1. Georgina #3
He was handsome. That much is difficult to argue with. But handsome men are not rare enough to justify thinking about one while someone fastens a dress that apparently requires me to stop breathing.
I tug at the fitted waist and examine myself in the mirror.
There she is. The daughter my mother ordered.
My hair is brushed smooth, falling down my back instead of escaping a braid. There’s no dust on my boots because I’m no longer wearing boots. The shoes waiting beneath the hem of my dress look incapable of surviving a determined walk across the lawn.
“Georgina.” My mother’s voice comes from the landing, sharper now. “Our guest is here.”
“I’m coming.” I take my hand away from the waistband before she can appear and catch me trying to make room for my lungs.
She meets me at the top of the stairs, looks me over, and adjusts a strand of hair that wasn’t out of place.
“Do make an effort this morning.” Her hand drops from my shoulder. “He’s only staying a few days, and I’d like him to feel welcome.”
“I wasn’t planning to barricade the doors.” I follow her down the stairs before she can decide that requires a response.
“Georgina.” She stops outside the sitting room, giving me the look that means I’m one remark away from a private conversation.
I arrange my face into a more suitable expression.
Inside, my younger sister Giselle sits near the window. A man stands with his back partly toward us, speaking to someone I can’t see beyond the door.
I notice the shoulders first.
Then he turns.
For one wonderful second, he looks as surprised as I feel.
Then his gaze drops over the dress, the carefully arranged hair, the shoes, and his mouth begins to curve.
Porca miseria. Why is my luck this bad?
“Maximillian, this is my eldest daughter.” My mother rests her hand lightly against my back, encouraging me forward. “Georgina Emanuelle della Rovere.”
His eyes return to mine and he looks delighted.
I have never disliked anyone so quickly twice.
“Georgina, Maximillian Costanzo.” My mother gives his name the weight she reserves for people whose company is worth mentioning afterward. “I’m sure you know of his championship wins. He’s in the area preparing for his next event, and we’re fortunate to have him as our guest.”
Costanzo.
The name lands, followed immediately by the memory of my own voice.
‘For an amateur.’
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
His smile deepens as though he’s heard the thought.
“A pleasure.” I offer my hand because my mother is watching, and because refusing would require an explanation I have no intention of giving.
He takes it.
I expect a brief, polite greeting. Something we can get through before I find a reason to leave the room.
Instead, he turns my hand gently in his and bends his head.
His mouth touches my knuckles.
It’s a perfectly courteous gesture. My mother’s approving silence confirms that. There is no respectable reason for the sudden heat in my face, or the way my fingers forget to pull away.
He looks up before releasing me, his lashes doing very little to conceal the amusement in his eyes.
“Principessa.” He keeps the word low enough that it belongs to me. “The pleasure is mine. I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“You must be tired from your journey.” I recover my hand and fold it with the other before it can betray me again. “Perhaps you’d like to rest.”
“Not at all.” He straightens, still watching me. “I’ve had a very invigorating morning.”
Giselle smiles from her chair. My mother begins saying something about the grounds, about how comfortable she hopes he’ll be, about arrangements I cannot make myself listen to.
Maximillian Costanzo is standing in our sitting room.
He is staying here.
And he knows exactly how much I want to object.
“I’m looking forward to getting better acquainted.” He says it to the room, but his attention doesn’t leave my face.
I should look away. I should sit beside my sister and ask a polite question and prove that a handsome man kissing my hand has not robbed me of every sensible thought I possess.
Instead, I look into those eyes and know he’s going to be trouble.
Max winds a loose strand of my hair around his finger, bringing me back to the blanket beneath the olive tree.
“You really tried to send me to bed before I’d even sat down.” His smile tells me he remembers my expression perfectly. “Very welcoming.”
“Well, you looked tired.” I reach into the basket for a cherry, maintaining what little dignity remains available to me. “I was… concerned.”
“Is that so? To me you looked quite furious.” He lets the strand slip free, then gathers another, smoothing it between his fingers. “I’d been wondering what sort of woman could beat me and leave without telling me her name. Then your mother brought you in looking exactly like a princess.”
“I am not a princess. We’ve had this conversation.” I point the cherry stem at him. “A distant connection to an old family does not come with a crown.”
“Georgina Emanuelle della Rovere…” He says my name slowly, enjoying every part of it. “You must admit it takes some saying.”
