by Jane Porter
Monet was reading stories to the children when a snowplow could be heard outside, scraping the road leading to the castello.
She went to the window to watch the huge plow clearing snow. The children joined her at the window. The snowplow stopped not far from the entrance, and a door opened and the driver got out, and then the driver helped a passenger out.
“Papà!” Antonio cried, tapping the glass.
Monet watched as the snowplow driver aided Marcu to the front door. Staff were now spilling out of the house, rushing down the stairs to help.
“I’ll be right back,” she told the children before racing downstairs, where Marcu was now in the entrance hall.
He looked soaked through, but he was home. The staff continued to swarm him, and Monet pressed forward as well until she remembered her place—she wasn’t his girlfriend, wasn’t a friend, wasn’t family, and wasn’t even really staff—and she fell back a step, allowing others to see to him. But even then, her gaze swept over him, intently studying him from head to toe.
He had abrasions on his face, a cut on the bridge of his nose, and another on his cheekbone, plus the makings of a fine bruise on his brow.
He was standing, but just barely, and he gratefully accepted the help of the butler and steward as they each wrapped an arm around him, supporting him as they ushered him to the staircase, heading up to his room. The cook was given instructions to prepare a hot drink and meal, and housekeeping went to build fires in his rooms.
Marcu passed her on the staircase and his gaze met hers. His expression was one of utter weariness. “I should have listened to you,” he said.
“You’re safe. That’s what’s important,” she answered.
He appeared to want to say something else and then he changed his mind and he continued up the staircase to his suite of rooms.
Monet didn’t see Marcu until much later that night. After coming home, he’d showered and gone to bed and stayed there for hours. It wasn’t until dinner that he emerged from his room and joined his family at the table in the dining room.
The children were subdued as they took in his cuts and bruises. He told them he’d had an accident driving, and after crashing he’d set off on foot to get help. After forty-five minutes of walking in what he feared were circles, he’d come to a rural house, and met a farmer, and the farmer attached a snowplow to the front of his tractor and slowly drove him all the way back to the castello.
The kids had dozens of questions, which Marcu patiently answered. Yes, the cab was small, but it was high up with pretty good visibility. The cab was also new so there was heating. Yes, they were squished but he was so grateful for the farmer’s help that he didn’t mind being in such cramped conditions. He also mentioned that the tractor had a snowblower on the back, and they were using that but it had stopped working partway.
Cook had made a delicious almond cake with spiced pears and crème anglaise for dessert and after the children had eaten, Monet whispered that they should go give their father a hug and kiss good-night because they were lucky to have him home in one piece.
Marcu seemed caught off guard by the hugs and kisses. He returned them, a little awkwardly, but the children seemed pleased and Rocca gave her father an extra squeeze and kiss.
“You’ll come back down afterward?” Marcu said to Monet as she shepherded the children out the dining-room door.
She nodded, returning almost an hour later because the children had so many questions about their father’s accident and if he was still going to leave them for Christmas or if this meant he’d be with them after all.
Monet couldn’t answer their questions, and encouraged them to ask him themselves tomorrow, after they’d had a good night’s sleep.
“Was it hard to get them to settle tonight?” he asked as she entered the room. Marcu was lying on the sofa, his arm over his eyes.
“Does the light hurt your eyes?” she asked.
“I’ve a headache I can’t shake,” he answered.
“Can I get you something?”
“I’ve taken some tablets. I’m sure it will be better tomorrow.”
“You probably have a concussion.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “It was a hard fall.”
“The air bag didn’t help then?”
“It did. I hit my head when I was trying to climb out of the ravine. I hit a patch of ice and went down, face-first.” He dropped his arm and dragged himself up into a sitting position. “Serves me right for thinking I could handle the roads. There was no one else out there.”
“You’re alive, and that’s what matters.” Monet realized how trite that sounded and quickly added, “Well, that’s what the children were saying. They said extra prayers for you tonight, grateful you were home with them.”
Marcu grimaced but said nothing.
She sat down on the edge of a chair facing him. “I think you should join the children for their prayers and stories,” she said. “They need you. They want you.”
“I don’t want to do prayers.”
“Let them say their own prayers and you can read them a story.” She hesitated. “The point is, they crave time with you, and the bedtime routine is an important ritual. It makes them feel safe, and they need to feel safe with you.”
“They are safe with me. I will always protect them.”
Monet picked her words carefully. “But part of feeling safe is being emotionally secure. It’s having the children comfortable with you, and secure in the knowledge that you want to know them for who they are, not who they should be. And that happens when they can share their thoughts and feelings, and bedtime is perfect for that. It’s a lovely time, an informal time, and takes just a half hour. I understand when you are out of town it makes sense for a babysitter to do this, but if you are here, you should be the one in there, hearing their thoughts and validating their feelings.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple on the side without the bruise. “You certainly have a lot of opinions.”
