Читать книгу Conveniently Wed To The Prince - Nina Milne - Страница 11

CHAPTER ONE

Present day, Notting Hill, London

STEFAN PETRELLI, EXILED Prince of Lycander, pushed his half-eaten breakfast across the cherrywood table in an abrupt movement.

It was a lesson to him not to open his post whilst eating—though, to be fair, he could hardly have anticipated this letter. Sprinkled with legalese, it summoned him to a meeting at the London law offices of Simpson, Wright and Gallagher for the reading of a will.

The will of Roberto Bianchi, Count of Lycander.

Lycander—the place of Stefan’s birth, the backdrop of a childhood he’d rather forget. The place he’d consigned to oblivion when he’d left aged eighteen, with his father’s curses echoing in his ears.

‘If you leave Lycander you will not be coming back. I will take all your lands, your assets and privileges, and you will be an outcast.’

Just the mention of Lycander was sufficient to chase away his appetite and bring a scowl to his face—a grimace that deepened as he stared down at the document. The temptation to crumple it up and lob it into the recycling bin was childish at best, and at twenty-six he had thankfully long since left the horror of childhood behind.

What on earth could Roberto Bianchi have left him? And why? The Count had been his mother Eloise’s godfather and guardian—the man who had allowed his ward to marry Stefan’s father, Alphonse, for the status and privileges the marriage would bring.

What a disaster that had been. The union had been beyond miserable, and the ensuing divorce a medley of bitterness and humiliation with Stefan a hapless pawn. Alphonse might have been ruler of Lycander, but he had also been a first class, bona fide bastard, who had ground Eloise into the dust.

Enough. The memories of his childhood—the pain and misery of his father’s Toughen Stefan up and Make him a Prince Regime, the enduring ache of missing his mother, whom he had only been allowed to see on infrequent occasions, his guilt at the growing realisation that his mother’s plight was due to her love for him and the culminating pain of his mother’s exile—could not be changed.

Alphonse was dead—had been for three years—and Eloise had died long before that, in dismal poverty. Stefan would never forgive himself for her death, and now Stefan’s half-brother, Crown Prince Frederick, ruled Lycander.

Frederick. For a moment he dwelled on his older sibling. Alphonse had delighted in pitting his sons against each other, and as result there was little love lost between the brothers.

True, since he’d come to the throne Frederick had reached out to him—even offered to reinstate the lands, assets and rights Alphonse had stripped from him—but Stefan had refused. Forget it. No way. Stefan would never be beholden to a ruler of Lycander again and he would not return on his brother’s sufferance.

He’d built his own life—left Lycander with an utter determination to succeed, to show his father, show Lycander, show the world what Stefan Petrelli was made of. Now he was worth millions. He had built up a global property and construction firm. Technically, he could afford to buy up most of Lycander. In reality, though, he couldn’t purchase so much as an acre—his father had passed a decree that banned Stefan from buying land or property there.

Stefan shook his head to dislodge the bitter memories—that way lay nothing but misery. His life was good, and he’d long ago accepted that Lycander was closed to him, so there was no reason to get worked up over this letter. He’d go and see what bequest had been left to him and he’d donate it to his charitable foundation. End of.

Yet foreboding persisted in prickling his nerve-endings as instinct told him that it wouldn’t be that easy.

* * *

Holly Romano tucked a tendril of blonde hair behind her ear and stared at the impressive exterior of the offices that housed Simpson, Wright and Gallagher, a firm of lawyers renowned for their circumspection, discretion and the size of the fees they charged their often celebrity clientele.

Last chance to bottle it, and her feet threatened to swivel her around and head her straight back to the tube station.

No. There was nothing to be afraid of. Roberto Bianchi had owned Il Boschetto di Sole. The Romano family had been employed by the Bianchis for generations and therefore Roberto had decided to leave Holly something. Hence the letter that had summoned her here to be told details of the bequest.

But it didn’t make sense. Roberto Bianchi had been only a shadowy figure in Holly’s life. In childhood he had seemed all-powerful as the owner of the place her family lived in and loved—a man known to be old-fashioned in his values, strict but fair, and a great believer in tradition. Owner of many vast lands and estates in Lycander, he had had a soft spot for Il Boschetto di Sole—the crown jewel of his possessions.

As an employer he had been hands-off. He had trusted her father completely. And although he’d shown a polite interest in Holly he had never singled her out in any way. Plus she’d had no contact with him in the past eighteen months, since her decision to leave Lycander for a while.

The aftermath of her wedding fiasco had been too much—the humiliation, the looks of either pity or censure, and the nagging knowledge that her father was disappointed. Not because he questioned her decision to cancel the wedding, but because it was his dream to see her happily married, to have the prospect of grandsons and the knowledge Romano traditions and legacies were secured.