“And yet you managed.”
“I had incentive.” His gaze follows the pale fall of my hair over my shoulder.
Unpinned, the waves reach my hips, and he’s been finding reasons to touch them since I let them down.
“All that platinum hair… That expression. You looked as though you were deciding whether to have me removed or exiled.”
“I was deciding how.” I eat the cherry and watch him laugh. “You made a very poor first impression.”
“Fortunately, Emanuelle was kinder to me eventually.” He draws me closer by the hand resting between us. “My Elle.”
“So you shortened the part of my name you liked and ignored the rest?”
“Mhm. I kept your princess nickname.” He kisses my temple before I can object. “I like saying it, it still suits you.”
I let my cheek rest against his shoulder, pretending that isn’t a satisfactory answer. He knows better than to ask for an admission.
We finish lunch slowly. Max steals the last cherry while I’m folding a napkin, then insists there’s no evidence when I accuse him. I tell him his marriage depends on producing the stone. He threatens to swallow it.
By the time we pack the basket, the shade has moved beyond our feet.
We take the shorter path back toward the house, the one that skirts the stable yard. I’m still arguing that he owes me another picnic when a familiar sound reaches us.
Sovrano.
I stop before I mean to.
He’s standing near the open stable door with a groom, his head lifted toward me. For a moment I can almost feel the warmth beneath my palm from all the times I’ve gone straight to him.
Then my hand tightens around Max’s.
My horse is right there. Nothing is happening. I know that, and still I can’t make my feet move toward him.
“Elle…” Max shifts the basket to his other hand and turns toward the house. “Come on. We’ll go this way.”
I hate how quickly the relief comes.
“I was all right a moment ago.” I keep my eyes on the path as he walks beside me, close enough that our arms touch.
“You don’t have to explain, you’re still recovering.” He slows to my pace, his hand staying around mine. “We’re just going back to the house.”
Sovrano calls again behind us. Max keeps walking with me.
By the time we reach the terrace, I can loosen my grip without feeling as though I’ll lose my balance. He sets the basket down and stays beside me while I breathe, his shoulder warm against mine.
A car turns onto the drive below.
I recognize it before it reaches the house.
“Your mother.” I glance up at Max, grateful for something I can say without having to steady my voice first. “Perhaps she’ll take my complaint about the cherries seriously.”
He looks from the car to me, and the small relief in his face hurts almost as much as the tenderness.
“Again, I carried the basket,” he reminds me, drawing out a chair beside his.
“Tell her that.” I sit, letting him keep my hand a moment longer. “See if it saves you.”
By the time Felicity steps onto the terrace, I’m telling Max his mother is the only Costanzo with any sense. Her timing is excellent. His expression when she steps through the doors suggests he suspects a conspiracy.
“There you are.” She bends to kiss my cheek, then rests a hand on her son’s shoulder. “I was told I might actually find both of you at home.”
“You’ve found us. Try not to look so astonished.” Max gets up to pull a chair over for her, placing it in the shade beside mine. “Tea?”
“Please. And bring a cup for your wife.” Felicity sits while I unpack the empty glasses from the picnic basket. “Unless Georgina has finally learned to enjoy whatever terrible coffee you two insist on drinking.”
“We enjoy it out of spite.” I catch Max’s hand as he passes, and he bends to kiss me before going inside. I don’t check the time or wonder whether he’ll turn toward the stables. Today he has stayed.
Felicity follows him with her eyes, then turns back to me. “You’ve had a good day?”
“I have.” I find myself smiling before I’ve finished answering. “He made breakfast. Turned his phone off. Let me remind him that I beat him.”
“So a restful day for one of you.” She settles back in her chair, looking pleased, and I let the answer stand. I don’t want to attach a list of qualifications to it. We have had a good day.
Beyond the hedge, someone leads a horse across the yard. I recognize the sound and turn my glass between my palms. Felicity notices the movement, but she waits until the hooves fade before speaking.
“And how are you, darling?” Her hand comes to rest beside mine on the table, close enough for me to take it without making a production of it.
“I got as far as the yard earlier.” I stare at the rim of my empty glass. “Not even into it, really. Sovrano saw me, and I couldn’t go over.”
She doesn’t tell me tomorrow will be better. She knows better than to promise something neither of us can guarantee. “That must have hurt.”