, and his head was downcast.
“Achille?” I inquired tentatively, only to rear back when Achille spun to face me wearing an expression so severe it turned my blood cold.
“I need you to go,” he said, no inflection of emotion in his flat voice.
“What?” I whispered, feeling the color drain from my face.
Achille glanced out of the barn doors to the darkened sky. “I need you to leave. I need you to go and never come back.”
Slices of pain rippled through my chest. I wondered if I was physically feeling the effects of a heart breaking, of the fissures cracking through the flesh. “Why? What did I do . . . ?”
“You are marrying the prince. I am a winemaker in the middle of the harvest for this estate’s most important vintage. I . . . you distract me. You . . . should not be here. I can’t think . . .”
“Achille—” I tried to protest, but he raised a hand to cut me off.
“Just . . . please, go.” This time his voice brooked no argument. Once again, I had no idea what I had done to hurt him, to cause him to be this upset. And I hated myself for caring. I should be heeding Achille’s words, thinking of Zeno. Instead, all I wanted to do was reach out and press my lips to his, just to see how it would feel.
“Please,” he whispered—no, begged me. Tears filled my eyes as I watched him curl in on himself, as if some devastating internal pain was causing him to retreat from the world.
I didn’t want to see him hurt. So when he looked into my eyes, and all I saw in their blue depths was unconcealed sadness, I did as he asked. I left the barn without a second glance. I didn’t look back as I ran home, Abrielle Bandini’s prized dressage boots still on my feet.
Even when I came through my balcony doors and arrived at my rooms, I didn’t turn to look at Achille’s house in the distance. I sat on the end of my bed and let myself slowly absorb the truth.
Over the past week, I had found myself increasingly drawn to the shy winemaker of the Bella Collina merlot. I rubbed at my chest, noticing for the first time that when I was not in his addictive presence, a dull ache would flare in my heart and would not calm down until I was back by his side.
I prayed this new development would fade as quickly as it appeared. Because Achille never wanted me to return. Not to ride Rosa, not to help him harvest the wine or laugh with him amongst the vines.
And that had to be okay with me.
Because I was the Duchessa di Parma, soon to marry the prince.
I just had to remind my heart of the fact.
Simple.
Chapter Eight
Caresa
“I would like to thank you all for coming here today.” I met each of the society ladies’ eyes as I held my glass of champagne in the air. “I know I met many of you when I was a child, and I look forward to remaking your acquaintance now that I am full grown and not in diapers.” My joke was met with polite laughter. Raising my glass higher, I said, “To Italy!”
The ladies repeated my toast, and then the bell rang out in the opulent dining room signaling the beginning of our luncheon. Our antipasti were placed before us. As I lifted my fork to eat my affettati misti, I could feel the heavy stares of the aristocratic ladies on me.
“So, Duchessa,” one of the ladies asked. I looked up to find Baronessa Russo regarding me closely. She was in her mid-twenties, with long blond hair and bright blue eyes. Her light features showed her heritage—she was from a town near the Austrian border. “Is the prince at home?”
My stomach flipped as the table grew quiet. I forced a smile. “No, he has been busy at the vineyards in Turin. This month sees him occupied with the harvests of Savona wines; he will return for the grape-crushing festival.”
Baronessa Russo tilted her head. I thought I saw a hint of triumph in her eyes. “That’s strange,” she said. “I was recently in Florence and met the prince for a private dinner at the palazzo . . .” She pulled her features into a dramatically thoughtful expression. “. . . Oh, perhaps two days ago?”
I understood the underlying message—she had been with him for more than just dinner.
I did not let my smile slip. Instead, I nodded. “He goes back and forth to where he is needed most. Florence is his home. It’s his business base.”
“Yet you stay here?” Contessa Bianchi asked curiously. I remembered her face from the photographs Maria had made me memorize before the luncheon.
“I prefer it,” I said smoothly. “I love the Umbrian countryside. It is peaceful.” I chuckled. “Peace is welcome. I know my life will only become more hectic toward our wedding.”
Of course it was a lie. Every lady here knew it was a lie, but good women of society were adept at falsifying truths and ignoring the glaring subtext of anything said aloud.
“A wedding date, yet no engagement ring,” Baronessa Russo observed, holding out her champagne glass for a member of the staff to refill.
“I’m sure it’s coming,” the woman beside me said. “The prince is a busy man with a hugely successful enterprise. I’m sure when he returns he will spoil the duchessa rotten.” Some of the tension released from my shoulders when all but the baronessa nodded in agreement. Most of them wore their obvious envy of my marriage to the prince clearly on their faces.
I felt like telling them there was nothing to envy.
As the servers began to clear the table of the first course, I leaned closer to the woman who had defended me. I studied her face, searching my mind for her name—Contessa Florentino. “Thank you, Contessa,” I whispered so no one else could hear.
The pretty petite brunette with large green eyes waved her hand in dismissal. “Not a problem.” She leaned closer still, turning her head away from the rest of the table. “I’m afraid this luncheon is more like a den of snakes for you, Duchessa. I don’t know how much you know of the prince, but many of these women know him very well. Thankfully, I’m not one of them.” The contessa never broke my gaze. She was direct and ballsy. I liked that in an acquaintance. Often in Italian society, or even among those in Manhattan, people rarely spoke the truth to one’s face. They preferred to do it behind your back, because apparently it is more ladylike.