CHAPTER THREE
FRANCESCAREMINDEDHERSELF that this was all part of the plan. That she had gotten exactly what she wanted, even if the groom was different. Even if he now spoke of truths and...sharing things.
Perhaps it was not as sturdy as the agreement she and Vale had made, but she had a contract. A signed contract. A signed marriage license. She was free. She was safe.
What did truths matter? Perhaps this was better. Even if Aristide wanted to use her reputation to salvage his own, she couldn’t make his worse. There wasn’t nearly as much pressure here as there would have been as Vale’s wife, and there wouldn’t be constant comparisons to one very beautiful and interesting princess.
There would be speculation, raised eyebrows, and perhaps concern. For her. But she did not have to be as perfect as she’d always been—because she would always look better than Aristide.
Besides, truths laced with omissions were not lies. They were self-protection. So she gave him a watercolor version of the truth.
“You have a rather awful father of your own, based on everything I’ve experienced with Vale. Surely you can imagine how a rich and powerful man might keep his daughter exactly where he wants her. A job? Who would hire me knowing Bertini Campo would sweep in and make their lives hell if they did? Perhaps I should have run away. With what? Stolen money? That he would track down, easily enough. Nothing? He also would have tracked me down, or the press would have. Believe me, I tried every means of escape I could, but they were all thwarted. Except the one thing he wanted for me. All I had to do was ensure I was in charge of the groom and make him think it was his idea.”
“Won’t he be upset with this turn of events as you were, in fact, not in charge of the groom?”
Francesca smiled sweetly. “You are a Bonaparte, are you not? The contract is the same. My father still gets everything he wants. This will keep him happy and far away.” She refused to think otherwise. “Surely you have some supply of alcohol and sweets in this castle of debauchery? I would like to celebrate,” she said. She wanted to get drunk. She wanted to eat an entire cake. All things she’d never been allowed to do.
She was free, and she damn well wanted to celebrate getting everything she’d planned.
“I prefer other kinds of debauchery, angioletta.”
She might be virginal, but she had heard more than her fair share of sexual innuendo in the course of growing up. She understood his meaning, all too well. Though it left a strange trail of warmth through her, not the usual nausea.
Her father never minded his oily friends saying inappropriate things, looking at her in inappropriate ways. He had, in fact, encouraged it. As long as no one got handsy. Her precious virginity was a selling point in the great amassing of more, but that didn’t mean he’d protect her from being harassed in other ways.
No doubt Aristide, famous for his trail of women, would expect his own version of more. She hadn’t...thought that part of the groom switch through, had she?
Well, she’d just keep brazening through these unexpected detours. As she always had before.
“Vale and I had an agreement when it came to...sharing things,” she said quite forcefully.
Aristide raised a dark, aristocratic eyebrow. “Please tell me how you planned to share my brother’s bed,” he said, so dryly she might have cracked a smile if she was not so uncomfortable. “I can think of nothing I’d like to hear more about.”
“Your sarcasm is not quite the weapon you think it is.”
“And your reputation is not quite the one you think it is.”
“You stole me for my reputation.”
“Yes. I did. Though stole feels a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” He held up a hand, a kind of “hold that thought” gesture, and then he disappeared inside. He was only gone a few moments before he returned with a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, and two glasses. He placed them on a small patio table in the corner. Then went about the process of opening the bottle—all dramatic movements capped by the popping of the cork. It made her jump.
She reminded herself to relax. She had gotten away from the hell of her childhood. Maybe this wouldn’t be heaven, but it would be better.
Aristide poured two flutes of champagne. She had meant champagne for herself. She had meant celebrating alone. Still, she accepted the glass when he handed it to her and did not invite him to leave.
Much as she kind of wanted to.
He held up his glass. “To a mutually beneficial union.”
Mutuallybeing the operative word, she thought to herself before clinking her glass to his. She took a long, deep drink, trying to let the celebratory bubbles ease some of the coils of anxiety inside of her.
She was so happy to be free, and she wanted that to be enough, but this man across from her was making things...complicated.
He studied her with dark eyes as he sipped his champagne at half the pace of her. When he finally spoke, it was probably the most serious she’d yet to hear him. “There are no photographers here, Francesca. No businessmen I make deals with, gossips who spread stories about me. My staff is loyal and know their worth here is more than any story they could sell. Here, in my castle, it is simply you and me.”
How she wanted that to be true. To simply be her. For once. For once. To follow her own whims, her own desires. It was hard to believe she’d actually get that, but...here was a man who did that. All the time. No matter the backlash.
Perhaps...perhaps she could learn something from him. She lifted her glass, drained it and held it out for him to refill.
He obliged, but not without commentary.
“There is no rush.”
“I think I’d like to get very drunk. I’ve never been drunk.”
“Never?”
