It was pleasantly warm under the grape arbor where they sat with a soft breeze rustling the leaves above them. The pages of a notepad that lay on the table fluttered as well. They were supposed to be making notes about Carita’s wedding, for a wedding planner would come for an appointment with her and Jonathan in the afternoon. It was to be a small affair, ostensibly due to the accident, but would make up in elegance what it lacked in size.
Nico’s wedding would be far grander, or so Amanda had been given to understand. He was the Conte de Frenza, after all, with connections in every corner of the globe. The wedding planner would speak to him and Amanda when she had finished with Carita’s arrangements.
The thought of it appalled her. She felt such a fraud. As for making decisions about a wedding resembling something for royals, the idea made her feel more than a little sick.
She sat to one side, her head resting on the back of a wrought iron chair, the skirt of her peach linen dress lifting lazily in the fitful breeze. Not far away, Carita lay on a lounge with a raised back. Carisa’s chair was pulled close on her other side so she could look at the book of wedding invitation examples which lay on her twin’s lap.
Nico’s grandmother and her aunt were having an aperitif while they discussed the guest list, debating who should and should not be invited. The low murmur of their voices had a drowsy sound that almost put Amanda to sleep. She had slept very little the night before, or for some nights before that, as she tried to make up her mind about her future.
It would be best if she did that in the next few hours. She could not allow a wedding to be planned if she didn’t intend to go through with it. Once everything was in place, she would be trapped, for she could never leave Nico standing at the altar. Thinking of his anger and damaged pride would be too much to bear.
“Mandy, I am to be maid of honor!” Carisa called out. “Did you know?”
She looked up at her name then lifted a brow at Carita for the translation of what her sister had said. Hearing it, she smiled at Carisa. “Of course, cara, and a beautiful one you will be, too. Your sister could never have anyone else.”
“She could have you. You will be like a sister. To both of us!”
“What a lovely thing to say, Carisa,” she answered through the tightness in her throat.
“It’s true. Nico said it to me. You will be my sister.”
“Then that undoubtedly makes it so,” she said against the ache in her throat.
“You will never go away, he said. You will live with us forever.”
Forever was such a long time. Would it really be that way, Amanda wondered? Could what she felt last all that long time without love in return?
When she made no reply, Carisa’s face clouded. She crawled off her lounge chair. “You will, won’t you? I don’t want you to go away.”
“I don’t want to go away, either,” she said as lightly as possible, while hoping it would be enough to avoid a storm. She sent a pained smile to Carita who was still carefully translating.
“You will marry Nico,” Carisa insisted. “It will be all right.”
“I — I suppose so.” Amanda was uncomfortably aware that Aunt Filomena and Nonna had stopped talking to listen to the exchange.
“You aren’t afraid of Nico, are you?” Carisa demanded, her eyes clouded by concern. “I was afraid of him when I was little. He was so big and sounded mad all the time. But not any more.”
“No, no, of course I’m not afraid of him.”
“What is it then?”
Amanda opened her mouth to answer that she feared nothing, but realized in the last second that it wasn’t true. She was afraid of being hurt the way her father had hurt her mother, afraid of being an afterthought in her husband’s life. She feared loving too much and not being loved in return. She feared becoming so dependent on Nico that she could not function without him.
Yet what was the alternative? To leave him now would mean pain beyond bearing, and a future where she would always wonder, always live with regret.
“Nothing that matters,” she said finally.
“Nico will make it right. He always makes everything right.”
“Yes,” she said with a watery smile for Carisa’s absolute trust. It had been earned, she knew, by a brother’s love and devotion, by steadfast dependability and attention to responsibility.
Would Nico be any less responsible toward a wife? Any less devoted?
No, she could trust him not to let her down. Unlike her father, he wasn’t reckless, would never risk his life when it must mean risking the happiness of everyone around him. The two of them would never reenact the drama of tears, betrayals and insecurities that had been married life for her mother and father.
“He will make it right, I promise.”
Carisa’s sweet face was so earnest, her faith so unshakable. How could her own be any different, Amanda thought. “I know he will,” she whispered.
“So you will stay for always? You must, you must stay. Carita loves you. Grandmother and Aunt Filomena love you. Nico loves you. But most of all, I love you.”
