Prince's Virgin In Venice

by Trish Morey

  ‘Hey,’ Chiara said, flicking through the pages, ‘Vittorio wants you to have a designer gown, and I say go for it. There’s only a few weeks until the wedding. You’d be crazy to try and rush it yourself when a designer would have an entire team of seamstresses at their disposal. You can always make something else for the wedding. A garter for your leg, or Vittorio’s bow tie.’ She looked up suddenly. ‘Do princes even wear bow ties to their own weddings?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Rosa, turning back to her tome. ‘Don’t they usually wear medals or a sash?’

  Chiara shrugged next to her, and for a while there was silence but for the flicking of pages—Chiara’s magazine pages, because it was taking for ever for Rosa to make her way through even one of the pages in her turgid tome. She sighed again.

  Chiara looked up. ‘Tell you what. How about we take a look at some of those sketches from the designers Vittorio organised? You’ve barely looked at them and you don’t have long to make a decision.’

  ‘Yeah...’ Rosa said, rubbing her forehead with her hand. She had barely looked at them because she’d had her heart set on designing and making her own gown, but time was slipping by and there was so much to do. So much to read. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Great,’ said Chiara, jumping up. ‘You could do with a break. I’ll go get them. Be right back.’

  Rosa sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her head ached with the effort of trying to make sense of the medieval mumbo jumbo she was reading. How was she ever supposed to get a handle on it all?

  ‘Rosa?’

  She opened her eyes with a start to see Vittorio standing in the wide doorway.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Her heart skipped in her chest as he strode towards her purposefully, like a powerful cat, all grace and barely leashed power. In a soft winter-white sweater that hugged his sculpted chest and fitted black trousers he looked amazing, and her hands ached to reach out and trace the skinscape of his body through the luxurious wool.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  But her skin was tingling, and she was feeling strangely vulnerable. It was the first time they’d been alone together since she’d moved into the palazzo. The first time she hadn’t had Chiara’s presence to shield her and give her the confidence to pretend to be unmoved and light-hearted.

  There was no pretending to be unmoved now. Her mouth had gone dry.

  ‘Then what is the problem?’

  You, she wanted to say. She looked around him. Where was Chiara?

  ‘These damned books,’ she said. ‘They’re so boring. I can’t be expected to read them all.’

  ‘You don’t like the history of Andachstein?’

  ‘I don’t see a lot to interest me so far, no.’

  He smiled and looked around too, and she knew he was checking for Chiara. His smile widened when he didn’t find her.

  ‘Then maybe you are starting in the wrong place. Andachstein has a rich and fascinating history.’ He rounded the desk. ‘Perhaps I can show you.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, even as he leaned over her and examined the volumes on the desk. She felt his heat wrap around her, caress her like a breeze stirring a crop of grain, sparking her sensitive nerve-endings, coaxing her nipples into hard peaks.

  ‘Have you read about the lace industry? That would interest you, surely?’

  ‘Andachstein has a lace industry?’

  He nodded and plucked one volume from the collection on the desk and opened it to a particular page. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to where there were some photographs of various patterns of lace, some delicately shell-like, others resembling flowers. ‘The then Princess Rienna wanted to open schools to girls. She invited a group of nuns to move from Bruges to Andachstein and start a school. They brought with them their lace-making skills and passed them on to the girls and women of the principality.’

  Rosa tried to ignore his presence at her shoulder and concentrate on his words, but she could feel the puff of his breath in her hair and against her skin and it was all she could do not to turn her face to his.

  ‘She sounds,’ she said, trying to stop her voice sounding tremulous, ‘very forward-thinking.’

  ‘She was. She wanted to do something to repay Andachstein for saving her life and she saw this as a way.’

  This time her head did turn to his—just a little. Her gaze caught the strength of his jaw, the curve of his lips and strong nose, and she looked away again, feeling dizzy. Breathless. She hadn’t been this close to Vittorio for so long, and the masculine scent of him was like a drug.

