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.”