CHAPTER TWO
ARISTIDEDIDNOTsneak her away from Vale’s estate, precisely. He just seemed to know where to go in the long, complex hallways where they ran into no people. Then out a side kind of servant entrance and into the bright sunny afternoon on the other side of the estate, opposite to where the wedding was taking place.
Francesca was very well aware she had options. She could have run to find Vale. She could have used her mobile to call for reinforcements. Maybe it would have created a bit of a scandal for the brothers to essentially fight over her, but she had little doubt she could still ensure a wedding to Vale by the end of the day.
Maybe, just maybe, if the Princess had not shown up, Francesca would have done just that, but something about the alluring, interesting beauty felt like the only true threat to Francesca’s arrangement with Vale. Not just today, but the entire future of their marriage.
She couldn’t risk Princess Carliz being a ghost that threatened her freedom. So she’d take this ludicrous course of action, as long as it got her what she wanted. The end result was all that mattered. Not how she got there.
As she’d noted, Aristide was not known for his long-term relationships. There would likely be scandal attached to him, but the kind of scandal she could no doubt weather if it kept her out of her father’s orbit. Not the kind of scandal that would end her freedom if Vale truly did love Carliz and would end up leaving her for the beautiful princess.
Sometimes, you had to pick your poison based on what effects you could survive.
Aristide led her to a sleek sports car and opened the passenger door for her. She didn’t hesitate to slide into her seat, to arrange herself gracefully, smoothing out the skirt of her dress as he moved into the driver’s side.
“Will there be guests at our wedding? A photographer?” she asked as he pulled out of the long, winding drive.
They both pretended they didn’t see a suited man—likely security—trying to wave them down.
“No. Our love could not wait for such accoutrement, naturally.”
She wanted to laugh, but she kept her expression mild. Until the contract was signed, she had to play this very carefully. Aristide was not as...contained as Vale. He was known for whims and wildness, even if he wanted a reputation redo, and perhaps Francesca could hope to be more of herself in private once the ink was dry.
But the ink had to be dry first.
Besides, Aristide hit the gas pedal as though the very hounds of hell were on their heels and took the curves at a breakneck speed that had Francesca looking for something to grab on to. In the end, she could only brace herself against the door and hope she did not end up dying in a fiery crash in the wrong brother’s car.
Now, that would be a story for the press.
She wanted to laugh again. What a dizzying and irresponsible way to travel.
Why did it feel like freedom?
None of this was what she’d planned, but then, what had ever gone according to her exact plans? She could make this one work. She would make this one work.
Aristide had a completely different reputation than Vale, but it was still one that might be enough of a threat to her father to keep him far away. And then there was the contract.
“Did you read the contract when you stole it to replicate it with your name?” she asked him, watching as the landscape passed by at dizzying speeds.
Aristide’s gaze slid to her briefly, then back to the road, where he took another curve hard and sharp. “Naturally.”
“So you know what will be required of you if you marry me?”
“Protection from your father—both in location and monetarily. An interesting choice of terms, angioletta.”
The press had been calling her that since she’d been a little girl. She worked hard not to scowl. “I don’t care for that nickname.”
“But everyone loves to portray you as just that. A little angel.”
“Then I suppose I should call you piccolo diavolo.” She didn’t wince, though she wanted to. She needed to hold her tongue. Until the ink is dry. It had been her motto to get to this day, and now it would be her mantra to get through this unexpected turn of events.
“Calling me a devil does not bother me in the least, but I would hesitate to characterize anything about me as little.”
His smile was so self-satisfied it was nearly contagious. This was all nearly funny, really, but he took a hill too fast and her stomach flipped into her throat and then back down again.
She needed to focus on what he thought of the contract responsibilities, not finding his ridiculousness amusing. But she needed to find a smart way to negotiate. This might have been the easier course of action, but until the marriage certificate was signed and filed, this was perilous.
She had to behave as though every step was imperative.
They drove down the coastline of the island. She had not paid much attention to Vale’s family beyond what he’d mentioned of it. He never mentioned Aristide if he could help it. And she had certainly never pressed. Especially after she’d had tea with Vale and his odious father.
It seemed best to be involved as little as possible in the Bonaparte soap opera, and she also knew enough not to step on toes.