  Her eyes were fixed on the pages in front of her, her hands flat on the desk lest they move of their own volition towards him. Where the hell was Chiara?

  ‘How was she saved by Andachstein?’

  ‘Rienna was a Celtic princess, taken prisoner on a pirate ship bound for Constantinople. Various accounts say she had eyes the colour of sapphires. She’d been kidnapped from her home and intended as a gift for the Sultan, destined to join his harem as one of his concubines. There was a storm and the pirate ship got blown off course into Andachstein waters, where a naval vessel attacked the ship and freed the Princess. The girl’s father was so grateful he offered her to the then Prince, whose own wife had died in childbirth, along with their stillborn son, one year earlier. Princess Rienna went on to bear him eight children, and her intensely blue eyes have been passed down through the generations ever since.’

  This time Rosa did turn her head—all the way. She looked up at his cobalt eyes, entranced by the story of pirates and Celtic princesses and times long gone. ‘Will our son have those same eyes?’

  He turned those eyes down at her, and she felt her insides quiver.

  ‘If he is my son.’

  ‘You know he is your son.’

  ‘I do,’ he said, and his eyes were so intense that her breath hitched and she wasn’t sure for a moment whether he was answering the same question. She knew that if he asked her in this moment if she wanted to make love to him she would utter those same two words.

  His lips were closer. How had that happened when she hadn’t taken her eyes from him? His lips were only a breath from hers now, the time that separated them no more than a heartbeat.

  She was going to kiss him. There was nothing surer, no matter the bargain they’d made or the terms he’d agreed to. Her terms—except they didn’t seem to matter now.

  All that mattered was that Vittorio was here now.

  ‘I found them!’ Chiara breezed into the room and stopped dead.

  Beside her Rosa was almost certain she heard Vittorio growl.

  ‘Sorry, am I interrupting something?’

  Rosa sprang up from her chair. ‘No. Vittorio was just filling me in on some of Andachstein’s history. Weren’t you, Vittorio?’

  ‘Something like that,’ he said, pushing himself upright.

  ‘Chiara and I are going to look at those sketches and choose a designer,’ Rosa said, talking too fast but unable to stop herself. ‘You were right, of course, I will never have time to make something myself.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Vittorio, looking from one woman to the other, ‘I will leave you to it.’

  And he departed.

  ‘What was that about?’ asked Chiara.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rosa, both grateful and annoyed at Chiara’s sudden reappearance. ‘Show me the designs.’

  Chiara looked as if she didn’t believe her, but then her excitement returned. ‘I think I’ve found the perfect gown. There are others too, but what do you think?’

  Rosa took the sketch. It was an off-the-shoulder gown with a fitted bodice, three-quarter sleeves and a back finished with a row of tiny pearl buttons that dropped much lower. There was a long train and a cathedral veil trimmed in lace. Swatches of the suggested fabric—a white Shantung silk—and a sa
mple of the veil were attached.

  There were no embellishments apart from the row of tiny buttons at the back. Nothing fancy. Nothing fussy. Just sleek, unfettered design.

  Rosa felt a zing of excitement. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Chiara grinned. ‘It would look magic on you. You’ll only be three months pregnant by then, and you shouldn’t be showing, but even if you are it will be hidden by the cut of the skirt.’

  Rosa quickly flipped through the pages to see the other designs. She stopped at one—a gown made entirely of lace. Andachstein lace. Her thumb fingered the swatches while she was thinking.

  ‘You’d rather have a gown made in lace?’ Chiara said.

  Rosa smiled. ‘No, but it’s given me an idea.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ANDACHSTEIN’S CATHEDRAL WAS a grand affair on the headland overlooking the harbour, with origins that harked back to Roman times. The cathedral had been built and ruined and rebuilt over the ages, until the existing building had been erected from the ruins some time in the fourteenth century and extended half a dozen times since.

