Prince's Virgin In Venice

by Trish Morey

  ‘Or maybe fate, or even destiny.’

  Or magic, she thought as he pulled her into his kiss. Don’t forget magic.

  It was like coming home, her lips meeting his, their warm breath intermingling, the taste of him in her mouth. And she wondered if a day that had started so badly, so desolate and without hope, could get any better.

  He drew back as the gondolier drew his vessel into a private dock outside a palazzo. And even though it had been foggy the one night he’d brought her here she would have recognised it in a heartbeat.

  Vittorio’s palazzo.

  He was on his feet and had leapt onto the deck like a natural before he handed her out of the vessel. He slipped the gondolier some notes and then collected her arm to lead her inside.

  ‘There’s one more thing I need to tell you. One more reason you need to agree to marry me.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘NOW I KNOW this is some kind of joke.’ Rosa burst from the chair she’d been settled in, needing to pace the room in long, frantic strides. ‘You can’t do this to me, Vittorio. You can’t ask me to marry you—can’t try to convince me to marry you with your kisses and your sweet talking about destiny and fate—and then drop a bombshell by telling me you’re a prince. The Prince of Andachstein, no less!’

  ‘Rosa, calm down.’

  ‘How do you expect me to calm down? How did you think I’d react? That I would bow and scrape and be grateful that I’ve been offered this royal condescension? Am I supposed to be humbled? Or intimidated? Or both?’

  ‘Rosa, listen!’

  ‘No. I don’t want to listen. I’m going home.’

  She turned towards the doors—gilt-framed doors, elaborately carved with tigers and elephants, just one more treasure in a palazzo dripping with treasures of Murano glass and crystal chandeliers and rich velvet-upholstered antiques.

  And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t noticed the insane luxury of this palazzo before. How had she accepted his explanation that it was simply somewhere he stayed without realising that he must have connections to the rich and famous—or that he must be one of them? Had she been so blinded by lust at that stage that she hadn’t cared to notice? That she hadn’t been able to see what was in front of her face?

  She sniffed. ‘Don’t bother showing me out. I found the way myself once before. I can find my way home.’

  ‘What? Home to your squalid basement apartment and your hand-to-mouth cleaning job? Home to throwing up every morning while you clean up somebody else’s mess? Why would you want to go back to that life when I can offer you so much more?’

  She spun on her heel. ‘Because it’s my life, Vittorio,’ she said, her hands over her chest. ‘It might be hard, and it might involve cleaning up the filth and garbage of other peoples’ lives, but it’s the life I choose to lead because that’s the life I know. That’s the world I belong to—not yours.’

  ‘And you think, therefore, that that’s the only life you deserve? You sell yourself short, Rosa. I would never have expected that.’

  ‘I thought you belonged to my world too. At least that you were closer to my world. When you took me to the party that night you made me think that you were on the fringes of Marcello’s world. “He’s descended from the doges of Venice,” you told me. I asked you how you knew such people. “Friends,” you said. Your father and his were friends. Just friends. You let me think your father worked for him, and yet your father sits on the throne of Andachstein. Were you laughing at me when I told you I understood? When I told you about my father working for the mayor of our small village? Because you should have been. You sure made a fool out of me.’

  ‘No! You constructed your own story. You believed what you wanted to believe.’

  ‘You could have told me then how wrong I was. But you didn’t make one effort to correct me.’

  ‘How was I supposed to tell you? If I’d told you I was a prince in that square would you have believed me? Would you have come with me?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘You see?’

  ‘No! You could have told me you were a prince when we were in the garden before the party.’

  ‘And would you have believed me then?’

  She wavered. Probably not. But still... ‘Look, we slept together. But you can’t be serious. You can’t expect me to marry you.’

  ‘Rosa,’ he said, ‘what are afraid of?’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Aren’t you? Weren’t you ready to say yes to me before, when you thought I was just a man?’

  ‘Well, maybe...’

  ‘Then what’s changed? Unless you’re afraid that you’re not good enough to be a princess? Is that what you’re telling me? That you don’t deserve it?’

  ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘Did you tell me you were a virgin? Before you were in my bedroom, having already agreed to make love?’

  ‘Maybe not—but it’s not like that puts us on an even footing. After all, you’re still a prince.’

  He didn’t need her to spell it out. What he needed was for her to agree to marry him.

  ‘Why are you so angry with me? You wanted me to make love to you that night.’

  ‘Yes. I wanted you to make love to me. You. Vittorio. The man I met that night. Not the Prince of some random principality I’ve barely heard of. I wasn’t there for him.’

  ‘Does it matter? I’m still the same person.’

  ‘Of course it matters! You’re next in line to the throne of Andachstein. Royalty. I’m a girl from a tiny village in the heel of Italy. Don’t you think there’s something of a power imbalance there?’

  ‘I do. But there’s another one that we have to deal with. Because you’re the one who holds all the cards.’

  ‘I don’t see how. Like I said, you’re still a prince, whatever I decide.’