She shook her head. “Never been allowed even a full glass of champagne. Or more than one piece of cake on any given day. There was a woman employed by my father whose entire job it was to count my calories once I reached fifteen.” She likely shouldn’t have told him that, but she was free.
Free.
She could tell all the truths about her upbringing as she liked. She wouldn’t go public with them, of course, but she didn’t have to hide them from her husband.
She wanted to laugh at the absolute ridiculousness of that word, of this situation.
“What other nevers are you looking to rid yourself of?” Aristide asked as he refilled her now drained glass.
She immediately took a sip from it. She liked the frothiness of it. The way it all seemed to go immediately to her head and make her feel less tethered to everything that weighed her down. She hadn’t eaten today—too nervous, too determined to see everything through—so that likely added to the effect of it all. She could really use that whole cake right about now, but she decided to consider his question instead as she sipped from her glass.
She studied him. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was being in the desperate situation she found herself. She knew better than to show her vulnerable underbelly, so she started with the superficial.
“I want to learn how to bake.”
He waved it away as though it were nothing. “Easily done. I’ll set you up with Maurizio first thing in the morning. He is world-renowned in the kitchen, and if he cannot teach you what you wish to know, he will find someone who does.”
She blinked. She hadn’t thought so far ahead as to actually...getting the things she’d always wanted. She had only wanted the possibility. She had only wanted the space to breathe. To be...safe.
But learning to bake was easily done, according to Aristide. She swallowed against the emotion rising in her throat.
“I want to sleep in. I’ve never had a pet. I always wanted a dog. Something big and ridiculous. The more hair, the less brains, the better.” It was all too...much. She felt like crying suddenly. Just collapsing into a heap and sobbing her heart out.
But she would never do that in front of him. Or anyone else, for that matter. Champagne or no.
So she just kept listing things. “And...never, ever see another piece of gym equipment.”
“I don’t mind a good workout now and then, so of course I have a gym on the property, but you may avoid it all you wish. I prefer to get my physical exertion out elsewhere anyhow.”
Another innuendo. She could let it go. Smile and nod like she usually did before extricating herself from an uncomfortable situation. But he was just so casual about the whole thing. He wasn’t watching for her reaction. He wasn’t playing some weird power game. She thought these lazy little comments were just...the kind of thing he was so used to saying he didn’t even consider the true meaning.
Perhaps it was that realization. Perhaps it was the champagne. Perhaps it was this strange turn of events and a break with reality, but she looked him right in the eye and said her next sentence very, very clearly.
“I do not want to sleep with you.” Which brought strange images to mind. Like that kiss back in the unique and beautiful room they’d been married in. The way his hand had felt on her face, the warmth that had pooled inside her, lower than it should. That strange shuddering thing that cascaded through her.
She had kissed—if you could even call it that—Vale once or twice for the demure photo op and there had never been any of that.
But Aristide did not get all puffed up and angry. He only smiled. “I didn’t ask.”
“I may be a virgin, but it is not in my experience that men do a lot of asking.”
Something changed in his gaze just then. All that lazy indulgence sharpening ever so slightly, but the smile did not falter. “I’m a great believer in consent. And begging, naturally.”
Begging. Her frank and brief discussion with Vale on the matter of marital relations when they’d been drawing up their contract had definitely not discussed consent or begging.
Francesca had no smart comeback, no quick quip. So she simply stood there, and finished off yet another glass of champagne. All while Aristide stood—a good distance away on the balcony—watching her.
When he finally finished his one glass, he set it down on the table. And moved over to her. She held her breath, wondering if he’d touch her face again. Wondering if...something was about to happen. Her heart clamored in her chest, but she did not back away. And it wasn’t her usual obedient mask that kept her rooted to the spot.
She didn’t want to back away from the height and breadth of him, the heat of him.
What did that mean?
But he didn’t touch her. “You are a fascinating creature, angioletta. Perhaps this entire endeavor will be more fun than I originally planned.”
She didn’t know what she was having. Not fun, per se. But this was...different. Liberating, maybe. Fun sounded...fun, though. “I don’t think I’ve ever had any fun.”
“Well, then we shall start tomorrow.”
Aristide did not sleep well, but he did not allow himself to dwell on the whys.
He was an expert at denial.
He did not dwell on the way Francesca had smiled, or the look on her face when she spoke of some woman, hired by her father, counting her calories. Or how seriously she’d told him men did not do a lot of asking.
Her experiences up to this moment were immaterial. Whatever had happened before had no bearing on now.
He had a plan to enact.
This first week as husband and wife would be fairly quiet. To give the illusion of a cozy honeymoon at home. Then they would begin the real campaign. Events. Charity. And most of all convincing the entire world they were desperately in love.