  A testament to the architect’s love and knowledge of arches, the cathedral boasted a long central aisle and a Gothic rose window at one end, with a golden domed nave at the other. Stained-glass windows had been added over the centuries.

  Rosa knew all this as she stood at the entrance, her father by her side and Chiara behind her, to straighten her train and stop her veil blowing away. Vittorio had brought her here for a rehearsal, and she’d been stunned then by the magnificence and history of the place. The tiny chapel in the village where she’d grown up, where they’d said goodbye to her mother, seemed like a dot in a dusty landscape in comparison.

  And now, with the music from the pipe organ sweeping out of the interior, rising to the moment where she would have to enter the cathedral, Rosa had a moment of self-doubt.

  What was she doing here?

  She’d been thrust into this position because of one passionate night that had been meant to be the end. She was marrying a man whose child she carried. They were about to exchange vows declaring that they would love and cherish each other, that they would forsake all others.

  But did Vittorio love her? Would he ever love her enough to forsake all others? She wanted so much what her mother and father had shared. She wanted it all. Marriage, family, and love at the heart of it.

  What if it never happened?

  What if Vittorio never loved her?

  She wouldn’t be able to bear it.

  She’d wither slowly from the inside out.

  Her father must have noticed her shallow breathing. He patted the hand tucked under his arm.

  ‘All right?’ he asked, his forehead creased into a frown, concern lining his eyes.

  She took a deep breath and found a weak smile to reassure him. Of course she was. She had to be. She thought of her unborn child, of the things she would be denying him if she turned her back on all this now, and she couldn’t do it. Not just to satisfy her own personal needs and longings.

  She smiled up at her father again. ‘Bridal jitters,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’

  He kissed her then, and told her, ‘You look beautiful today. No father could be prouder.’

  Rosa gave a tremulous smile. How could she not look beautiful today? Her gown was divine. She’d decided on a simple sleek design, similar to the one in the sketch Chiara had shown her, and together with the designer had decided on a champagne-coloured silk. A long veil edged with Andachstein lace was held in place with a tiara that had belonged to Vittorio’s mother and boasted a magnificent Brazilian topaz.

  The whole ensemble was so utterly perfect she was glad she’d been talked out of trying to make a dress herself. Besides, it had given her time to tackle some other projects.

  ‘My only regret is that your mother isn’t here to witness this moment.’ Her father gave a sad, soft smile, his eyes glazed. ‘She would be so proud, and I know she is smiling down on you like the sun is today.’

  ‘Don’t make me cry,’ Rosa pleaded, dabbing at her eyes.

  And then there was no time for tears as the music shifted up a notch.

  ‘There’s our cue,’ her father said as a footman gave him a signal. ‘Are you ready?’

  Rosa sucked in a breath, smiled weakly and nodded. ‘Ready,’ she said.

  The sun through the stained-glass windows drenched the waiting congregation in puddles of coloured light. Dust motes glowed like sparks of gold in the vast space above. Either side of her were wall-to-wall smiles. But she didn’t have eyes for any of it.

  For there at the front, waiting for her, stood Vittorio, tall and proud. Her breath caught in her throat. Because, outfitted in the black dress uniform of the Andachstein Guard, trimmed with gold braid and buttons, once again he looked just as he had that first night—more like a warrior, or a warlord, or even a god, than any mere mortal.

  He watched her approach...didn’t take his eyes off her as she took every slow step down the aisle. He was smiling a little, she noticed as they grew closer, just enough to soften the hard angles and planes of his warrior face, and in his eyes she saw approval and satisfaction, desire and maybe even a little wonderment.

  But was there room in them for a little love? She wanted with all her heart to see love there.

  At the last moment she noticed her family, all smiles as they passed, and there was Prince Guglielmo watching too, wearing his perpetual frown and as beady-eyed as ever.

  She drew level with her groom and he offered her his arm, his amazing blue eyes searching her face.

  Beautiful, he mouthed, and her heart gave a little kick that had her trembling.