  ‘But you’re the one carrying the heir.’

  She blinked. ‘But if we don’t—if I don’t—’

  ‘There’s no escaping it,’ he said. ‘You can’t just sidestep being the mother to the heir of a throne.’

  She kicked up her chin. ‘It might be a girl. Surely a girl can’t be the heir to the throne in a principality steeped in antiquity? Surely the throne can’t go to an accidental princess?’

  ‘That’s why I’m taking you to a clinic, so that we can find out.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s time we were leaving.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was going to marry you even if it is a boy.’

  ‘And you didn’t rule it out. Let’s go.’

  ‘But it’s too early to tell,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not.

  * * *

  Rosa could scarcely believe it—that a blood test that took only a few moments could deliver them the sex of their unborn child at such an early stage. But the doctor taking the sample of her blood had assured her it was correct.

  ‘This test is not commercially available yet, but it is accurate in determining the sex of an unborn baby with up to ninety-five percent certainty.’

  ‘What if it’s one of the five per cent?’ she said while they sat quietly together afterwards. ‘What if it is a girl?’

  ‘I’ll take that risk. Meanwhile, you carry my son and the heir to the throne of Andachstein. You can say no to marrying me. You can walk away from this marriage if you choose. But in doing so, know that you are denying our child his rightful destiny.’

  ‘You would put that load on my shoulders?’

  ‘The load is already there. It is up to you what you decide to do with it.’

  She turned away, her mind reeling. The pregnancy. The arrival of Vittorio. Finding out he was a prince. A proposal of marriage.

  It was like being bombarded from every side with no respite. There was no time to take anything in. No time to process anything. And
yet she had to make a decision that would impact her entire life—and that of their unborn child.

  She swallowed. ‘And if I agree to marry you?’

  ‘Then our son will be brought up to assume his rightful place in Andachstein, with all the rights, privileges and responsibilities that go with it.’

  She thought about the tiny basement flat that would never do to bring up a child in. She thought about her home in Zecce, a tiny dot of a dusty village in Puglia, where their child would grow up happy—she would make sure of that—but in no way in wealth or the lap of luxury. And she thought about this palazzo that would be part of his heritage, and no doubt much more besides.

  Would it be fair to deprive their son of all that because his father had neglected to inform her that he was a prince?

  And the biggest question of them all. What about love? Where did love factor in? He’d said nothing of love.

  ‘What about love?’ she asked, her throat so dry she had to force the words out.

  ‘We’ll both love our son,’ he said.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. So that was how it was. She’d read far too much into his sudden arrival, his kind attention, his comfort and his care. She’d read far too much into a romantic gondola ride and the fact that he’d wanted to see her again to return her grandmother’s earring, as if it meant something.

  But it had been an accident that he’d turned up. A twist of fate. He hadn’t come for her at all—he was simply returning a piece of jewellery. And now the only reason he wanted her to stay was because she was having his baby. The child of a prince.

  ‘You’re using me,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes! You used me before and now you’re using me again. But this time because I’m carrying your child.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Then what would you call it? Blackmail? A world of spun gold for my child if I agree to marry you? Otherwise he lives the life of a peasant?’

  ‘Think of the child. It’s the best thing for the child. The fair thing.’

  She spun away. She didn’t want to hear it. Because part of her knew he was right. How could she say no and deprive their child of its birthright?

  But this was not how her dreams had looked. Vittorio had come for her, yes, but not the way she’d imagined. Not for love. And now her dreams were turned to dust, and her hopes of love with them.

  She couldn’t help but wonder whether he had loved his first wife. A stab of jealousy pierced her heart. Or perhaps this was just how royal families did things—even in the twenty-first century—cold, loveless, contractual marriages.

  How could she live without love? It was the foundation stone of her very existence. But then, how could she live without Vittorio? Without his touch? With just her dreams to sustain her, to mock her, when she could have the real thing even in the absence of love.

  How could she wake up from those dreams to a sense of devastating loss and know that things could have been different if only she hadn’t been so headstrong? So proud?

  ‘Think of the child,’ he’d said.

  And she was. But she was thinking about herself too. Thinking about parting from this man one last time after he’d found her again, and how much harder this time would be when it didn’t have to be this way.

  In the end, when it came down to it, he wasn’t offering her a choice at all.

  ‘All right,’ she whispered, feeling her life spiralling out of control. ‘I’ll marry you.’

  But not without conditions.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MARCELLO ANSWERED VITTORIO’S call on the third ring. ‘I was wondering when I was going to hear from you again,’ Marcello said. ‘Have you come to your senses and made a decision yet?’

  ‘You’ll be delighted to know I have.’

  ‘So who’s the lucky lady? Katerina or Inga?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘What kind of game are you playing now?’ Marcello sounded as if he was at the end of his tether. ‘You know—’

  ‘I know. I have to marry someone. So I am. I’m marrying Rosa.’

