“Yes. Purebred.”
“I had one too. A black gelding.” I paused and pressed a kiss to the gelding’s nose. “He was my favorite horse.” I felt Achille’s eyes on me. I glanced up, and our gazes met.
“Was?”
“He passed away a few years ago.”
Achille nodded and averted his gaze.
“And what is his name?” I asked, pointing at the gelding.
“Nico,” Achille replied. “He’s mine. The one I ride, I mean.”
“You ride?”
“Yes,” he said. “Mainly to check on the vines. Cars and trucks can affect the soil, so I ride.” He shrugged. “I prefer it anyway.”
I studied him, finding myself wishing he would speak more. He was incredibly shy and timid, that was for sure. I found it curiously endearing. In my life I had met very few men who were introverted and shy. Most were powerful, full of confidence, and, in some cases, full of their own importance.
Most behaved exactly like the prince.
“And who rides Rosa?” I asked. The movement was slight. If I hadn’t been watching, I would have missed it. Achille’s hand froze on Rosa’s neck the second the question left my lips.
He inhaled deeply, then said softly, “My papa used to. She was his.”
Was. The word stood out to me. She was his.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said after a moment.
Achille’s hand fell from Rosa, and he flashed me a tight, grateful smile. “I need to get back to work.” I saw by the look in his eyes that he didn’t know what else to say to me. Didn’t know how to act around me.
“Okay,” I said and, with a final kiss to each horse’s nose, backed away from the paddock toward the path leading out of the garden. Achille was standing tensely, his eyes flickering to mine and then the ground. “It was nice to meet you,” I said and waved my hand.
Achille didn’t respond straight away, but then said, “You too, Duchessa.” No sooner had he spoken than he turned and entered the barn. I sighed, feeling slightly disappointed. I would have liked to have seen what was in the barn, even talked to him about wine. But anyone could see he was not the type who engaged easily in conversation.
I left the garden and closed the kitsch wooden gate that framed Achille’s house so perfectly. Just as Achille had directed, the well-worn path was there to guide me home. I jogged all the way back, only this time I did not listen to music. My mind was preoccupied with replaying my meeting with Achille.
My heart kicked in my chest as I pictured him. His shy, handsome face, his sculpted body—he was incredible. The dirt on his hands and the sweat on his skin only added to his appeal.
As I reached the doors of the mansion, I shook my head. I could not think of other men any longer. I was here to be married, not on a vacation. I was betrothed to Zeno, and that was that.
I went into the house and to the stairs to my rooms. I had just put my foot on the first step when a flash of color caught my eye. I walked over to the painting of the stone cottage and studied it closely. It was most certainly Achille’s home. Though now I had seen it in the flesh, I realized that, as talented as the artist was, he could not do the picturesque scene justice.
“Do you like it, Duchessa?” I glanced to my right and saw one of the housekeepers smiling at me.
“Yes,” I replied. “Very much.”
The older woman nodded. “It is almost as beautiful as the wine itself, and nearly as sweet as the winemaker who lives there.” As the housekeeper turned to walk away, her words sank in.
“What?” I asked abruptly. The housekeeper turned to face me. “What do you mean ‘as beautiful as the wine?’”
“The merlot, Duchessa. Bella Collina Reserve.” My heart fired like a canon in my chest. The housekeeper smiled. “This is the home of our famous merlot’s winemaker. It has been in the same family for years. The son runs it now.”
“Oh,” I whispered. My eyes drifted back to the painting. I wasn’t sure if the housekeeper was still there or if I was alone. Blood rushed through my veins, and my lungs strove to take in air. I stood as still as a statue, hypnotized by the painting of the small house, fairytale-meadow garden and full-to-bursting vines that surrounded it.
And I thought of Achille. Achille, amongst the vines, hand-harvesting the grapes with such deep passion in his eyes and such intense concentration on his face . . .
“Bella Collina Reserve,” I whispered to myself. “Achille makes the Bella Collina merlot . . .”
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, staring at the painting. Eventually I returned to my rooms. I ran a bath and climbed in, letting the hot water envelope me and calm me with its lavender-scented vapors.
Achille was a private man, of that much I was certain. I didn’t know anything else about him. But I sensed he had been uncomfortable with my presence, at my unwanted intrusion into his world.
I knew he would not expect to see me again. But as I closed my eyes and envisioned that small private vineyard and the beautiful man who ran it, I resolved to return.
I told myself it was to speak to the man about my favorite wine, to see and understand the process, to ask the many questions I had.
As Achille’s blue eyes danced through my mind, I ignored the truth in my heart—that I also wanted to speak to this man again because of him. Not just the wine, but him.
I allowed myself to pretend the opposite.
I was betrothed to the prince.
I was marrying Zeno.
This was only about the merlot.
Nothing more.
Chapter Four
Achille
I stood in the center of the barn and listened carefully. She didn’t move for a while, but then I heard the sound of her feet walking away. When her footsteps faded to silence, I headed out of the barn and turned right, walking through the trees until I was at the perimeter fence of my vineyard. The duchessa cast one last look at my home then followed the track toward the main house of the estate.
She was dressed all in black, her dark hair pulled back in a bun. She started to run, and in a couple of minutes she had disappeared down the valley, only for her distant silhouette to appear again five minutes later as she ran up the hill toward her home.
I leaned against the fence and watched until she was gone. My eyebrows pulled down. People hardly ever came to this part of the vineyard. The king had been strict with the other workers about where they could go—my small patch of the estate was strictly off-limits to most.
The king was always terrified someone would discover the secret of our merlot. So for years it had only been my papa and me. When Papa died seven months ago, it left only me. I didn’t mind my own company so much. I had never been one for friends, and what little family I had lived in Sicily. I only saw my aunt a couple of times a year. The last true friend I had stopped speaking to me when I was younger, and I had come to the conclusion that he was only my friend because he lived on this land and there was no one else around the same age. Very few people had come by since.
That was just how it was.
Nico neighed from the paddock, the sound reminding me that I had to get back to work. But with every step I took, all I could do was replay the last hour. That was the Duchessa di Parma. That is who the prince is marrying.
Several weeks ago the prince’s secretary had gathered the staff and told us of the upcoming marriage. I didn’t know what I’d expected of the duchessa from America, but I hadn’t expected her to be so . . . so . . .
I sighed, wiping a hand down over my face, shoving those thoughts far from my mind. My hand fell to my side, and I went into the barn. The oak barrels that the new wine would be aged in were stacked and ready for the end of harvest. I had only just begun to collect. The weather this summer had delayed the grapes’ development slightly. If there was one thing my father had taught me, it was that the grapes could not be picked until they were absolutely perfect. I was a week or two behind where I expected to be, but the extra time had given me the most promising bunches of grapes I’d had in years. And considering the recent vintages were regarded as the best, I felt a heady rush of excitement swirl in my blood at the prospect of the most excellent wine this year’s harvest might bring. It was the first year I would be completely alone in this endeavor, no experienced voice guiding me.