by Jane Porter
Monet’s lips curved in reluctant amusement. “I do sometimes read the story two or three times a day.”
“And she’s learned it by heart. Trying to create a Russian fantasy in this castello in the midst of the worst winter storm in years hasn’t been easy.”
Monet couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “And yet you’re doing it.”
“Trying. I don’t know if anyone from the village will come, but they have all been invited, and my staff have been invited, along with their families, and I think it should be fun.”
Fun. He’d just used the word fun. Last night he’d played the piano and sung carols. Today he was throwing a party and talking about fun. “The children know, though,” she said slowly.
“The children know I’ve invited people, and they know the staff have been cleaning and cooking, but they haven’t seen the ballroom yet. We’ve tried to spruce it up a bit, and add a little festive color.”
Monet’s chest grew warm and she felt a pinch of sharp emotion. “The fact that you tried to do something for them is wonderful. You will have made your children happy, your Rocca most of all.”
He fell silent for a moment. “She adores you, you know.”
“I adore her, too.”
He gave her another long look then walked from the room. Monet exhaled slowly, painfully, as she heard the door close behind him.
The day passed slowly for everyone, but finally it was midafternoon. After helping the children dress in new clothes that had arrived for them, Monet glanced at the clock and saw she had fifty minutes before the party. Fifty minutes to try to pull something together for herself. She returned to her room to see what she could do, and stopped short at the sight of a stunning strapless red silk ball gown hanging from the frame of her four-poster bed.
For a split second she couldn’t breathe. Marcu hadn’t forgotten her, either.
She blinked and tried to take another breath. It was the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, the boned bodice and gleaming silk skirt embellished with embroidered white flowers and green beaded leaves. The skirt was cut narrow and featured a dramatic train. Monet could recognize the designer from the construction of the exquisite bodice, and the shape of the skirt. This was old-school glamour, Italian couture, a gown that probably equaled half of her annual salary. If not more.
Silk heels sat on the floor, just beneath the long silk gown, the shoes red, perfectly matching the dress.
“What on earth?” she whispered, lifting the hem of the gown to feel the luxurious fabric.
A little girl giggled behind her and Monet turned to see Rocca standing there, beaming with pleasure. “Papà bought it for you,” Rocca said happily, pressing her hands to her own silk dress, the red of her gown darker, deeper, like the color of burgundy wine. “He had it flown in from Milan. It’s by a famous person.” She ran over to pick up one of Monet’s high heels. “These match your dress, too!”
“It’s incredible,” Monet said, so overwhelmed she didn’t know what to think.
“Do you need help dressing?” Rocca asked.
“No, my love, I’m good. Why don’t you keep an eye on Antonio so he doesn’t get his handsome suit dirty before everyone arrives?”
Marcu had said he’d invited everyone from the village, and everyone from the village came.
He’d also said that he’d tried to make the ballroom festive, and he’d done far, far more than that. The ballroom had been turned into a winter wonderland with a huge Christmas tree dominating the middle of the room, easily fifteen feet high, and covered in thousands of tiny white lights.
Fragrant green garlands were swagged over the doorways, and framed the tall windows. Ornate gingerbread houses filled a banquet table, the houses created by the Swiss chef who’d come to lend the Uberto cook a hand. Tables groaned beneath the weight of all the food and drink and candles. It was just as Rocca had wanted, a glittering holiday party with music and dancing and much laughter.
Entering the ballroom, Monet felt overdressed as no one else had such a formal gown, but after enough guests arrived, and the music was playing, she forgot her self-consciousness, and enjoyed watching the children play with the children from the village. Now and then Rocca would run to Monet and give her hand a squeeze. “Isn’t this fun?” she’d say. “Just like in The Nutcracker!”
Each time Monet would squeeze her hand back, and say, “Yes. And isn’t it wonderful?”
More than once her eyes would fill with tears because it really was a gorgeous party, and everyone was so happy, and this was what Marcu’s life should be like—busy, warm, loving, filled with friends and music and laughter.
Monet felt fortunate to be part of the Christmas celebration. It felt a bit like a miracle and she would always be grateful she was here to witness it.
* * *
During the party, Marcu couldn’t keep his eyes off Monet. She was dazzling in the red silk ball gown, her bare shoulders gleaming, her dark hair swept into a half-up, half-down style that made her look like a fairy-tale princess. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life, and he loved her. All she needed was a tiara to finish the vision. A tiara, and his ring on her finger.
He loved her.
He’d never loved any woman but her. No woman had ever felt so right in his arms. No woman’s kiss or touch had ever affected him so strongly. There had been plenty of women in his life, women he’d desired and cared for, but no one that mattered to him like Monet. No woman made him want to throw caution to the wind. He’d only ever lost his head once, and it was with her, eight years ago. And fast-forward to the present, she still had that same power over him. It didn’t make sense, either. He had analyzed his actions in the past, analyzed his response to her then and now, and there was no rational answer for why he felt this want and need for her. The desire wasn’t logical. There was nothing logical about the attraction, or the emotional connection between them, which was so deep he didn’t know how to articulate it. Truthfully, his need for her, his desire to have her in his life, at his side, forever, was baffling if only because he couldn’t find words to explain it. It simply was. And she mattered that much.
