Читать книгу Conveniently Wed To The Prince - Nina Milne - Страница 12

CHAPTER TWO

STEFAN SEATED HIMSELF in the small annexe room and glared down at the letter, distaste already curdling inside him. The whole thing was reminiscent of the manipulative ploys and stratagems his father had favoured. Alphonse had delighted in the pulling of strings and the resultant antics of those whom he controlled.

During the custody battle he had stripped Eloise of everything—material possessions and every last vestige of dignity—and relished her humiliation. He had smeared her name, branded her a harlot and a tramp, an unfit mother and a gold-digger. All because he had held the trump card at every negotiation. He’d had physical possession of Stefan, and under Lycandrian law, as ruler, he had the final say in court. So, under threat of never seeing her son again, Eloise had accepted whatever terms Alphonse offered, all through her love for Stefan.

She had given up everything, allowed herself to be vilified simply in order to be granted an occasional visit with her son at Alphonse’s whim.

In the end even those had been taken from her. Alphonse had decided that the visits ‘weakened’ his son, and that his attachment to his mother was ‘bad’ for him. That he could never be tough enough, princely enough, whilst he still saw his mother. So he had rescinded her visitation rights and cast Eloise from Lycander.

Once in London Eloise had suffered a breakdown, followed by a mercifully short but terminal illness.

Guilt twisted his insides anew—he had failed her.

Enough. He would not walk that bleak memory-lined road now. Because the past could not be changed. Right now he needed to read this letter and figure out what to do about this unexpected curveball.

Distasteful and manipulative it might be, but it was an opportunity to win possession of some important land in Lycander in his own right. The idea brought him a surge of satisfaction—his father had not prohibited him from inheriting land. So this would allow him to return to Lycander on his terms. But it was more than that... The idea of owning a place his mother had loved touched him with a warmth he couldn’t fully understand. Perhaps on Il Boschetto di Sole he could feel close to her again.

So all he needed to do was beat Holly Romano.

Holly Romano... Curiosity surfaced. The look she had cast him when she’d learned his identity had held more than a hint of animosity, and that had been before they’d heard the terms of the will. Perhaps she had simply suspected that they were destined to be cast as adversaries, but instinct told him it was more than that. There had been something personal in that look of deep dislike, and yet he was positive they had never met.

No way would he have forgotten. Her beauty was unquestionable—corn-blonde hair cascaded halfway down her back, eyes of cerulean blue shone under strong brows, and she had a retroussé nose, a generous mouth...and a body that Stefan suspected would haunt his dreams. Whoa. No need to go over the top. After all, he was no stranger to beautiful women—the combination of his royal status and his wealth made him a constant target for women on the catch, sure they could ensnare him into marriage.

Stefan had little or no compunction in disillusioning them.

Enough. Open the damn letter, Petrelli.

The handwriting was curved and loopy, but strong, Roberto Bianchi might have been ill but he had been firm of purpose.

Dear Stefan

I am sure you are surprised by the terms of my will. Let me explain.

Your mother was like a daughter to me. I was her godfather, and after her parents’ death I became her guardian. As she grew up she spent a lot of her time at Il Boschetto di Sole and I believe she was happy there, on that beautiful, fragrant land.

It was a happiness that ceased very soon after her marriage to your father—a marriage I deeply regret I encouraged her to go through with.

In my—poor—defence I was dazzled by the idea of a royal alliance, and Alphonse could be charming when he chose. I believed he would care for your mother and that she would be able to do good as ruler of Lycander.

I also did not wish to encourage her relationship with Thomas Romano—a man of indifferent social status who was already engaged.

Stefan stopped reading as his mind assimilated that information. His mother and Thomas Romano had been an item. A pang of sorrow hit him. There was so much he didn’t know about Eloise—so much he wished he could have had time to find out.

As you know, your parents’ marriage was destined for disaster, and by the time I realised my mistake there was nothing I could do.

Your father forbade Eloise from seeing me, and not even my influence could change that. In the end he made it a part of the custody agreement that if Eloise saw me she would be denied even the very few visits she was allowed with you.

Stefan stopped reading as white-hot anger burned inside him. There had been no end to Alphonse’s vindictiveness. Familiar guilt intensified within him. Eloise had given up so very much for him, and had had no redress in a court in a land where the ruler’s word was law.

When Eloise left Lycander I was unable to find her—I promise you, I tried. I wish with all my heart she had contacted me—I believe and I hope she would have if illness hadn’t overcome her.

If Eloise were alive I would leave Il Boschetto di Sole to her. Instead I have decided to give you, her son, a chance to own it. In this way I hope I can make up to you the wrong I did your mother. I want to give you the opportunity to return to Lycander as I believe your mother would have wished.

Eloise was happy at Il Boschetto di Sole, and I truly believe that if she is looking down it will give her peace to see you settled on the land she loved. Land you could pass on to your children, allowing the grove to continue as it has for generations—as an independent business that passes from father and mother to son or daughter.

