“Why aren’t you a Count anymore? What happened?” He rolls his eyes and turns away from my gaze to look out of his own window.
“It is a dull and laborious tale. It is of no consequence and bores the life from me. It is an irrelevancy you should not have to endure.”
“Clearly not, given your reaction to your mother’s letter. Let’s start with the truth telling, shall we? All of it, please. Does this little girl need to know? Is it something she should be a part of? I mean, presumably once you’re royal, you’re always royal. She has a lineage.”
“Royalty is nothing but a monotony of state occasions, ridiculous clothing and strict constraints on sanity. Nothing you should concern yourself with, nor delve into. It is dull, my love. Dreary, tedious and disconcerting. It breeds nothing but morons and sycophantic reprobates who will, no doubt, breed more of the same. Look at what it has done to Thomas. The poor boy is ridiculed for being gay and then asked to marry a woman he neither likes nor loves. He is expected to for the sake of his country. It is moronic.”
“And yet you are proud to be a part of it.”
“I am not,” he snaps, swinging his glower back to me and raising his voice. I glance at Claire and then back to him, which causes him to shake his head and look out of the window again.
“Do you want her involved in it?”
He blows out a huff though his nose and snarls his lip, crossing his legs at the same time and resting his head on the back of the seat.
“It is my duty to ensure she knows and then she may choose what to do with that information. There is wealth waiting for her, an extended family she should be aware of, and an existence that would prove useful should she feel it acceptable to her. There is also a castle belonging to her line. Little girls like such things, one would assume.”
“But does it have a fairytale ending? Because the thing is, little girls like those, too, Pascal. And you’ve never offered that, have you?” I reply, choosing to remove my gaze from him and hope that he understands what he’s talking about. “They dream of rainbows and pots of gold, and princes to come for them. White stallions and charging knights. Ones who will kiss away the poison and hold them eternally.” I sigh at the thought, remembering the way he told me there was no happily ever after. I’m staring out into space and accepting that myself in some ways, knowing that whatever we are, we will find our way forward, but also knowing that this is not my own dream of a fairy-tale ending.
He is what he is, and we will be what we are. But Claire? Claire needs to know they exist. That there is a happy ending. That if she chases it, it will come. That if she believes and holds onto her dreams, she will find true love.
“They spend years trusting that men are as their fathers are—brave, bold, ready to ride to the rescue when needed and save them. To offer something no other man can. Do you understand?”
He chuckles and tips his head towards me, reaching for my face.
“I was rewarded with nothing from my father,” he says, rounding his body towards me and frowning at his thoughts. “My rights were taken from me because of my mother’s insanity, and given to my brother with little thought for my comfort or nobility. I became obsolete because I chose to not conform to ludicrous displays of royal lineage. Your idea of fairytales mean very little when compared to the actuality, my love. You may think me dismissive of such things. You may believe I have not enough romance in my soul to allow her growth.” Well, yes. I am slightly concerned to be honest. And my frown, combined with the bruises on my skin, clearly show that, regardless of his thumb stroking my jaw. It’s not that I don’t believe it’s there, though as I gaze into his eyes, just that he doesn’t show it enough. Maybe that he doesn’t choose to. “Believe me, Lilah. I am well aware of fairytales and their endings. Regrettably, they are all too often founded on lies and deceit. Such is the way of this world.”
Chapter 9
Ah, Roma.
The air was already clearer. It matched his own mindset, which was much less foggy now they had landed and reached his version of a home. The little witch beside him always helped to stimulate the clouds again, shining her luminescent rays of murk over everything, though. Fairytales. Hmm. Such things were barely discernible beneath life’s endless irritations. The entire journey here she had kept up with her probing. Dig, dig, dig. The flight had been disturbed to almighty proportions with her constant exploration into happily ever afters, which was preposterous. At one deplorable moment, even Ruebin had dared to join in, thankfully giving him the opportunity to slap something. He had, however, eventually relented and somewhat given in to the idea that rainbows and pots of gold were achievable, irrespective of shaky foundations. Perhaps they were, but giving a child the preconceived notion that men would ride to her rescue on horses was moronic. Claire would be taught to protect herself and not rely on men for her daydreams. She would be stronger than such follies. Most men, as he himself knew well, were simply there to enjoy and cajole. To taint and tarnish. They were not to be trusted in any way, let alone given the opportunity to harness a woman’s dreams in some manner. Certainly not his daughter’s.