She knew Vale and Aristide did not get along, did not agree on perhaps anything, and Vale considered Aristide an embarrassment. And an enemy, there on the other half of his island, his rightful inheritance—according to him.
For a moment, she felt a pang of guilt for leaving Vale in the lurch. Perhaps she should have fought harder against his enemy.
But in the end, Vale was a rich, powerful man. He could withstand losing her. Besides, he had a princess there, no doubt just for him.
Francesca could not withstand losing her chance at freedom.
“I will need to look through the contract before we marry, of course,” Francesca said. “Just to ensure it is the same.”
“Naturally, though I can assure you I have no need to change anything. A perfect bride on paper, a good reputation, this is all I’m after. I will pay your father off and never allow him on the island.”
She let out a careful breath. That was all that was needed. She could weather everything else if he did that alone. But...if Aristide was expecting rehabilitation as payment...
“Do you really think stealing your brother’s bride is going to rehabilitate a terrible reputation you’ve spent your entire adult life exacerbating?”
“If you, angioletta, fell in love with a man such as me, enough to throw Vale aside and marry me, surely there must be some good in me.”
“Ah, so we are meant to pretend we’re in love, rather than the truth.” She could do that. She’d been pretending her whole life. It was just strange that for the first time in so long, the pretense felt more like a new weight than the old one she was used to carrying.
“What would you prefer, considering you find the identity of your groom immaterial?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t prefer it. I’m just trying to understand the layout of this arrangement as I cannot believe that a man such as yourself believes much in monogamy. Respectability. Love.”
“No, I do not believe in love, cara. But I cannot imagine a woman who considers her groom immaterial thinks much of it either.”
“No. I don’t.” Love was a fairy tale for people who could afford one. Probably a princess. Perhaps with some years of security under her belt she might wish for such things, but for now, there was only escape.
“Relax, Francesca, we will give each other exactly what we need.”
“And what is it you think I need?”
“Based on that contract and your lack of concern about the identity of your groom? I think you need escape. Any way you can get it. I think you want freedom, and I can give this to you easily. Happily, in fact, as your freedom harms me in no way at all.”
“And what is it you need?” she asked, studying his profile as he drove recklessly. Like he had no cares, but if he wanted to become respectable, he would need to find a way to care about that.
“Simply the foundation on which to rebuild my reputation. Sainted wives are a great foundation.”
What a depressing thought. She was so very tired of being other men’s foundations. But that heavy cloud of what have I gotten myself into lifted as a large, sprawling, what could only be termed castle came into view beyond his profile.
“Welcome home, angioletta,” he murmured.
Something like excitement fluttered through her at the sight. It was... It was... “It is certainly not a mausoleum.” Not that she thought Vale’s estate was as grim as Aristide had been making it out to be, but there was a difference. Vale’s was all stark, ancient, ordered beauty. Respectability seemed layered into every brick.
This was...chaos. Spirals and color. The ocean somehow more dramatic in the background because of the lack of order. Like it could win, any day, and all this...what have you would be swept away.
It was...thrilling.
“A masterpiece, isn’t it?” he said, with no humility whatsoever. “Come. Let us promise to love one another for eternity.”
Francesca’s beauty was something else in the light of dusk and candlelight. She looked like an angel, standing there across from him in the little chapel-like room. It was not a religious room, per se, but he was a man who liked the superficial beauty of the church without the heft of threats of punishment and hell.
He had built this estate, piece by piece, to whatever whim had struck him at the time. So it was only what he liked. Only what he cared to be surrounded by. He had learned early that to care what other people wanted never ended well for him.
So he drowned himself in his own wants and lived a much happier life than his brother, who lived as if constantly housed in a prison of the Bonaparte name.
Perhaps, on occasion, he purposefully chose what he knew Vale would hate. Like the naked mermaid weather vane undulating on top of one of the tall, twisting spires. Valentino would consider it crass, embarrassing, a black mark on the Bonaparte name.
Good.
Francesca had not displayed the reaction he had expected when they’d initially arrived. He’d expected that having been intended for his brother, she might share Vale’s disgust for the chaos of it all.
Instead of vague disapproval, or poor attempts to hide it, she had looked up in awe. As though she quite enjoyed what she saw. Like she’d just been taken to a fairy-tale castle where dreams might come true.