“Ti amo…”
“I love you.”
Listening to the echoes of Carita’s voice as she translated for her sister, Amanda felt the hair lift on the back of her neck.
She had heard another voice saying the same words, whispering them softly in her ear, against her breasts and the flat surface of her abdomen while his lips brushed her skin.
Nico had said he loved her, telling her over and over in his deep, throbbing voice. He had told her in the Italian that sprang to his lips when he was most affected by emotion. He had told her, and she had not known.
“Oh, Carisa,” she said, rising to her feet and holding out her arms, closing them around the girl as she ran to her. Tears crowded her throat so she could barely speak as she rocked Nico’s sister from side to side. “Ti amo, cara mia. I love you, too. And I don’t want to leave here, not ever.”
Carita cried and had to be hugged, too. Aunt Filomena talked volubly and grandmother smiled in benign pleasure while tears shimmered in a delicate rim beneath her fine old eyes as she looked upon Carisa who hugged both Amanda and Carita at the same time.
It was Jonathan who returned them to normal. Following Erminia onto the terrace on his crutches as she carried out a mid-morning coffee tray, he looked perplexed at the tears and demanded to know what was happening.
Amanda left Carita to explain, since her brother had pulled up a chair beside her at once. With the vague excuse of seeing if Nico cared to join them, she stepped into the villa and went swiftly toward the study.
He looked up as she entered, his brows raised in surprise. She had not been in the room since the afternoon he asked her to marry him, had never interrupted him at his work. She did so now without compunction. Closing the door behind her, she walked toward him.
“Is something wrong, cara mia?”
“Everything is fine,” she said with a wry smile for the truth of the words.
“I left you planning a wedding. Is there a problem? Carita is well, and Carisa?”
“They are fine.”
“And you, carissima? Was there something you required?”
She rounded the desk, reached to take the pen he held from his hand and toss it aside. Lifting his arm, she put it around her waist. “Si,” she said, “You once said I should learn Italian. I believe I require a lesson now.”
A wary light appeared in his eyes. “Davvero?”
“Davvero,” she said firmly. “Though I believe it would be better to have it after I have climbed into your lap.”
“Ah,” he said. “I seem to remember that you threatened that once.”
“I did, and now the time has come.”
“Dio, I thought never to see it,” he breathed, his eyes turning dark. Rolling back in his office chair, he drew her across his knees, within the steady circle of his arms. “Now,” he said, his voice gruff. “This lesson?”
She settled herself, s
omething not easily done when the place where she was sitting seemed to have a growing, too firm ridge at its center. Sliding one arm around his neck she toyed with the buttons of his shirt. “Translate a few words for me, if you please.”
“With pleasure.”
“First, carissima.”
“Dearest one.”
“And tesoro mio?”
“My treasure.”
“Nice,” she said, smiling up at him.
“I’m happy you approve.”
“Yes. Then — then ti amo.”
“I love you,” he repeated in English, his voice as soft and uneven as crushed velvet. “And next, innamorato?”
“Innamorato?” she asked. He had said that one to her many times as well.
“You’re the one with whom I am in love, mi sono innamorato di te. There is no single word in English.”
“Is that really what they mean, all these things?”
“Do you doubt me?”
Her smile was shaky at the edges and moisture blurred her vision. “No, never.”
“Bene. So?”
“So,” she said, drawing a deep sustaining breath, I can now say ti amo, innamorato.”
His face turned grave, though the light in his eyes was incredibly tender. “Innamorata,” he corrected, emphasizing the final vowel. “A small change as you are a woman but I am a man.”
“Definitely.”
“And — and you will marry me, Tesoro mio?”
“Si, si, certo. Ti amo, Nico, sono innamorata. Bene?”
“Molto, molto bene,” he whispered against her lips. “Perfetto.”
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Since publishing her first book at age twenty-seven, New York Times bestselling and award-winning author Jennifer Blake has gone on to write over sixty-five historical and contemporary novels in multiple genres. She brings the story-telling power and seductive passion of the South to her stories, reflecting her eighth-generation Louisiana heritage. Jennifer lives with her husband in northern Louisiana.
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The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding Page 17