He rolled his eyes at Lilah as she stood pensively beneath the fountain in his garden, finger to her lip as she pretended to be interested in art. She was not. And his damn fountain, although correctly illuminated in the pitch black of night, was not working anyway. Why was it not working? He paid people to ensure such things worked. He scanned the grounds for a relevant person to whom he could explain the predicament. There wasn’t one.
“Who is this supposed to be?” she asked, gazing at the marble sculpture of Minerva, whose wetness around the mouth was not wet.
“Minerva—she was the virgin goddess of wisdom, poetry, magic and suchlike,” he muttered in reply, still searching the expanse for a servant of some sort.
“Magic and poetry? Good lord, did you choose it? Surely not. Was it a Plato moment?” she replied, laughing. He was not sure how to take such sarcasm so turned to walk the grounds instead, choosing to watch Claire as she leapt the small box hedging surrounding the flower beds. “This really is quite the spread you have here.”
Mmm. It was. Not that he had done a thing with it. It simply rotted in the hills, growing less treasured by the week and enduring nothing but the occasional visit. Visits he normally found depressing. Such a place should be full of people, love even, he assumed, and yet he had never brought a single person here. It had been a fancy to buy it, something he had done on a whim. Perhaps he had thought it would one day be a place to retire to, or hide in should he need to. He did not know, and cared very little. However, even though the damn fountain appeared ruined, which was testing his every nerve, he found it quite calming to be here again.
He gazed at Claire again as she continued hopping and then launched herself through the near fallen archway into the main garden. Why had that not been repaired either? Good God, did no one do as they were told? He grumbled his way through the arch, inspecting it a little as he ducked his head and then turned back to see where Lilah was. Disappeared, it seemed.
“Is Mama coming soon?” Claire shouted back at him from the shadows. Mama? Not. The bitch could rot with Jon. Senseless woman.
“Mmm. Soon, I would hope,” he replied, running to find her given the dark and then clasping hold of her hand. “Should we see where Lilah has disappeared to? She may have gone inside, hmm?” And perhaps the damn cook would have come up with food of some description. Although, she had not been aware they were coming until they actually arrived, so she was given some forgiveness for that.
He hadn’t told one person where they were going. Not even Thomas and Ruebin knew of this location. It was a secret when he bought it, and would continue to be so if he had his way. Hopefully, that would ensure Jon and Lucinda knew nothing of it either.
“That colour’s pretty,” she said beneath him, her little hand pointing up at the ornate gold and cobalt blue that decorated the roof edge under the spotlight’s glare. “And the flower
s, what are they? They’re all pink and purply.” Purply indeed.
“It is bougainvillea. They climb well, hmm? All the way up the tower, see?” He couldn’t help but laugh to himself as he pointed up the tall east tower towards a small window. The old villa was made for fairytales. It was everything a young girl could dream of, he assumed, resembling a castle in some ways. Two tall towers fronted the main building with elaborate steps leading up to it, and a further large building behind it rose into the cliff. Separate levels all had some part of the structure at angles to the last, yet they were seamlessly linked. The patio area with portico detailing, under which the boathouse resided, linked straight into the lake for ease of access into Rome. Much of it was heavily doused in the purple flower, and the scent of it all was sweet, syrupy with a musk about it. It drove his senses mad as he ambled towards the stables and watched Claire smile with glee as she saw the saddles and bridles.
“You have horses. Are there unicorns, too?” Unicorns indeed. He’d only kept the horses because the previous owner could not take them with him. Some sentiment had lingered when he saw them galloping around the paddocks. It was perhaps the reason he visited so infrequently. Sentiments were normally foolish and of no intrinsic use to anybody, or they had been until Lilah and Claire had arrived to unhinge his life.
“We do,” he replied, instantly pondering the word ‘we’. More than one. Three, in fact. Together. Hmm. “You can see them on the morrow, when you have slept properly.” Much as her cat napping on the way here had been useful, he assumed her constant yawning was a sure sign of exhaustion. He took Claire’s hand again and led her up the steps into the kitchens, all the time smiling at her dark, bouncing curls and bare feet. “Where are your shoes?”
