Lynn Raye Harris - Men In Uniform - Captivated By The Prince

‘Walk?’ Emily couldn’t imagine how she had missed a dress shop as they drove through.

‘Certainly,’ Alessandro said, striding away in the direction of the fields. ‘It will only take ten minutes or so to reach Maria Felsina’s cottage.

‘Cottage?’ Emily demanded, increasing to a trot to keep up.

‘You’ll see. Come on,’ he urged, speeding up again. ‘We haven’t got all day. You don’t want the grape-treading to start without us, do you?’ he called over his shoulder.

A suspicion had taken root in Emily’s mind. ‘You mean we’ll actually be taking part?’

Alessandro’s loafers slapped rhythmically against the hard-baked earth. ‘Of course,’ he called back. ‘Why else would we be going?’

‘I don’t know…I’m not—’

‘Not what?’ Alessandro demanded impatiently. He blazed a stare at her. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

‘Of course I do. But—’

Taking her arm in a firm grip, Alessandro marched on in silence.

As they stood in front of the modest dwelling, waiting for the door to open, Emily still felt bemused at the possibility of shopping for clothes inside such a tiny cottage.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ Alessandro said as he turned to look down at her.’ Maria will find you something to wear.’

Emily made a conscious effort to relax. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

All the signs of a much loved home surrounded them. There wasn’t a single weed to be seen in the garden, and the colourful flowerbeds to either side of the newly swept path were crammed with blooms. The shuttered windows beside the front door were underscored with planters overflowing with blossom, while heavily scented climbers jostled for space around the doorframe.

Closing her eyes, Emily tried to concentrate on the sounds of the bees buzzing and the birdsong; the mingled perfume of flowers, all so delightful and distinctive. Had she been alone, she might have succeeded. But Alessandro was standing very close, claiming every bit of her notice—and why was he making such a fuss about kitting her out for the grape-treading? Surely she would only need to roll up her trouser-legs and don some sort of overall—?

She came to full attention as the door swung open. A short, generously proportioned woman, as creased and as brown as a walnut, slapped her hands together when she saw Alessandro and cried out with pleasure,’ Alessandro! Piccolino!’

‘My nanny,’ Alessandro explained, swinging the old lady off the ground with an answering shout.

Emily watched as a frantic exchange of questions and answers ensued between them.

‘Maria apologises for being at the end of the garden tending her geese,’ Alessandro translated. ‘Her favourite, Carlotta, is to take part in the annual goose race and must have extra care. True,’ he assured Emily when he saw the look on her face. ‘One day I’ll take you to see the race. These birds are treated like favoured members of the family. And the winner…’ He gave a low whistle of appreciation.

‘Fed to the family?’ Emily guessed wryly.

‘Certainly not!’ Alessandro said with a grin. ‘There is a substantial cash prize at stake—to keep the winning goose in luxury for the rest of its life. It is up to the owner to ensure that this is the case. A matter of honour,’ he explained, pinning a serious expression on his face. ‘And now Maria invites us into her home.’

‘Si,’ Signora Felsina insisted, nodding her head enthusiastically as she beamed at Emily.

Stepping over the stone threshold, Emily looked around curiously. The tiny cottage windows allowed in little natural light, but several old-fashioned oil lamps had been lit so that everything was softly illuminated. She could smell something delicious cooking on the old black range, and noticed that the best use had been made of the narrow window ledges, which housed an array of pungent green herbs flourishing in terracotta pots.

Contentment was contagious, she discovered, hoping they could stay for a little while. Everything was ordered for comfort. Every object had been arranged to please the eye. And all of it gleamed with the unmistakable patina of regular attention. A bolt of desire pierced her heart as she glanced across at Alessandro—desire that went way beyond the physical to claw at her soul. Did he feel it, too? Did he long for a sanctuary like this to call his own? Could he feel the tug of a real home? The longing to create a similar haven was overwhelming her—

‘Sit, Principessa, sit—’

The heavily accented voice of the older woman interrupted Emily’s reveries.

‘Here,’ she insisted, tossing rugs and cushions aside. ‘Sit here, Principessa.’

‘Emily. Please…call me Emily.’

Something in Emily’s voice must have troubled the older woman. Her hand lingered on Emily’s arm as she turned to confront Alessandro.

‘Alessandro,’ she said, her voice mildly chastening. ‘Your bride is not happy. What is wrong, Alessandro?’

Emily tensed at the bluntness of the remark, but Alessandro seemed not to have taken offence.

At his non-committal grunt Maria shook her head, and took herself off to pour out three fizzing glasses of homemade ginger beer from a vast stone flagon. ‘You sit, too,’ she said, turning around to face Alessandro. ‘You take up too much space,’ she complained fondly as she transferred the squat glasses onto a wooden tray.

‘Here, let me,’ he said, ignoring her instruction and removing the tray from her hands. ‘Now, you go and sit down, tata.’

Emily watched as the old lady hurried to obey his instruction, noticing her beam of delight when Alessandro used what surely must have been his childhood name for her.

Settling herself down into a chair so plumped up with cushions her chubby sandal-clad feet barely touched the ground, Maria Felsina held her glass aloft as she made a smiling toast to Emily.

‘Emily,’ Alessandro echoed softly.

Draining her glass with relish, Maria leaped to her feet and declared, ‘And now you must eat—’

‘Oh, no—’ Emily protested. She was still full from breakfast, but Alessandro’s glance warned her to stay silent. ‘Thank you,’ she said, seeing she might cause offence by refusing one of the sugar-frosted buns. ‘These look delicious.’ And they were, she realised, as the moist, feather-light sponge slipped down her throat.

In spite of the warm late-summer weather, there was a low fire in the grate, and as she ate Emily longed to open some buttons at the neck of her tailored shirt. She went so far as to toy with the top one—but when Alessandro caught her glance for some reason, the innocent action suddenly struck her as irredeemably provocative. She looked away, but not before she saw one of his sweeping raven brows rise minutely in an expression that was both accusing and amused.

‘My wife has come to you for clothes, tata,’ he said, turning his attention back to his old nurse.

‘Will they fit?’ Emily murmured discreetly.

Alessandro must have translated this, Emily thought, judging by their peals of laughter. Before she could feel embarrassed, Maria took her hand and stroked it gently, as if to atone for the outburst. Then, confirming Emily’s reading of the situation, she turned a face full of mock reproach on Alessandro and wagged a blunt-nailed finger at him.

‘Maria is the best dressmaker on the estate,’ Alessandro explained. ‘She’ll soon sort you out with something to wear.’

‘In time?’ Emily said anxiously.

Her concern crossed the language barrier, and with a vigorous nod of her head Maria indicated that she should follow her into the next room. Taking her through a low door, Maria pointed to some bolts of cloth stacked in one corner of the room, and then at the old treadle sewing machine standing against the wall.