And why her?
He didn’t know the answer to that, either, only that her smile gave light and life to his heart. Her eyes—so expressive—revealed so many truths, and he needed them. He needed her. He needed her honesty, and her ability to stand up to him, and confront him when he was wrong. So many people tried to impress him, and court his favor, but she wasn’t one of them. She never had been.
* * *
The guests were all gone. The children had been taken to bed and would be tucked in by Elise while the rest of the staff moved through the castello, blowing out candles, extinguishing lights, locking doors in all rooms but the ballroom as Marcu had given them instructions to leave the ballroom alone. And now Marcu had Monet alone. His heart pounded and he felt like a boy—shy, nervous, ridiculously tongue-tied—as he drew Monet closer to the soaring Christmas tree, still glittering with lights and delicate glass ornaments, and the beautiful hand-carved angels.
“It was a beautiful party,” Monet said.
“It was.”
“I think everyone had an incredible time,” she added, as they gazed up at the tree.
“Yes.”
“I’ve never been so surprised,” she said, glancing at him with a smile. “Who knew that Marcu Uberto, who doesn’t celebrate Christmas, would throw the most magical Christmas party I’ve ever been to?”
“It was Rocca’s idea,” he answered, pulse thudding.
“Rocca is an incredible little girl.”
“She is,” he agreed, before drawing a deep breath. “And you are an incredible woman. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you’ve changed everything in a matter of days. You arrived here nine days ago and somehow saved all of us.”
“Not
so.”
“It is so.” His voice dropped, deepening with emotion, emotion that filled his chest with warmth. “I’m so grateful to you, Monet, for so many things, but maybe I’m most grateful for your love, and your faith in me. Even when you’re angry with me, you still somehow believe in me, and that has made all the difference.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the delicate gold ring with the two-carat ruby he’d bought for her ten years ago, when she’d turned sixteen. “This is temporary,” he said, rolling the ring between his fingers. “Just until I can get you the perfect, forever ring, but I’ve held on to this all these years, and it’s my promise to you, that I will always take care of you, and love you, for the rest of our lives.” And then he kneeled down, in front of her, and reached for her hand. “Monet, would you please marry me? I love you, and I can’t imagine my life without you.”
Monet stood frozen in shock as Marcu slid her ruby ring on her finger, specifically on her ring finger on her left hand.
It was a ring she hadn’t seen in eight years. He’d given it to her for her sixteenth birthday, but she’d chosen to leave it behind when she’d left Palermo.
Monet’s mouth dried and she struggled to speak, but words wouldn’t come and her emotions were beyond chaotic, flooding her with shock and then grief, because she couldn’t say yes to him, she couldn’t. “Marcu, please,” she whispered, tugging on his hand. “Please get up. Please stand.”
“You haven’t answered me,” he said.
“Because I can’t answer you. You don’t really love me.”
“I do. Very much.”
She shook her head, and struggled to get the ring off her finger. “How can you? You don’t even know me—”
“You are smart, and kind, as well as fiercely loyal,” he interrupted, rising, and yet he remained close. “You wouldn’t be here now if you weren’t. But you’re also independent and demand respect, and I do respect you, very much, and I want what’s best for you.”
“And you think you are what’s best for me?” she asked, voice strangled, still frantically trying to get the ring off, and yet it seemed stuck, already.
“I think I could be. With your help.” His voice deepened. “I’m not without flaws, and I need to work on things, but with you, I can be the man you deserve—”
“Marcu, stop. Please stop. This is too painful, please.” Her eyes shimmered with tears and she knocked them away, giving up on the ring to fight the tears. “You will forget me as soon as I go. You will move on quickly. It’s what you do, and who you are—”
“Because I married Galeta?”
“Yes! Within months of me leaving. And you didn’t come find me, and you didn’t try to reach out to me. You just dropped me at the airport and we were done, and that’s not love. Nor have you changed. You’re here because Vittoria was on the other side of the mountain—”
“Not true. Not even close to being true.”
“So you didn’t marry Galeta months after I left?”
“Yes, I did. I’d gotten her pregnant and she was a good person. I’d known her forever, since we were children. She left to go to boarding school right around the time you and your mother arrived in Palermo. I didn’t see her again for years, but she was easy to like. You would have liked her—”
“I doubt that!”
“No, you would have. She wasn’t your typical heiress. She was the opposite of a socialite. Galeta didn’t enjoy public attention or the spotlight. In fact our biggest source of tension was the media, and controlling the paparazzi. She was as livid as I was that our wedding was in the tabloids. We’d both wanted a private wedding and she wondered who’d sneaked all those personal photos to them and demanded I investigate and fire those who had betrayed our trust.”
“Did you investigate?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“It was my father. He leaked his own son’s wedding photos, wanting you to know I was married, and no longer available.”
