“You were best friends?” I could hear the disbelief in her soft voice.
“Yes. My only friend . . . until you.”
Caresa’s eyes glossed over. Then she looked away and said, “I never knew you knew Zeno, Achille. You never said.”
“Because I don’t know him anymore. We were children. He left the estate for Florence, and I never had any contact with him again . . . until today.” I pressed my forehead to hers. “But I am thankful to him.”
“Why?”
“Because he brought you to me. He left you here on my estate, and God made it so we would cross paths. So although I don’t know him anymore, I am thankful to him.”
Caresa’s lips found mine. When we broke from the kiss, she said, “I can’t believe he came to see you. I’m glad. I’m glad he is trying.”
“I guess so.” I laid my head back over her chest. My arm wrapped around her waist and, just as my eyes began to close, pulled by sleep, I saw an old book on her nightstand. A book I knew very well. “Plato’s Symposium,” I said and felt Caresa still.
“I have been reading it,” she confessed. I caught the embarrassment in her tone. But all it did was make my heart explode.
“Mi amore?” I asked.
“Mm?”
“Read to me,” I requested. She didn’t move for several seconds, but then she leaned over to the table and retrieved the book.
I closed my eyes as Caresa’s soothing voice lulled me to sleep. As I drifted off, I thought of the room she stayed in, of the expensive nightgown she wore, and wondered if I was enough.
But then, as she spoke of jealous gods and drifting souls, I let all my worries float away. She was here with me now. That was all that mattered.
The issues we had to face would still be there tomorrow. So for now I let her words wash over me, until I fell asleep, completely content.
Chapter Twelve
A few weeks later . . .
Achille
I heard the music coming from the mansion as I put Nico and Rosa back in their stables. Even through the thick trees that blocked my view of the house, I could see the Christmas lights sparkling against the evening sky. I could see every window in the house was lit, and I could hear the music blaring from within.
It was the first day of December, and the day of the annual Bella Collina Christmas masked ball. Every aristocrat from Italy had come to the prince’s home for the event. A tradition that had been upheld by the Savonas for over three hundred years. A night where the lords and ladies of Italy gathered in Renaissance dress and Venetian masks to dance and drink and remember that they are someone.
Caresa had not been able to get away for the past four days. So I had waited for her in her bed every night, a single white rose on her pillow.
The past month had carried on much the same as normal for me. My wine was almost ready to bottle, and then . . . then I didn’t know.
But for Caresa, things had only grown busier. Every day she had to discuss wedding plans, go to lunches and attend dinners with Zeno . . . and every day she grew sadder and sadder. She clung to me every night, made love to me as though she would lose me. And it killed me.
But I had to get this year’s wine made. And if I was being honest, the thought of her declaring to her family and friends that she was choosing me over the prince scared me to death. I didn’t want to lose this life, but I didn’t want to lose her.
The thought made me feel sick.
As did the thought of Caresa now in the mansion, dressed in a beautiful period gown, on the arm of the prince. I wanted nothing more but for her to be on mine—she should have been on mine—but I had no place in a party such as that.
An hour later, as I sat at home trying to read, the music and my curiosity got the better of me. Throwing on my boots and a shirt, I took a single white rose from the always-stocked vase I kept at the cottage and stepped out onto the path. Gently falling snow landed on my face as I trudged up the hill toward the mansion.
When I reached the highest point, I stopped and looked down at the bustling estate. Christmas lights hung everywhere. The gardens were scattered with lights, illuminating their perfect landscaping. Then my eyes fell on what I knew was the great room. Inside, I saw people dancing, swirling reds and golds and greens.
I made myself move again, wanting a closer look. I ducked past large shrubs to avoid the attention of the increased security that had been brought in to protect the exclusive guests. I came to a large window and peeked inside, making sure to stay in the shadows.
And my eyes widened. The ballroom was a mass of color. Venetian masks of all colors and shapes and sizes were spinning around as the guests waltzed to a live orchestra. Laughter rang out over the music. I had never seen anything like it. It was as though I had been transported back in time. In this moment, the royal family was very much alive and well . . . and I was a winemaker looking in at a life that wasn’t his.
And then I saw her.
And I saw him.
The crowd moved to the sides of the ballroom and clapped as a couple walked down the stairs. Zeno was dressed in royal blue with an elaborate silver mask. And Caresa . . . my Caresa, wore a deep-red sleeveless ball gown, a corset squeezing in her small waist. Her dark hair was curled and pinned up off her face. She wore long golden earrings and a pretty golden Venetian mask with golden feathers bordering the sides. Her full lips were bright red . . . she was a vision.
Then my stomach fell. Because this was Caresa, the Duchessa di Parma. This was the woman she had been raised to be. Music began, and like the most perfect couple, she and Zeno began to waltz, their movements as perfect as they looked. The watching crowd clapped and stood in awe of the royals as they danced, as they whirled across the floor.
A part of my soul died.
It had been a fantasy. All of it. Seeing Caresa like this, I . . . I couldn’t disgrace her. Because I would. If she chose me over Zeno, she stood not only to lose her family, but her title and her honor. Caresa laughed and smiled as she danced, and even though my heart was breaking, I found myself smiling slightly too.
No one would ever own my heart like Caresa. But that did not mean that we, us as a couple, were right for her. My feet backed away from the window, and I forced myself to turn from the sight of the woman I loved in another man’s arms. I wandered listlessly to the stairs that led to the balcony. I climbed each step, knowing the door to her bedroom would be open. She always left it open for me now, so I could climb into her bed at night, if she didn’t make it into mine.
I slipped inside, and like I did the first night I was here, I drank in the room. The incredible room that suited Caresa’s birthright perfectly. It was almost, almost, as beautiful as her.
Sitting on the side of the bed—the side where she slept—I ran my hand over the copy of Plato’s Symposium on her nightstand, then the pillow on which she slept. I laid the rose on her pillow and stared at the delicate flower on the pristine pillowcase.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there for, but I eventually made myself move and leave her rooms. This time I wasn’t steady in my walk back to my home; I ran. I ran, needing to feel the biting cold pinching at my face and the ice-cold wind filling my gasping lungs. The surrounding vineyards were white from the newly fallen snow, and the dark sky above was cloudless, the stars like diamonds up above.
In that moment, they appeared just glittering as the masked ball. As unreachable too. Too far out of grasp, unattainable in their beauty . . . just as far out of my world as Caresa’s was from mine.
I ran all the way home, the heavy soles of my boots crunching on the icy mix of soil and grass. I darted into my cottage, needing its familiar comforts to calm me down. But it offered none. For months, my father’s ghost had haunted these rooms—his seat by the fire, his calming voice in the night. But now, as I looked at the fire, as I thought of my bed, he had been replaced by Caresa. Day by day she had consumed every part of my life just as sure as she had consumed my soul.
And it hurt. It hurt because no matter the plans we had made, no matter the love we shared and the needs of our hearts, it couldn’t work. None of this could ever work.
We had been fools to think so. Struck from our senses by love.
And it hurt. It hurt so much I couldn’t breathe.
I staggered into my bedroom and slumped onto the edge of my bed. My elbows landed on my knees, and I ran my hands through my hair. As I looked up, my eyes fell to the nightstand . . . and the letter inside called my name.