“I never had my mother’s attention at bedtime. By bedtime she was already with your father. I used to wish someone was there to hear my thoughts.” Her voice suddenly cracked, and Monet felt mortified for saying so much. She didn’t like talking about how lonely she’d been growing up. Life before she and her mother arrived at the palazzo had been chaotic, and tumultuous. It had been a relief to arrive in Palermo and stay put in one place for as long they did.
“You must have resented us,” he said quietly.
She shrugged. “Not really. If I resented anyone, it was my mother. I loved your family. You gave me my first taste of family life. I told your children I never experienced a proper Christmas before I lived with your family. You had traditions and customs and I loved it.”
He was silent a moment. “And then I took that all from you.”
Her breath caught, and she stammered, “I would have had to leave sooner or later.”
“Later would have been better for you, wouldn’t it?”
She glanced down at her hands, her fingers knotting. “I wasn’t going to live with my mother forever,” she said before looking back at Marcu. “We’d agreed that I’d support myself once I turned eighteen, and I’d turned eighteen, so it was time.”
“I wish I wasn’t the reason you left, though.”
She dragged in a slow breath, wondering how they’d even ended up here, on this topic. “I thought we were discussing the children,” she said huskily, “and how much they’d enjoy you tucking them in at night.”
“I will do it tomorrow night,” he said. He glanced at her, lips twisting. “I hope that makes you happy.”
“It does, because it will make them happy.”
His gaze locked with hers, the blue irises bright. “And what would make you happy, Monet Wilde?”
Monet felt heat wash through her, rising up to swee
p her cheeks. “I don’t know how to answer that. It’s an awfully open-ended question.”
“Is there nothing that would make you happy?”
“Knowing you were closer to your children would make me happy. Knowing that they come before all else—”
“They do,” he interrupted, “and this isn’t about them. This is about you.”
She said nothing. She didn’t know how to answer him, in part because she didn’t know her feelings. She’d been torn ever since she’d arrived in Aosta Valley. Being near Marcu was puzzling...bewildering. She wanted him, but she couldn’t have him. She wanted him to want her, and then she was terrified of his touch because she knew she couldn’t resist him.
“I’ve ended it with Vittoria,” he said abruptly, rising from the couch to pace the length of the carpet before the fire. “I told her it’s not going to work, and that I’m sorry if I had misled her.”
Monet opened her mouth, closed it, still unable to make a single sound.
He faced the fire as he spoke. “She said she wasn’t surprised. In fact, she sounded almost...relieved. Apparently she had some serious qualms about taking on another woman’s children.”
“She didn’t say that!”
“She did. And more.” He shrugged wearily as he turned to face her. “She had worried that the children might impact our social life and all the travel she’d imagined we would do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. You were right, about so many things.”
“Like what?”
“Marriage has to be more than just a contract. Marriage must have some emotions, somewhere. She felt nothing for me, or the children.”
“Then why be with you? Why date you?”
He laughed without humor. “I’m rich.”
“And handsome.”
He gave her a swift glance. “Am I?”
Monet didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You’re impossible.”
“So you’ve been telling me.”
“You’ve had a horrible day,” she said, even as her heart galloped. It was ridiculous, still carrying this torch for him. He wasn’t a beast. He was just a man who had suffered terribly.
“But it’s ending the way it should. I’m here, with my family, and out of a relationship that wasn’t a good one, and might have proved disastrous for my children.” His lips curved faintly. “I suppose I owe you my gratitude.”
“You can keep it. I don’t want it.”
“Why not?”
“We go back a very long way. Despite what happened at the end, you were my friend when I needed one, and I am simply trying to be a friend now, as it seems you need one.”
He made a rough raw sound. “You are so much more than a friend.”
Monet found herself watching him, feeling like a girl again, impossibly infatuated with someone out of her reach. Marcu intrigued her, fascinated her, spoke to her in a way that no one else did. It was easy not dating when no one appealed to you. Monet wasn’t attracted to most men in her sphere. She simply wasn’t interested. The idea of trying to find “someone” for her left her cold. But Marcu made her feel. Marcu made something in her warm, and quicken. She was so alive in his company. It made no sense. But then it had never made sense.
Suddenly he was focused on her again, and their eyes locked and held.
For once she didn’t try to hide her raw emotions—the good, and the bad—and she stared back at him, feeling the full weight of her awareness, as well as her bewilderment that he could still impact her so.
She shouldn’t still want him. She shouldn’t still long for a night with him. She ached for all the things she hadn’t ever known. Her body tingled, her skin prickled, her pulse drummed. He had taken so many women to his bed and yet he never taken her there. It was good, she told herself, she shouldn’t be there. But on the other hand, she wasn’t eighteen anymore, she was an adult. A woman. And she could make love to whomever she wanted.
And she wanted Marcu.
If she was going to belong to anyone, it should be him.
“I should go to bed,” she said hoarsely. “It’s late and it’s been an exhausting day.”