“He loved my mother but despised me.”
“He didn’t despise you, but he was old-fashioned in that he wanted a Sicilian daughter-in-law, so that his grandchildren would be Sicilian.” He shrugged impatiently. “I don’t blame him, though. I blame myself. He didn’t fail you. I did. I should have gone after you. I should have protected you. I should have been the man you needed.”
“I was just eighteen, and not ready to marry. Everything worked out the way it was meant to work out.” She took a panicked step backward, feeling foolish in the stunning ball gown. She’d been overdressed from the start. She wasn’t a princess. She wasn’t even Cinderella. She was nothing...nothing at all...and she just wanted to go home now. She wanted to return to London more than she’d ever wanted anything. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I must leave first thing in the morning. I want to leave quickly, quietly, without fuss.”
He said nothing.
“You promised me,” she said, voice trembling. “You promised me—”
“I’ll take you to the helicopter,” he said flatly, cutting her short. “It’s still here. I’ll make sure you’re on it early in the morning.”
“And the rest of the way? You’ll get me a ticket home?”
“My plane will be fueled in Milan, waiting for you.”
She nodded, and glanced down at the ring on her finger. The band was delicate and elegant, and then there was the rich red ruby gleaming in the middle. “Twice you’ve given this to me,” she said, once again trying to tug it off, “and now twice I give it back to you—”
“No.” He caught her hand, and pushed the ring back down. “It’s yours. It was something I had made for you for your sixteenth birthday. It’s yours, and I ask you to take it with you. Once you’re in London you can do what you want with it, but please don’t leave it here. I’ve held on to it all these years, but I can’t do it anymore.”
She nodded again and then glanced at the tree, with the lights and beautiful decorations, and then at him, so still, so hurt, so proud, and blinking back tears, she hurried from the ballroom.
* * *
Monet couldn’t get out of the ball gown fast enough, and she scrubbed the makeup off her face, before splashing cold water over it to stop the tears.
She couldn’t cry.
She couldn’t think.
She couldn’t feel.
Just go to bed. Just get through the next eight hours and she’d be gone. Away. Free.
Monet crawled into bed, shivering. She buried her face in the pillow, trying to hold the emotion in.
Marcu had proposed to her...he’d gotten down on one knee and asked her to be his wife, and he’d said the words she’d longed to hear but she didn’t believe them, which was why she couldn’t accept the proposal.
She finally broke down, and cried, hard, before falling asleep, but she couldn’t stay asleep, tossing and turning all night, until she left the bed and went to sit in a chair by the window, wrapped in her duvet, and watched the sun rise over the mountain, painting the white valley floor pink and gold.
She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a beautiful sunrise. She tried to drink it in, despite the fact that her eyes were dry and gritty from too little sleep.
Out there somewhere was the helicopter waiting for her. Marcu had said he’d make the necessary travel arrangements and she knew he would.
Once the sun was all the way up, she made a pot of tea and focused on packing, determined to leave before the children woke. She left the ball gown and shoes that had arrived via helicopter yesterday in the wardrobe. She would never wear them again, nor did she want to take them back to London with her. They’d just serve as a painful reminder of her time here.
Bags packed, Monet straightened her room, returned a damp towel to the en-suite bathroom, put away the teakettle and began to make the bed. They were silly tasks but ti
dying her room gave her a sense of closure.
“What are you doing?” Marcu’s deep voice sounded, startling her.
She hadn’t heard her outer door open, and she jerked upright, pulse pounding. She hadn’t seen him, or spoken to him, since she’d gone to bed last night. “Making the bed,” she answered, forcing herself back to action, smoothing the bottom sheet before drawing up the duvet.
“Before you leave?”
“I can’t leave a messy room.”
“We have staff here,” he said, approaching. “You’re not a maid.”
“I’m more comfortable doing it myself. I grew up this way.” She glanced at him, trying to keep her pulse steady, not easy when he stood impossibly close to her, and the bed. He looked grim, and tired. She suspected he hadn’t slept very well last night, either. But she couldn’t dwell on that.
“We had staff and help at the palazzo,” he said.
“Yes, you did, but my mother and I took care of our own rooms, and we always did our own beds. The staff would wash our sheets and return them folded, but we did everything else.”
“I had no idea.”
“My mother worried that the staff would think less of us if we put on airs.” She managed a tight smile. “She might have been your father’s mistress, but she never forgot she was just another member of his staff.”
“Monet!”
His sharp tone drew tears to her eyes. She curled her fingers into a ball, feeling the press of the ruby ring. She hadn’t taken it off. It was her own ring after all, given to her by him years ago. At the very least, she could leave with it. “It’s how she felt,” she said quietly, defensively. “I’m sorry if it hurts.”
“I don’t think you’re sorry it hurts. I think you want to hurt me now. You want to draw blood because you’re refusing what you want—”
“That’s ludicrous!”
“You love me. I know you do. I know you have always loved me, just as I have always loved you, but because I haven’t expressed my love correctly, properly, to your standards, it’s not enough.”