“Lilah has them. She told me to run barefoot, said I’d feel the night better.” Did she? He raised a brow at a new version of his love. Running barefoot? Next, she would be thinking of reading amidst flower filled fields, dressed in white chiffon and hoping for proclamations of undying love. Ones she could have should she ask.
They entered the cool granite kitchen to find cook busying herself with food.
“Scusi, Signore,” she said, wiping her hands and grinning like a fool as she wafted them away and grabbed at some fresh bread. He raised a brow at that, too. It seemed the old woman wanted them out of her kitchen. Well, it was hers in some ways. He’d spent so little time here that he could hardly call it his. Perhaps she should run the house. Maybe she did. He should find out.
Three bare rooms later and they turned into the great hall, which he quickly bypassed, still searching for Lilah. Where was she? Room after room passed by, all sparsely decorated with little in the way of furniture. There were only a few pieces left by the previous occupants. The essentials. Heavy crystal chandeliers and long drapery framed the expansive windows in each room. He remembered the vast sliding windows in Alexander’s kitchen and pictured them here, just as he had done when he sat with Elizabeth that morning. They would suit the space well once they replaced the practically putrefied ones barely holding themselves together. The occasional armchair was dotted about, with masculine and ornamental side tables. It was simply a gigantic shell of a home, waiting for someone to care for it. A care he had not given.
Perhaps until now.
“Look at the stairs,” Claire shrieked, her little feet launching, at quite startling speed given her fatigue, across the salon and back into the hall once more. Perhaps she had not seen them the first time. He was not sure what was so exciting. They were simply stairs. However, watching Claire made him realise what was quite so special about them. She raced up the wide marble sweep, turning the corners until she stood above him on the balcony with her little hands barely reaching the balustrade and looking down.
“You pretend you’re a prince,” she called down to him, bouncing up and down in a glee-filled manner. He snorted then dusted off the front of his white linen shirt. Prince indeed. Where was Lilah? He needed some sanity. “Are you ready, my prince?”
He was not entirely sure he was, but he hovered at the bottom of the staircase nonetheless, expecting what, he was not sure.
However, as the elegant little princess began to make her way down the stairs, he soon changed his mind. She amused him with her depiction of princesses in their castles as she tried, somewhat in vain, to appear regal. Her delicate little fingers grasped her skirt in the most unladylike fashion he had ever witnessed as she held it out to the sides. And her feet clunked on each wide step, attempting safety rather than elegance he presumed. But it was still likely the most realistic portrayal of stately he had seen in many a year. It was honest. There was no manufactured intent. No pretence. She believed herself royal in her own way as she carried herself downwards, quite comically not knowing that she actually was. For such a small creature, she owned her staircase, and his heart along with it. She was perfection as she smiled at him and dropped one side of her skirt to offer him her hand, causing him to click his heels together automatically, just as his father had taught him all those moons ago, and reach for her hold. A low bow followed, the swing of his arm as natural as his place in society had dictated.
“My lady,” he said, placing a gentle kiss on her hand and then smirking at her over it. She giggled, and it was music to his ears as she tried to wiggle her fingers away.
“It tickles. You’re funny, Pascal. You’re always funny,” she said, snickering still and then blushing slightly as he lifted her from the floor and tucked her head into his shoulder. Faultlessness. He sighed a little as they continued on towards the back of the house, wondering when he might hear Papa rather than his own name from her lips.
“Should we carry on with our hunting, Lady Claire?” Perhaps he should tell her while they were here. Lucinda would not be coming any time soon. Perhaps knowing the truth would make the experience easier for Claire to comprehend. She yawned again and mumbled something about a pink bunny, then snuggled her head in a little deeper as he pulled her knees up to carry her correctly. Perhaps to a bedroom would be a better choice of direction. He would find Lilah soon enough once Claire was safely tucked up and slumbering peacefully. He could hunt better on his own, anyway.