This had pleased him. He’d enjoyed watching her take it all in. He’d enjoyed watching the way her smile softened her beautiful face, and life had sparkled in her dark eyes.
There was something of interest under that outer shell of perfection. Perhaps he was not sentencing himself to years of boredom if she could find some pleasure in the ridiculousness of his choices.
Then she had insisted upon poring over the marriage contract. She had read every word, every punctuation mark, three times. She had asked question after question until he’d felt as if they were in a boardroom and his eyes might cross from the banality of it all.
But he’d seen what was under her fastidiousness. A determination to get exactly what she wanted out of this union. To ensure it. So calculating and exacting. Admittedly, the world’s perfect angel being a bit mercenary had been...arousing.
The current image of her, bathed in soft light, wrapped in bridal white, while the officiant yammered on about love and duty, was not less arousing. Like there might be as many different fascinating facets to his bride as there were to the big, unwieldy diamond now on her finger.
A problem, because no doubt his Francesca was as virginal as they came—even if she wasn’t everything the world thought she was. Wife or not, he didn’t have any designs on preying on some sheltered innocent.
He preferred everyone know exactly what they were getting themselves into. He preferred having very careful lines that he did not allow anyone—himself included—to cross.
Of course, he would have to behave himself to begin to rehabilitate his reputation. There couldn’t be even a whiff of an affair—and if there was anything he’d learned from his brother, it was that a man didn’t have to act on his passions and whims for people to determine what might have happened with a beautiful and fascinating woman—the only kind Aristide preferred.
So Aristide would have to submit himself to some sort of celibacy to keep his lines intact. What a pity.
Perhaps he had not thought this plan fully through, but that had never been his strong suit. He was a man who acted and dealt with whatever consequences befell him. His brother had once accused him of only ever reacting, and perhaps in that one way Vale had been right.
Aristide felt there was nothing wrong with it. These were his consequences, and he would find a way around them. One way or another.
“I do,” Francesca said very solemnly, bringing Aristide back to the ceremony at hand. He listened to the officiant recite the same promises he’d already outlined for Francesca. Then gave his own grave I do.
As the officiant announced them as married in front of precisely two witnesses—Aristide’s assistant and his driver—Aristide allowed himself the satisfaction of knowing he’d done what he’d set out to do.
Stolen his brother’s bride.
A coup indeed.
“You may kiss your bride, Signor Bonaparte.”
Aristide had kissed many a woman in his day—and not only with the express purpose of talking them into bed. But he had never kissed his wife before. What a strange first to feel suddenly uncomfortable with.
But Aristide didn’t do uncomfortable.
Francesca tipped her chin up, met him with that steady, dark gaze. She had taken this all in stride, with only a short moment or two of surprise back at Valentino’s. He found he wanted to see that true reaction back on her face, instead of all these pretends she wore so effectively.
And Aristide did not know how to get through to this woman, but he knew how to get through to women.
He reached out, gripped her lifted chin between his thumb and forefinger, drawing her closer, while the remaining fingers brushed featherlight across her neck.
Her breath shuddered out, her eyes were wide on his. Not quite the prepossessed mercenary he’d seen before. Not the sweet, timid mask she wore so well—or some sign of her well-guarded virginity. No, there was something else entirely in that reaction.
That unease he’d first felt at Vale’s was back, curling around deep inside him. A gut feeling that she might be more than he’d bargained for. A consequence, rather than the answer to his challenges.
Then she smiled, demure and sweet, and he knew she would be a problem.
A problem he was now contractually obligated to solve. But first, kiss. As had often happened in his life, he found himself struck with the urge to upend something. In this case, the serene, blank look on her face.
He had meant to remain fully hands off. A marriage in name only. Lines not crossed. And it would be that.
After this.
He lowered his mouth to hers, still holding her chin, pausing right there. Taking in the details of that beautiful face that he’d seen in print so many times, but never flesh and blood, never up close and personal.
The aristocratic nose, the heart-shaped face aiding in all the talk of angels. A little ring of hazel around the inner edge of wide eyes. The hint of gold in her left eye only.