  Tonight she would lie with this man in the marital bed. Tonight they would consummate this unlikely marriage and be as one. All this time Vittorio had thought he was the one missing out, the one hard done by, but he had no idea of the sacrifice she’d made in not giving in to her desires. She wanted to be back in his arms more than he knew. She’d longed for this night, this intimacy, this connection. But she was afraid of it too, and of what it might mean.

  She’d told Vittorio that she was worried that this marriage would mean losing her independence. But tonight she knew she was in danger of losing herself.

  * * *

  The ceremony began. The priest spoke his solemn words, music soared at intervals, and a choir filled with what sounded like angels turned hymns into the sweetest sounds she had ever heard.

  Rosa felt as if she was standing outside herself, watching on. How could it be her, Rosa Ciavarro, from a tiny village in the south of Italy, standing there marrying a prince? It was unbelievable. Surreal.

  When they exchanged their vows it was Vittorio who sounded confident and assured in the soaring space, whose voice didn’t waver. It was Vittorio who looked her in the eye and made her want to believe that some part of this was not just an act of convenience, going through the motions, that some part of it was real.

  And then they were pronounced husband and wife, and their lips met in a kiss that had her doubting again. Because it was more businesslike than affectionate. Sealing the deal.

  He walked her down the aisle a married woman—a princess—and she felt numb. Shell-shocked.

  In a touch of unexpected informality the guests spilled out of the cathedral behind them, full of congratulations and good wishes for the newlyweds. She found herself separated from Vittorio as they were tugged in different directions, but even that didn’t matter because everyone was so happy.

  Until a woman latched on to her arm. ‘I suppose I should congratulate you,’ she said.

  Rosa turned. There was no mistaking the vampish woman, even though Cleopatra had turned honey-blonde since she’d last seen her. ‘Thank you, Contessa.’

  ‘I’ll let you into a little secret, though,’ the woman whispered as she air-kisse
d Rosa’s cheeks. ‘He’ll never love you. His lot are incapable of it.’ She smiled as she stepped back. ‘So you might as well lose those stars in your eyes right now.’

  Rosa gasped, too stunned to speak. Was she that obvious? Was she so transparent that everyone could see the longing to be loved written plain on her face?

  And then her brothers and their wives and children were swarming around her and she was surrounded by joy and love in abundance, and she almost felt greedy that she wanted more when she already had more than some people had in a lifetime.

  ‘Where’s my wife?’ she heard a booming voice say over the crowd.

  My wife.

  A zing of electricity sent shockwaves down her spine. Possession. It was there in his words, there in his tone.

  Nothing to do with love. It was all about lust, and anticipation for the evening ahead. She knew because the time had come and she felt it too.

  And then the crowd parted and Vittorio was there, larger than life. His jewel-coloured eyes lit up when he saw her. ‘Ah, there you are, my Princess. We have a state reception to get to,’ he said. ‘But first—’

  He swept her up in his arms and kissed her, to the cheers of the crowd. Not like the kiss he’d given her in the cathedral—that one had been warm but brief. Sweet. Official, even. This was a kiss that spoke of barely restrained passion, of desire that was about to be taken off the leash. A kiss that left her breathless and weak-kneed and pulsing in places that knew how Vittorio could make them feel and wanted it as much as she did.

  Maybe tonight she should just let herself be possessed. Maybe tonight should be all about desire. About slaking mutual need and lust.

  And tomorrow, and all the tomorrows to come, maybe then she could worry about love.

  * * *

  The party was still raging, the orchestra still playing and wedding guests still dancing, when Vittorio approached Rosa and growled softly in her ear, ‘It’s time.’

  Rosa had been enjoying herself, having found ten minutes to be with her family. She’d smiled when Chiara had taken to the dance floor yet again with Marcello. Marvelled when Prince Guglielmo had accompanied Sirena to the floor for a waltz. But mostly she’d just enjoyed being in the company of her family again. Soon they’d have to return to Zecce and she’d miss them.