There had also been her need to escape Graham. At first he had been contrite, in pursuit of reconciliation, but when she had declined to marry him his justifications had become cruel. Because he had never loved her. And eventually, at their last meeting, he had admitted it.

‘I wooed you because I wanted promotion—wanted an in on the Romanos’ wealth and position. I never loved you. You are so young, so inexperienced. And Bianca...she is all-woman.’

That had been the cruellest cut of all. Because somehow, especially when she had seen Bianca, a tiny bit of Holly hadn’t blamed him. Bianca was not just beautiful, she seemed to radiate desirability, and seeing her had made Holly look back on her nights with Graham and cringe.

Even now, eighteen months later, standing on a London street with the autumn breeze blowing her hair any which way, a flush of humiliation threatened as she recalled what a fool she had made of herself with her expressions of love and devotion, her inept fumbling. And the whole time Graham would have been comparing her to Bianca, laughing his cotton socks off.

Come on, Holly. Focus on the here and now.

And right now she needed to walk through the revolving glass door.

Three minutes later she followed the receptionist into the office of Mr James Simpson. It was akin to stepping into the past. The atmosphere was nigh on Victorian. Heavy tomes lined three of the panelled walls, and a portrait hung above the huge mahogany desk of a jowly, bearded, whiskered man from a bygone era. And yet she noticed that atop the desk there was a sleek state-of-the-art computer that indicated the law firm had at least one foot firmly in the current century.

A pinstripe-suited man rose to greet her: thin, balding, with bright blue eyes that shone with innate shrewd intelligence.

Holly moved forward with a smile, and as she did so her attention snagged on the other occupant of the room—a man who stood by the window, fingers drumming his thigh in a staccato burst that exuded an edge of impatience.

He was not conventionally handsome, in the drop-dead gorgeous sense, although there was certainly nothing wrong with his looks. A shade under six feet tall, he had dark unruly hair with a hint of curl, a lean face, a nose that jutted with intent and intense dark grey eyes under strong brows that pulled together in a frown.

Unlike Holly, he hadn’t deemed the occasion worthy of formal wear and was dressed in faded jeans and a thick blue and green checked shirt over a white T-shirt. His build was lean and lithe, and whilst he wasn’t built like a power house he emitted strength, and an impression that he propelled his way through life fuelled by sheer force of personality.

The man behind the desk cleared his throat and heat tinged her cheeks as she realised she had stopped dead in her tracks to gawp. She further realised that the object of her gawping looked somewhat exasperated. An expression that morphed into something else as he returned her gaze, studied her face with a dawning of... Of what? Awareness? Arrest? Whatever it was, it sent a funny little fizz through her veins. Then his scowl deepened further, and quickly she turned away and resumed her progress towards the desk.

‘Mr Simpson? I’m Holly Romano. Apologies for being a little late.’ No need to explain the reason had been a sheer blue funk.

The lawyer looked at his watch, a courteous smile on his thin lips. ‘Not a problem. I’m sure His Highness will agree.’

His Highness?

As her brain joined the dots and his identity dawned on her ‘His Highness’—contrary to all probability—managed to look even grumpier as he pushed away from the wall.

‘I don’t use the title. Stefan is fine—or if you prefer to maintain formality go with Mr Petrelli.’ A definitive edge tinged his tone and indicated that Stefan Petrelli felt strongly on the matter.

Stefan Petrelli. A wave of sheer animosity surprised her with its intensity as she surveyed the son of Eloise, one-time Crown Princess of Lycander. The very same Eloise whom her father had once loved, with a love that had infused her parents’ marriage with bitterness and doomed it to joylessness.

As a child Holly had heard the name Eloise flung at her father in hatred time after time, until Eloise had haunted her dreams as the wicked witch of the Romano household, her shadowy ghostly presence a third person in her parents’ marriage.

Of course she knew that this was not the fault of Stefan Petrelli, and furthermore Eloise was no longer a threat. The former Princess had died years before. Yet as she looked at him an instinctive visceral hostility still sparked. Her mother’s words, screamed at her father, were still fresh in her head as they echoed down the tunnel of memories.

‘Your precious Eloise with her son—something else she could have given you that I can’t. That is what you want more than anything—a Stefan of your own.’

Those words had imbued her three-year-old self with an irrational jealousy of a boy she’d never met. Holly had wanted to be a boy so much she had ached with it. She had known how much both her parents had prayed for a boy, how bitterly disappointed they had been with a girl.

Her mother had never got over it, never forgiven her for her gender, and that knowledge was a bleak one that right now, rationally or not, added to the linger of a stupid jealousy of this man. It prompted her to duck down in a curtsey that she hoped conveyed irony. ‘Your Highness,’ she said, with deliberate emphasis.

His eyebrows rose and his eyes narrowed. ‘Ms Romano,’ he returned.