And he waited, waited until he felt her breath hitch, just enough, to swoop in and finally close that minuscule distance between them. He wasn’t sure what to expect, exactly, but that was half the fun of a kiss.
But he could not characterize this as fun, the gentle softness of her lips, the hesitant give of her body. The way she smelled of the wild oleander that permeated this island—like she belonged here when only his cursed bloodline truly belonged on this island of acrimony and pain.
It was a twist to the gut, a strange bolt of electricity, as though God himself was striking down this union. Devil to angel. Cursed.
He pulled back, not sure what...any of that was. He had kissed women before where the chemistry did not quite live up to what he preferred. He had kissed women perfectly pleasantly and blazed through passion often.
But he had never felt any of...that. Nor been left with this uneasy sort of...foreboding in response to a simple kiss.
She looked up at him, and he could not read her, there hidden behind whatever masks she wore.
He had thought this would be so straightforward. Steal Valentino’s boring, sainted bride. Well, stealing Vale’s toys had never gone quite according to plan, so why would he think it different now?
He dropped her chin. Smiled just as blandly as she and waited for the officiant to dismiss them. Once he did, Aristide took her by the arm and led her out of the room.
“Come, I will show you to your suite. Once the dust has settled over at Valentino’s, we shall have your things brought over here. In the meantime, I am sure we can supply you with whatever you need.”
“Dust.” She blew out a breath. “I suppose I should feel some guilt for that.”
“But you don’t?”
“Vale will survive,” she said with a firm nod. “And now, so will I.”
“So dramatic, angioletta.”
She did not respond to that. Just marched on next to him as he led her through the maze of hallways, curving stairwells. This place made no real architectural sense, which was why Aristide loved it. The island might be cursed, but this was his antidote.
This was where he could be whatever he damn well pleased, without concern about what anyone else thought or needed. A hard-won lesson he now embodied full throttle.
Much like the architecture, the woman next to him didn’t make the sense he thought she had either. But they had time yet. He would puzzle her out. She was just a person like any other. He would understand, and all would be as he wanted it to be.
Always.
He led her to what would be her suite of rooms. For appearances, they connected to his own, but there was plenty of space for the two of them to exist as apart as they wished as the years wore on.
He tried not to think in years.
He opened the door to the main part of the suite. “Through here, you will find your bedroom and private bath. You will—”
But it was clear she wasn’t listening to him. She certainly wasn’t following him to the other rooms. She walked straight to the door that led out to the balcony that looked down over the beach. She didn’t stop until she reached the edge, curling her hands around the railing and looking down at the crashing waves.
He followed her out into the balmy night. Darkness had fallen, but the lights of his estate—always bright and blazing at his brother—illuminated her gaze as it tracked across the coastline, the glittering moon and stars. Her expression began to soften, her full lips slowly curving into a smile. A real smile that threatened to outshine the moon itself.
Then she turned to him, a brightness in her that was all new. All...alarming.
“Might I have some champagne? Perhaps some cake. I feel like celebrating.” And she looked like a celebration. She couldn’t seem to keep the grin off her face. Her eyes were sparkling and a joyous energy pumped from her.
“Celebrating your marriage to a stranger?”
“I have lived under the thumb of my father for twenty-four years. And now I am finally free. That is cause for celebration. Whatever the means, whatever the cost, I am finally free.” She shook her head vaguely, as if she couldn’t quite believe it, and looked back out at the ocean.
“You do realize that some become adults and obtain jobs and leave their parents’ thumbs with no dramatic marriages required?”
She stiffened, some of that unbridled joy leaving her face. Everything in her expression smoothed out, until she looked like...anyone. There was nothing special about this woman if he believed this facade she could shroud herself with.
But that she could was fascinating enough.
“I had not considered that.” She clasped those hands so tight it pointed at something more than the lifeless words. “I was raised to believe marriage was my only option, of course, so that is the option I took.” She smiled blandly up at him, her eyes devoid of anything.
But what she said was not true. It wasn’t that he could read the lie on her. It was more her insistence that the contractual terms protect her from her father, combined with this freedom she wanted to celebrate, that had him wondering what went on at the Campo estate in Rome.
“Perhaps we could set aside these pretends and speak the truth. After all, we are husband and wife.” And because he could not quite resist being himself, he grinned. “We must share all kinds of things now.”