He started to climb the secondary stairs, which led from the servant’s quarters, only to have Claire tell him they ‘smelt funny’ and were ‘not very pretty’. So he turned back to the main hall instead, apparently ready to deliver her dream of being a princess far more rapidly than he would have thought possible. They were not far along the main landing before they reached the only half decent bedroom in the place. It was dimly lit as he entered, having been prepared by a hurried maid when they arrived. Flowers had been spread on the old fashioned bedding, along with a small nightdress, which would still be far too big for the little girl in his arms. He stared at it for a few seconds, unsure about undressing her. Was it the done thing for fathers to de-robe their children? He did not know. He presumed it was acceptable, but still it felt somewhat intrusive. Especially given the fact that his mind, and cock, still fumbled around his own reaction to his mother. Hmm. She should undress herself, should she not? He glanced at her clothes. They seemed comfortable enough. She could sleep in them and then he would not need to touch her in that way at all. Or perhaps if he hid her under the covers before he took her clothes off it would be satisfactory. Moronic. He rolled his eyes at himself, growling at the fact that Lilah was nowhere to be found for such motherly endeavours, and walked to the bed. Two minutes later, he had managed to remove her dress, albeit tentatively beneath the covers as she wriggled her body around, not helping in the slightest. Then he had gotten her into the nightdress somehow, without looking, as she yawned again and laid back to slumber.
When she was asleep, he would go hunting again, without fear of being chastised for his normal turn of tongue. This withholding of normal language in exchange for childish musings was beyond challenging. Even if it did make him smile.
“Mama in the morning,” she mumbled, drifting into s
leep as he stroked her hair and lifted the covers higher to her chin. He did not answer. He simply searched his mind for a song it would be acceptable to hum as she fell asleep. There were not many to choose from. Mozart seemed too vibrant. Bach, too hurried. Rachmaninoff, too complicated. And before he realised it he was gently humming Silent Night as she stuck her thumb into her mouth. Silent Night. Holy Night. Not one thing about his life had been holy. It was an interesting song choice to have popped up, certainly given the virgin mother depicted in the song. He snorted a little then carried on with his humming as he listened to her light snoring increase. True beauty. A blessed deliverance. She was an offering of normality, or perhaps the extraordinary.
He smiled as he stroked her head for the last time and then leaned in to kiss her cheek. Such a thing had never been planned, nor thought relevant. However, she was here now, sleeping beneath his hand. Falling asleep safely within his care and indulging him with assaulting visions of hope, of salvation. Love. His chest continued to ache as he rose from her side and backed away, not once removing his gaze from her as she turned in her sleep, grumbled, then threw the covers from herself erratically. It seemed his little princess did not like to be confined, yet another thing to chuckle at given her chess playing abilities.
He left the lights on and exited the room with a smirk, remembering his beloved rattling that cage all night and howling out his torment. Hmm. Amusing. The web weaved tighter around him inch by inch, wrapping him in similarities and comparisons. Sadists and children were not to be compared. Yet, for some unknown reason, he was associating them. One could only assume there were devils and Gods playing with his life in some humorous game of chance. Perhaps they had sent Lilah to disrupt the harmony he had felt brewing before her. Where was she?
He searched more rooms but found nothing—just silence and emptiness. He caught a maid as she scurried past, presumably to do something of importance, and instructed her to go sit outside of Claire’s room instead. She was the only thing of importance here. Nothing else was more relevant than her safety, certainly not in this run-down building. He told Reubin, who he found stoking a fire in the main salon, to keep an eye on the maid in case she was inefficient in her duties. And then, he searched some more—corners and hallways, attic rooms and the servant’s quarters where he passed Thomas inspecting some old manuscript with intent perusal. He snorted at the boy’s moronic investigations and carried on to the back passages that led to the stables, until all that was left was outside. He opened the creaking doors out onto the terrace and was instantly hit with the smell of Bougainvillea again as he brushed past it. The vague noise of the wind was all he could hear as it buffeted the vines around him and swayed the trees surrounding the house, but it was so light in its caress on the leaves that it only left a gentle rustle. Other than that, the only sound was the occasional ripple of the water below the terrace. Boats. He amused himself with the thought of his little run around and searched the terrace for Lilah’s silhouette. She was not there that he could see. Although, as he breathed in the scent of Bougainvillea again, he was convinced there was another perfume lingering there.
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