  There was a pause at the end of the line. ‘You don’t mean—the woman from that night at Carnevale? The one you brought to the party?’

  ‘The very same.’

  Marcello snorted. ‘Well, it’s good you’ve made a decision, but how is your father going to react to that news?’

  ‘It’s other news that might just swing it. She’s pregnant, Marcello, and—get this—she’s having a boy.’

  ‘You sly dog. You’ve been seeing her, then. That explains why your heart wasn’t seriously in the hunt for a bride.’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen her since Carnevale. Not until today.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Marcello. ‘She must have made quite an impression on you, in that case. I’m beginning to see why you might have been off your game. If you’d told me you were besotted with the woman it would have saved everyone a lot of time and effort.’

  Vittorio growled. ‘Stop talking rubbish, Marcello!’

  ‘When are you going to tell your father?’

  ‘As soon as Rosa’s father agrees to the marriage.’

  There was a pause at the end of the line. ‘You—Prince Vittorio of Andachstein—are going to ask a woman’s father for permission to marry her? After you’ve already taken certain liberties with his daughter, evidenced by the fact that she’s pregnant with your child?’

  Vittorio wished his friend wouldn’t make such a big deal out of every single thing. ‘Rosa’s giving up a lot. She wants to do at least this part the old-fashioned way. We’re travelling to Puglia this weekend.’

  ‘And you have agreed?’

  ‘Rosa insisted I meet her family and ask his permission or no wedding.’

  ‘I like this woman more and more,’ Marcello declared, chuckling down the phone line. ‘I’m so glad to know you’re not getting yourself a doormat. But, Vittorio, have you thought about what you’re going to do if her father says no?’

  ‘Ciao,’ Vittorio said, putting his phone down on the coffee table.

  Rosa’s father wasn’t going to say no. He couldn’t.

  As for not getting a doormat—he was well aware of that. He’d seen the way she’d stood up to Sirena that night, refusing to be cowed. He’d seen the way she’d stood up to him, insisting that she wasn’t going to give up her job and move into the palazzo until such time as her father had given permission and the wedding was confirmed to proceed.

  He shook his head as he looked around him at the luxurious fittings and furniture of the palazzo, all with a view of the Grand Canal. Why she would want to stay in that job and live in her dingy room when she could have all this, he didn’t know. But it seemed important to her, and he figured she might as well enjoy what freedom she had now.

  Soon enough she would be married to him and she’d find herself bound up in palace protocol and demands that she had no say in. She might as well enjoy her independence now.

  He shook his head. No doormat there. With Rosa he was getting the whole package. A woman who could light up his nights, to please him—and who had already proved herself a breeder, to please his father.

  What could be better than that?

  Unless it was the child. A son.

  His son.

  It was something he’d yearned for once. Something he’d waited for with every passing month of his marriage. He’d expected it to happen quickly. After all, nothing else had been a problem. He’d been served up a bride he’d fallen madly in love with. All he’d needed was the news that he would become a father and the royal line of Andachstein would live on, his destiny fulfilled.

  It had all seemed so easy in those bright, halcyon days. Except his wait had been fruitless. And then he’d discovered the reason why, and his world had turned sour and rancid, with bitt
erness usurping hope.

  This child was like a reclaimed dream. A second chance. But he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He was taking no chances if this marriage didn’t work out. He wasn’t about to risk losing himself in the process.

  There were some places he wouldn’t go again.

  Love was one of them.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT WAS A two-hour drive from Bari Airport to Zucca. First along the straight highway that crossed the ankle of Italy, before turning on to narrower and yet narrower roads that meandered past stone walls and olive groves through the undulating countryside.

  The sprinkle of towns and villages here seemed mostly deserted, except for the odd herd of goats and the brightly coloured pots of geraniums and the bougainvillea clambering over crumbling walls. Here and there an old man in a chair outside his house would lift a lazy hand as they passed.

  Summer felt closer here, in this far southern region of Italy. The sky was clear blue, the air was clean and warm, and the late April sun held the promise of hot, airless summer days.

  Along the route Rosa told Vittorio about her family. There was her father, Roberto, her three brothers, Rudi, Guido and Fabio, and their wives, Estella, Luna and Gabriella. There were three bambini between them now, with the addition of Rudi and Estella’s second child, born just a week ago. The first granddaughter had been a cause of much excitement, and had been named Maria Rosa after her late grandmother and her aunt.

  Vittorio tried to pay attention and take it all in, but it was hard when his gut was roiling. Oddly, he was never afraid to meet his own father, to put up with his disappointment and even his anger, but he was nervous about meeting Roberto. Rosa’s father was an unknown quantity, and he suspected that the man wasn’t about to be dazzled by his title.

  ‘They’re all going to be so excited to learn there’s going to be another cousin soon.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s too early to tell them about the baby?’ Vittorio asked.

  Rosa wasn’t showing yet—not in a way anybody else would notice. Surely only he would appreciate the extra fullness to her breasts and what it meant.