“What are your plans for tomorrow?”
“To play with your children, to keep them busy and cheerful so they don’t feel lonely.”
Marcu’s black eyebrows lifted. “Why would they be lonely when they have each other?”
“Because they don’t have enough time with you. They’d love to play with you. Cards, chess, checkers, tag.”
“I haven’t done that in years.”
“Exactly my point. Maybe it’s time to be a little less distant, and a little more playful.
“Surely, you can remember what it was like to be a boy. You have two little boys who would love it if you’d build a fort with them, or pull out their box of toy soldiers and wage a battle. They’d love to run through the halls and have a sword fight—” She noticed his expression, her lips twisting ruefully. “No, not a real sword fight, but a battle with wooden spoons or broom handles. Better yet, the three of you can make your own swords together. Matteo and Antonio would be over the moon.”
“And Rocca, what of her? How shall I entertain her?” he answered mildly.
“A tea party, or a puppet performance—”
“Excuse me?”
“Or a sword fight. Lots of girls like pretending to be sword masters.”
“Did you ever once see my sisters run around with swords?”
“That doesn’t mean Rocca couldn’t.” Her eyebrow lifted, matching his expression. “Or do you have fixed ideas about what is proper play for girls and boys?”
“You’re trying to be provocative.”
“I’m trying to do what you brought me here to do—make sure your children are truly your first priority.” She rose and gave him a crooked smile. “Good night, Marcu. I’m glad you’re home safe. Sleep well.”
She could feel his gaze burning through her back as she headed for the door. He didn’t speak until she was reaching for the doorknob.
“I was on my way home to Aosta when I crashed. I’d already ended things with Vittoria and was coming back here to you—”
“You were not coming back to me,” she interrupted firmly, ignoring the quickening of her pulse.
“But I was. I ended things with her because of you.”
“No.” Monet’s heart did another hard double beat. “No, don’t say that, because it’s not true.”
“It absolutely is.” He faced her, arms crossed over his broad chest. “I told you I wouldn’t touch you again as long as I was in another relationship, and I didn’t. But I’m no longer involved with Vittoria—”
“You really hit your head hard today. I think you should lie down.”
“You feel the same thing I feel. This attraction isn’t one-sided. It killed me keeping my hands off you—”
“I think we should ring for a doctor. You need help.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a coward. And don’t make me prove my point. There is something between us and I realized a lot of things today. The accident forced me to confront not just my mortality but the future. Why be with someone I don’t care about, when I could be with someone like you—”
“No.” She flung her hands up, trying to stop him. “We won’t ever be together. We don’t have a relationship, nor will we ever have one.”
He crossed the room, approaching her. “We’ve had a relationship for years. We’ve just ignored it. And I’m not going to ignore it anymore.”
She edged the other way, moving behind the couch. “What relationship? Marcu, eight years ago I was an eighteen-year-old virgin who idolized you! I had no life experience. I had no sexual experience. Yes, I adored you. I was impossibly infatuated, but that’s not the basis for a mature relationship now.”
“One-sided adoration is pathetic.”
“I told you, this isn’t one-sided. I wouldn’t have broken things off with Vittoria if I had no feelings for you—”
“You don’t have feelings for me! And you didn’t break up with Vittoria for me. I am absolutely inconsequential.”
“If that was true, then why did my father fear you so? Why was he afraid of your power over me?”
She leaned on the back of the couch, hands gripping the crushed velvet. “You’re not making any sense. You should sit down. You need to rest. I’m worried about you.”
“Monet, I have a headache, I haven’t lost my mind.”
“Then why say your father was afraid of me? How could he be afraid of me? I was almost nineteen when you got married. I had no power.”
“My father knew how I felt about you. He knew how upset I was when you left, and that I was conflicted in those months after you’d gone, so conflicted that I booked a flight to go see you in London but I never actually got on the plane, as he kept finding ways to stop me.”
“Your father obviously knew best. Galeta was the right one for you.”
“I shouldn’t have allowed my father to influence my judgment. I’ve never forgiven myself for that—”
“You say these things as if you’re certain I had feelings for you. You say this as if you coming to London would have changed the outcome—”
“Wouldn’t it?” he interrupted. “If I had shown up in London in those first few months, and told you how much I cared about you, you don’t think it would have had any impact? You don’t think we might have had a real relationship?”
She picked up a cushion from the couch and threw it at him. “No. You were never serious about me. You wanted something easy, convenient, and I was there at the palazzo, easy and convenient. But then when I was no longer easy or convenient, I was too much trouble.” She grabbed another pillow and threw this one at him, too. He sidestepped the second pillow, just as he had the first.
“I’m not judging you, Marcu, just clarifying facts,” she said, wishing there was another pillow to throw. “We were never meant to be. You and I have very different ideas about life, and struggle, and identity. Your whole identity is that of being Matteo Uberto’s eldest son. You are the heir. You have royal blood in your DNA—”