His deep voice ran over her skin, and before she could prevent it his hand had clasped hers to pull her up.

‘You must have missed what I told Mr Simpson. I prefer not to use my title.’

Holly would have loved to have thought of a witty retort, but unfortunately her brain seemed unable to put together even a single syllable. Because her central nervous system seemed to have short-circuited as a result of his touch. Which was, of course, insane. Even with Graham this hadn’t happened, so until now she would have pooh-poohed the idea of sparks and electric shocks as ridiculous figments of an overwrought imagination.

And yet the best her vocal cords could eventually manage was, ‘Okey-dokey.’

Okey-dokey? For real, Holly?

With an immense effort she tugged her hand free and hauled herself together. ‘Right. Um... Now introductions are over perhaps we could...?’

‘Get down to business,’ James Simpson interpolated. ‘Of course. Please have a seat, both of you.’

In truth it was a relief to sink onto the surprisingly comfortable straight-backed chair. Focus.

James Simpson cleared his throat. ‘Thank you for coming. Count Roberto wrote his will with both of you in mind. As you may or may not know, the bulk of his vast estate has gone to a distant Bianchi cousin, who will also inherit the title. However, I wish to speak to you about Count Bianchi’s wishes with regards to Il Boschetto di Sole—the lemon grove he loved so much and where he spent a lot of the later years of his life. Holly’s family, the Romanos, have lived on the grove for many generations, working the land. And Crown Princess Eloise spent many happy times there before her marriage.’

Next to her Holly felt Stefan’s body tense, almost as if that fact was news to him. She leant forward, her mind racing with curiosity.

James steepled his fingers together. ‘In a nutshell, the terms of Roberto’s will state that Il Boschetto di Sole will go to either one of you, dependent on which of you marries first and remains married for a year.’

Say what?

Holly blinked as her brain attempted to decode the words. Even as blind primitive instinct kicked in an image of the beauty of the land, the touch of the soil, the scent of lemons pervaded her brain. The Romanos had given heart and soul, blood and sweat to the land for generations. Stefan Petrelli had turned his back on Lycander. And yet if he married the grove would go to him, to Eloise’s son. No.

Before she could speak, the dry voice of the lawyer continued.

‘If neither of you has succeeded in meeting the criteria of the will in three years from this date Il Boschetto di Sole will go to the Crown—to Crown Prince Frederick of Lycander or whoever is then ruler.’

There was a silence, broken eventually by Stefan Petrelli. ‘That is a somewhat unusual provision.’

Was that all he could say? ‘“Unusual”?’ Holly echoed. ‘It’s ridiculous!’

The lawyer looked unmoved by her comment. ‘The Count has left you each a letter, wherein I assume he explains his decision. Can I suggest a short break? Mr Petrelli, if you’d care to read your letter in the annexe room to your left. Ms Romano, you can remain here.’

Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out two envelopes sealed with the Bianchi crest.

Stefan accepted his document and strode towards the door indicated by the lawyer. James Simpson then handed Holly hers and she waited until he left the room before she tugged it open with impatient fingers.

Dear Holly

You are no doubt wondering if I have lost my mind. Rest assured I have not. Il Boschetto di Sole is dear to my old-fashioned heart, and I want it to continue as it has for generations as an independent business.

The Bianchi heir is not a man I approve of, but I have little choice but to leave a vast amount of my estates to him. However, the grove is unentailed, and as he has made it clear to me that he would sell it to a corporation I feel no compunction in leaving Il Boschetto di Sole elsewhere.

But where? I have no children of my own and it is time to find a new family. I wish for Il Boschetto di Sole to pass from father and mother to son or daughter, for tradition to continue. So of course my mind goes to the Romanos, who have given so much to the land over the years.

You may be wondering why I have not simply left the grove to your father. Why I have involved Prince Stefan. To be blunt, your father is getting on, and his good health is in question. Once he is no longer on this earth Il Boschetto di Sole would go to you, and I do not know if that is what you wish for.

You have chosen to live in London and make a life there. Now I need you to look into your heart. If you decide that you wish for ownership of Il Boschetto di Sole then I need some indication that this wish is real—that you are willing to settle down. If you have no wish for this I would not burden you.

Whatever you decide, I wish you well in life.

Yours with affection,

Roberto Bianchi

The letter was so typical of Count Roberto that Holly could almost hear his baritone voice speaking the words. He wanted the land he loved to go to someone who held his own values and shared his vision. He knew her father did, but he didn’t know if Holly did or not. In truth, she wasn’t sure herself. But she also knew that in this case it didn’t matter. Her father loved Il Boschetto di Sole—it was the land of his heart—and to own it would give him pure, sheer joy. She loved her father, and therefore she would fight for Il Boschetto di Sole with all her might.

Simple.

Holly clenched her hands into fists and stared at the door to await the return of the exiled Prince of Lycander.