What better story could there be than a debased playboy turning his life around for a perfect angel? Once he convinced them of it, everyone would love the story. Alone, he could never outshine Vale’s perceived goodness, but with Francesca by his side?
He would have everything. And his father could go to hell.
Cheered by that thought, he went about preparing their morning. She’d said she wished to sleep in, so he had the staff prepare a brunch rather than a breakfast, to be set up outside once there were stirrings from Francesca’s quarters.
When he was informed Francesca would arrive shortly, he made his way to the outdoor setup. It was already warm and sunny. Aristide had always loved the heat and shine of summer. The perfect backdrop for excess, he liked to think.
When his bride arrived on the sprawling, ornate patio, she was dressed in something bright and flowy—a swimsuit cover-up, if he had to guess by the brevity of the skirt. She looked around—at the statues of mythical creatures that lined the stairs leading down to the beach, the waves, the sun in the distance, the table of food.
But not at him.
“Good morning,” she greeted, studying the layout of food quite seriously.
“Good morning, my wife. Join me for brunch.”
She did not sit down. “Vera said the best time for a swim would be now,” she said, speaking of the staff member he’d assigned to take care of Francesca.
“She is right, but you should eat something first after your first night of champagne debauchery.”
“Vera supplied aspirin.”
“Which you shouldn’t have on an empty stomach. Sit. Eat.”
She eyed the table with a mix of avarice and distrust. “How could two people possibly eat all this?”
“Two people who aren’t counting calories but are instead enjoying their honeymoon, angioletta.”
Still, she did not meet his gaze. She settled herself into the seat across from him, and sat there, looking around like she couldn’t possibly know where to begin.
So he decided to aid her. He got up and took her plate from its spot in front of her and then began to pile it up with buttered bread with jam, a sfogliatelle, an assortment of cheeses and figs, wedges of caprese cake and a spinach frittata. He poured her both juice and coffee and placed it all in front of her before returning to his seat.
“If I eat all of this before I swim, I fear I will simply sink.”
Aristide shrugged. “Eat what you wish. Take a swim break and return. We are on our honeymoon, cara, we may laze about however we wish.”
She inhaled through her nose, then gave a little nod like she was accepting orders to march into battle. She lifted her silverware, and only hesitated a moment before she spoke again.
“Have you heard...” She trailed off, placing a bite of frittata in her mouth, but he knew what she had wanted to ask even if she did not finish.
“You have access to all the same news outlets as I do, Francesca. If you wish to know what befell your jilted groom, you can look it up yourself.”
“Yes, but you’re his family. I thought perhaps you might know...”
“Trust that if it involves my ‘family’ I do not know any more than the next person. This is by design—theirs, and I have no need to change it.”
“Don’t you care what damage you might have done?”
“Damage?” Aristide snorted out a laugh. “Did I interrupt your grand love match, Francesca? I know I did not, because I know my brother. For all the ways he does not make sense to me, I’m pretty sure you both knew you were making a business deal. Nothing more. Therefore, whatever damage results, is something he’ll no doubt slither his way out of as he always does.”
She shook her head, pondering the pastry on her plate. Finally, finally, she lifted her gaze to his. All dark eyes. Still unreadable, but there was something soft in her expression.
He didn’t care for it one bit.
“Why do you and Vale hate each other so much?” she asked. Gently enough to poke at his temper.
“Surely my brother made sure to paint me the dastardly villain in all his stories of me.”
“He went through great effort to never discuss you at all.”
Aristide scowled at that. It shouldn’t surprise him, and yet it felt like age-old dagger lodged into his back. “It is all very complicated, and very simple. He thinks I betrayed him with the truth. I know he betrayed me with his reaction to it.” Aristide studied the mug of coffee, then set it aside as his stomach curled into a hard knot that often accompanied thinking too much of what had happened between him and Vale. “Perhaps we are both right.”
“How did he betray you?”
Aristide considered the truth, and the lie he liked to trot out. He didn’t mind the lie, liked playing it up for the right audience, but for some odd reason it felt wrong to lie to Francesca’s interested gaze.
“We were quite close growing up, when he thought I was the lowly housekeeper’s son and not his competition. When I discovered the identity of my father and informed him we were not just friends but brothers, I rather thought our connection was the only good thing to come out of something so terrible. He did not agree.”
“That doesn’t make much sense. Why would it matter whether you were related or not? You had no say in your existence.”
Aristide shrugged, plucking a piece of cheese off his plate and studying it. Instead of taking a bite, he set it back down, not sure why he couldn’t stomach the thought.
“It did not make much sense to me then, no. Part of the problem, I suppose. But as we have grown it has become clear that it was fine enough to be my friend when he thought me beneath him, but to think we might be the same made such a relationship difficult for his precious ego.”
“Perhaps you are missing some piece to the story.”
