Ache For You

15

My bedroom.

My face flushes so hot I feel it all the way to the roots of my hair. “Well, I’m not sleeping in the attic. Give me some blankets, and I’ll be fine on the drawing room sofa for the night. I’ll check into a hotel tomorrow.”

Lorenzo makes another polite bow, murmuring apologies. When he leaves with my luggage, headed toward the drawing room at the back of the house, Dominic says, “It’s not your father’s fault.” He sends me a pointed look. “He didn’t have a choice.”

I grind my back teeth together so hard they’re in danger of shattering. The wicked stepmother strikes again. “So this Lorenzo is what—the house man?”

“Majordomo,” replies Dominic. “At least that’s what the marchesa calls him.”

“Who’s the marchesa?”

“Your father’s new wife.”

I’m dumbfounded. “She’s aristocracy?”

“From what I understand, she comes from a titled but impoverished background.” He waves a hand dismissively. “You know how it is in Europe, tesoro. There are as many destitute barons and counts as there are churches. Many of the old aristocratic families lost their fortunes, but no matter how poor you become, you get to keep the title.” He adds sourly, “It impresses people who don’t know any better.”

“I know you want to add like Americans, but I’ll have you know I met an aristocrat in New York and wasn’t impressed.”

Dominic pats my hand. “That’s because you have a good head on your shoulders. Now let’s get you settled so you can get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

With those ominous words ringing in my ears, I follow, exhausted and heartbroken, as he leads me deeper into the house.

I awaken hot and disoriented with a crick in my neck and a massive headache throbbing between my ears. I roll to my other side, open my eyes, and come nose to nose with an enormous black dog sitting on the floor next to the sofa.

Unmoving, unblinking, it stares down at me with a hungry look, as if it’s about to crack open its massive jaws and gobble me up.

I scream.

Startled, the dog jumps, then scrambles backward clownishly, its big paws fumbling and flapping against the floor. Then it turns around and streaks from the room, ears flattened, tail tucked, whining.

Apparently, I scared it as much as it scared me.

My heart pounding, I throw off the blanket and sit up. It’s still early. Sunlight streams through the windows and illuminates the polished wood floor to a blinding glow. Rising, I scrub my hands over my face and walk through the quiet house until I reach the kitchen, where I find Lorenzo sitting at the big wood table, sipping espresso and reading the papers. He’s in another impeccable suit, this one charcoal gray. I wonder if he ever sleeps or if he just changes clothes and keeps working.

“Good morning.” I yawn, taking a seat across from him at the table.

“Ah, good morning, signorina.” He folds the paper and sets it beside his cup of espresso, then looks me up and down in that swift assessing way he has that suggests he never misses a thing. “What can I get you? Espresso? Eggs? Some toast and jam, perhaps?”

“You don’t have to wait on me, Lorenzo.”

He rises, smiling. “But it’s my pleasure.” He chuckles. “Also it’s my job.”

“In that case, I’ll take an espresso.”

I watch him walk across the kitchen to the sleek black coffee machine on the opposite counter. There’s an economy in the way he moves, as if no energy is wasted, no step taken that isn’t planned. He exudes efficiency. He must’ve been a godsend for my messy, scatterbrained father.

Papa.

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t break down into tears, then struggle to compose myself as Lorenzo brews the espresso. By the time he sets the little white porcelain cup in front of me, I’ve regained most of my control, but my voice still comes out shaky.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He takes his seat across from me again, folds his hands, then simply gazes at me in silence.

“What?”

“Forgive me for staring, signorina. It’s just that I feel as if I already know you. Your father spoke of you so often, I feel as if we’re old friends.”

Shit. I start to get choked up again and have to look away and blink hard to clear the water from my eyes. I gulp the espresso, wincing as it scalds my tongue. “How long did you work for my father, Lorenzo?”

“Since the marchesa and he were married, in June.”

It’s August. My father kept his marriage a secret from me for two months. I know it isn’t the espresso that causes that bitter taste in my mouth.

Lorenzo says, “But I’ve been with the marchesa for more than thirty years.”

That surprises me so much I almost drop the cup. “Thirty years?”

He inclines his head. “Since before her first husband died. It has been my honor to serve in her household for so long.”

So this mysterious marchesa was a widow for thirty years before marrying my father. Almost exactly as long as my father was a widower. That bit of information seems important somehow, but I don’t know why. Then something else strikes me as important. “You say it’s been your honor to serve in her household?”

Lorenzo answers with quiet pride, “I’ve never known any other person as fine.”

I inspect his face, but find no trace of sarcasm there. His opinion of the marchesa is certainly not in line with Dominic’s. I don’t know how to reconcile two such opposing viewpoints, especially since I’m inclined to hate her for not getting her fine ass to the hospital.

“Has she been told my father died?”