Instead there was a dinner, speeches that reminisced about monarchs of old. There was wine and laughter, and talk of the “good old days” before the people overthrew the royal family. But it was nothing like I imagined tonight would be. I actually felt sad for Zeno, sitting at the top of the table, listening to how great his family once was, knowing he was failing in his family’s business now.
“Your father was a great man, Zeno. And I am sure you will be just the same. The country may have forgotten the true ways of Italy, but we in this room have not. We bow to you as our true king.” The barone raised his glass. “Il re è morto, lunga vita al re!”
The king is dead, long live the king!
Every glass was raised, the toast was echoed and we all took a cementing sip. Barone De Luca sat back down. Zeno signaled for the table to rise, and we slowly adjourned to the great room next door. Pia fell in step beside me. I knew whatever tension had arisen between us today had passed.
Pia linked her arm through mine. She was dressed in an elegant white and black Chanel dress with her hair pulled back in a French roll. My long-sleeved, floor-length gown was silver and encrusted with Swarovski crystals. I wore my hair pulled up at the sides by two delicate 1920s diamond clips. The gown was perfectly fitted and shimmered like glass in the light of the low-hanging chandeliers, the low back of the dress leaving my skin completely bare to the bottom of my spine.
“You look beautiful,” Pia said. She looked over at Baronessa Russo, who was pawing her hands all over Zeno, desperate for his attention. “It’s why she’s acting that way, I’m sure,” Pia said, tilting her head in the baronessa’s direction.
But as I looked at her, all I felt was pity. No doubt she had been raised to believe she could have one day married the much-coveted prince. Every day I was here her chances of that fell greatly.
“I feel sorry for her,” I said aloud. Pia just laughed and shook her head.
Pia and I sat down across from the fireplace with Contessa Bianchi. The guests milled about the room, making idle conversation. After a while, Zeno moved toward the roaring fire, and the sound of a spoon hitting a crystal champagne glass chimed around the room. The chatter stopped, and when I looked up, I saw that Zeno had his head cast down, waiting for the room to hush.
He lifted his head and looked around at his guests. “Tonight is not only a memorable night for me, but one for my fiancée too.” My muscles became blocks of ice, and a trickle of unease ran down my spine. In my peripheral vision, I saw Pia’s head turn to face me in alarm, but my eyes were locked in Zeno’s direction.
Zeno smiled and met my eyes. “The wedding date is set, and our two houses will soon merge.” He paused—for effect, I was sure. “Could you please come up here, Duchessa?”
Quiet murmurs ran around the room like a slow rolling wave. But I stood and made my way to his place beside the fire. He turned to face me. I was sure my eyes were wide as I waited for what would happen next.
Zeno took my hand. “Duchessa, we have been betrothed since we were children, and now have a wedding set for only weeks away.” I swallowed as he reached for my hand—my left hand.
My bare left hand.
Zeno’s thumb ran over my ring finger. He smiled. “We are engaged, yet you have still to receive a ring to let everyone know that you are mine. I think this is long overdue.” I shuddered as he said the word “mine”. It was as though my heart physically rejected his claim. And of course it would. It already belonged to another.
The room was tense, the air thickening with expectation. Zeno reached into his pocket and, in front of the blazing fire, dropped to his knee and stared up into my eyes. “Caresa Acardi, Duchessa di Parma, would you do me the honor of becoming my bride, the woman who will live her life by my side?”
Zeno opened the red velvet box in his hand, and the ladies in the room gasped. Inside was a princess-cut diamond ring. The gold of the band shone like the brightest of suns, and the huge diamond threw its reflection around the room like a spray of perfect little rainbows.
It was at least five carats.
But all I could see when I stared down at this most impressive ring was Achille. All I saw when I looked into Zeno’s face was Achille’s blue eyes as he praised me for choosing a bunch of grapes correctly. I saw his timid smile as he allowed himself to laugh at one of my jokes, at the moments my upper-class breeding caused me to say something superficial and Achille, with his quick wit and sarcasm, reminded me of how silly it sounded. But more than that, as Zeno kneeled before me, all I saw was the dream of it being Achille who was asking me to be his bride. To be the woman who would help him harvest the grapes then lie with him at night in front of the fire. And he would read to me . . .
. . . of Plato and split-aparts.
My throat was thick as the vision in my head became so very real it tricked my heart. Tears ran down my cheeks, but not for the reason the guests believed.
Because this moment was my ruin.
This moment, where the reality of what my life would become hit home.
This ring, this symbol of eternal, never-ending love, as beautiful as it may be, felt like a prison collar as Zeno slipped it onto my finger. An expensive collar, but a collar nonetheless.
The room broke into rapturous applause, taking my tears as a sign of being overcome with happiness. The duchessa finally getting a token of love from the prince.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
Zeno’s eyes narrowed as he got to his feet. He knew I did not care for him in a romantic way, and I knew he grew suspicious of my tears.
“Bacio!” a member of the crowd called out, prompting murmurs of agreement from the rest of our guests.
Kiss!
I didn’t want it. I never wanted his lips to remove the taste of Achille from my mouth. I didn’t want to betray the night I had spent with Achille with this farce. But then Zeno cupped my face and pressed his mouth to mine, abruptly eradicating Achille from my flesh . . . eradicating all I had left of the man I loved.
And I hated it. I hated how his mouth moved against mine. I hated how his tongue swept around my lips and dipped slightly into my mouth. I hated Zeno’s grip on my face. But worst, as our chests touched, I hated how his heart beat. Out of step with my own—no symphony, no in-sync rhythm . . . just unmatching and distant.
Zeno pulled back and dropped his hands from my face. He was pale, as if the reality of our situation had just hit him too.
He moved away from me as the ladies rushed around me, holding up my ring for their inspection. Zeno was being slapped on the back, but he looked a little lost underneath his usual confident mask.
“Duchessa!” the women cooed. “It is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen! You are so lucky!”
I smiled, nodding my head and giving rote answers when I could find the strength. And I played the part for another two hours, until at last I could make my excuses to leave. I said my last goodbye and darted for the stairs.
With every step, my heart seemed to drain, until it was a desert in a drought, starved of life and thirsting for any kind of relief. The ring felt like a ten-ton weight on my finger, pulling me down. And with every step, Zeno’s kiss blazed hotter and hotter on my lips, ripping away the memory of Achille’s kiss that I had clung onto, with a heady desperation, for weeks.
And now it was gone. I had pushed Achille away, giving us just that one, special night, but now all I could think of was being back in his arms. I wanted him in every possible way. I wanted his arms and lips and skin on my skin. I wanted him inside me, loving me just as much as I loved him, hearts beating in unison, blood rushing for the vital touch of the other.
As I reached my room, I let the tears fall. But I also gave in to my heart. I fled through the balcony doors, allowing my pumping blood to guide my feet. The cool breeze snapped at my wet cheeks as I ran as fast as my heels would allow to Achille’s home.
The night was dark, the stars creating a blanket of diamonds and glittering golds. It was late, too late, but I had to get to Achille. Like Cinderella, I too was running from a prince at midnight. But where she had run reluctantly back to her rags and simple life, I was running into the arms of a man who boasted just the same. Cinderella could keep the jewels, the carriage and the prince. I wanted the vineyard, the faded jeans and the golden touch of a beautiful winemaker.