He met her gaze across the table. “I did not think you were in love with my brother.”
She didn’t bristle. She rolled her eyes, which for some reason eased some of the tension inside of him. “I’m not. But he was nothing but kind to me. And so have you been, so far. Aside from the whole stealing me away, I suppose. Not that I put up a true fight.”
“I have never been accused of being kind, Francesca.”
She gestured at the table. “But you have been.”
“If supplying you with food on our honeymoon is a kindness, it will be quite easy to convince you I am the kindest man alive from here on out.”
“Well, that would certainly help in redeeming your reputation. As would supplying me with a swimsuit with any modesty at all.”
“If the clothes supplied are not the right fit—”
“It is not the size that is the issue, and as much as I have always been curious about skinny-dipping, it would not be...”
She had clearly not meant to say that, as she trailed off and blinked. Immediately snapping her mouth shut and looking vaguely embarrassed.
He liked that this woman of so many facets might have been comfortable enough to let a truth slip out without thinking it through.
“It is a private beach, angioletta. You may swim in as much or as little covering as you wish. Be my guest.”
“Honestly, Aristide. If I should do any skinny-dipping, it would not be with you in attendance.”
He liked the way she said his name. All haughty and clipped, like a scolding schoolteacher. Even as her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink.
He grinned at her. “Ah. Pity.”
She shook her head, but there was a curve of amusement to her lush mouth as she stood. “I am going to swim,” she announced grandly, like she was waiting for him to argue with her. When he didn’t, she started to walk toward the stairs that led down to the beach. She looked back over her shoulder at him. Once. “You may join me, but I am not taking off my bathing suit,” she stated—not that he’d asked. But she was smiling, like it was a joke.
The same feeling from the chapel swept over him. This swirling, soaring feeling that could only mean bad things were on the way. It could only be dread, even if it ribboned with a lightness that seemed created by her and her alone.
Aristide tracked her progress to the beach. He considered joining her, as he quite enjoyed a morning swim in the surf himself, but then she drew the cover-up off her.
There was no doubt she was beautiful. The wedding gown she’d worn yesterday had not hidden her body, per se. He’d been able to see the outline of her curves, the slender slope of her elegant shoulders, the flare of her hips. There were no surprises in the swimsuit—which was hardly immodest. Yes, it was two pieces, but the swath of olive skin visible between the dark fabric was hardly obscene.
It was that something in her expression had changed as she stepped into the calm, waving surf. All that calculation, all that fake, washed away. It was the joy he’d seen last night on her face when she spoke of freedom, but now it seemed deeper, as she stood out there on her own in the water.
It was something about the glow of her. Like that dress had made her a statue, and this was the soul beneath it. She walked deeper and deeper in, turning to face him.
Her smile was like the sun itself. And then she flung herself backward and disappeared beneath the surface, only to appear again, hair wet and flowing behind her, reminding him of the foolish mermaid that he would see atop the spire behind him if he turned to look.
But he did not. Nor did he follow his initial thought to go down to the beach and swim with her. No, if he was determined to keep his hands off his virginal wife—and he was—it would be best if he stayed right where he was.
Someone cleared their throat behind him. It was some effort to take his gaze off Francesca as she dove and resurfaced over and over again. When he did finally turn, one of his staff members stood there with an envelope.
Aristide did not smirk, though he wanted to. Ah, finally, a response to his actions. Something to focus on besides his surprising new wife. But when he took the envelope and opened it, it was not his brother’s stationery or harsh penmanship as he’d expected.
It was a short and to-the-point missive from father dearest.
You will come to my estate and discuss this at once.
Aristide crumpled up the piece of paper, wished for a fire so he could dramatically toss it in. He didn’t care for the fact he’d been so certain he’d receive something from Valentino. Some reaction. Some...explosion. Something that might actually afford them the chance to clash.
It grated that he’d not considered his father might also have a response.
“Ignore it,” Aristide told his messenger. “Ignore everything from Signor Bonaparte. I have made it clear to him I have nothing to say unless he can be bothered to show his face here.” And that was one thing Milo Bonaparte refused to do. So it was easy to be as no-contact with his father as he liked at any given time.
Besides, as much as he was turning his reputation around to spite his father, that was not the attention he really wanted. He had long since given up on Milo Bonaparte, but there was another Bonaparte he couldn’t quite seem to leave be.
Before Luca could fully withdraw, Aristide held up a hand. “Wait. Has anyone from Vale’s estate brought over Francesca’s things?”
“Not yet.”
“Send a missive, just like this one but on my own stationery. Short and to the point, requesting Francesca’s things be returned to her before the end of the day.” If there was anything that might get under Valentino’s steel armor, it would be something that appeared to be from their father but was from him instead.
Aristide smiled to himself and went back to watching his bride swim.