If you wish this, then I wish you luck.

Yours sincerely,

Roberto Bianchi

Stefan let the letter fall onto his knees as he considered its contents. He hadn’t set foot in Lycander for eight years. The idea of a return to his birthplace was an impossibility unless he accepted his brother’s charity. But now he had an opportunity to return under his own steam, to own land in his own right, defy his father’s edict and win the place his mother had loved—a place she would have wanted him to have.

He closed his eyes and could almost see her, her delicate face framed with dark hair, her gentle smile.

But what about the Romano claim?

Not his concern—he hadn’t made this will. Roberto Bianchi had decided that the grove should go either to Holly Romano or himself. So be it. This was his way back to Lycander and he would take it. But he was damned if he’d jump to Roberto Bianchi’s tune.

* * *

Holly watched as Stefan re-entered the room, his stride full of purpose as he faced the lawyer.

‘I’ll need a copy of the will to be sent to my lawyers asap.’

James Simpson rose from behind his desk. ‘Not a problem. Can I ask why?’

‘Because I plan to overturn the terms of the will.’

The lawyer shook his head and a small smile touched his thin lips. ‘With all due respect, you can try but you will not succeed. Roberto Bianchi was no fool and neither am I. You will not be able to do it.’

‘That remains to be seen,’ Stefan said, a stubborn tilt to the square of his jaw. ‘But in the meantime perhaps it would be better for you to tell us any other provisions the Count saw fit to insert.’

‘No matter what the outcome, Thomas Romano retains the right to live in the house he currently occupies until his death, and an amount of three times his current annual salary will be paid to him every year, regardless of his job status.’

Holly frowned. ‘So in other words the new owner can sack him but he will still have to pay him and he can keep his house?’

She could see that sounded fair enough, but she knew that her father would dwindle away if his job was taken from him—if he had to watch someone else manage Il Boschetto di Sole. Especially Stefan Petrelli—the son of the woman he had once loved, the woman who had rejected him and broken his heart.

‘Correct.’ James Simpson inclined his head. ‘There are no other provisions.’

Stefan leant forward. ‘In that case I would appreciate a chance to speak with Ms Romano in private.’

Suspicion sparked—perhaps Stefan Petrelli thought he could buy her off? But alongside her wariness was a flicker of anticipation at the idea of being alone with him. How stupid was that? Hard to believe her hormones hadn’t caught up with the message—this man was the enemy. Although perhaps it didn’t have to be like that. Perhaps she could persuade him to cede his claim. After all, he hadn’t set foot in Lycander in years—why on earth did he even want Il Boschetto di Sole?

‘Agreed.’

The lawyer inclined his head. ‘There is a meeting room down the hall.’

Minutes later they were in a room full of gleaming chrome and glass, where modern art splashed bright white walls and vast windows overlooked the City and proclaimed that Simpson, Wright and Gallagher were undoubtedly prime players in the world of law.

‘So,’ Stefan said. ‘This isn’t what I was expecting when I woke up this morning.’

‘That’s an understatement.’

His gaze assessed her. ‘Surely this can’t be a surprise to you? You knew Roberto Bianchi, and it sounds like the Romanos have been an integral part of Il Boschetto di Sole for centuries.’

‘Roberto Bianchi was a man who believed in duty above all else. I thought he would leave his estate intact. Turns out he couldn’t bear the thought of the grove being sucked up by a corporation.’

‘Why?’

Holly stared at him. He looked genuinely bemused. ‘Because to Count Roberto Il Boschetto di Sole truly was a place of sunshine—he loved it, heart and soul. As my father does.’ She gave a heartbeat of hesitation. ‘As I do.’

Something flashed across his eyes—something she couldn’t fathom. But whatever it was it hardened his expression.

‘Yet you live and work in London?’

‘How do you know where I work or live? Did you check me out?’

‘I checked out your public profiles. That is the point of them—they are public.’

‘Yes. But...’ Though really there were no ‘buts’—he was correct, and yet irrationally she was still outraged.

‘I did a basic social media search—you work for Lamberts Marketing, as part of their admin team. That doesn’t sound like someone whose heart and soul are linked to a lemon grove in Lycander.’

‘It’s temporary. I thought working for a marketing company for a short time would give me some useful insights and skills which will be transferrable to Il Boschetto di Sole. My plan is to return in six months.’

Yes, she loved London, but she had always known it was a short-term stay. Her father would be devastated if she decided not to return to Lycander, to her life on Il Boschetto di Sole. She was a Romano, and that was where she belonged. Of course he wouldn’t force her return—but he needed her.

Ever since her mother had left Holly had vowed she would look after him—especially since he’d been diagnosed with a long-term heart condition. There was no immediate danger, and provided he looked after himself he should be fine. But that wasn’t his forte. He was a workaholic and the extent of his cooking ability was to dial for a take away.

Guilt panged anew—she shouldn’t have left in the first place. The least she could have done for the man who had brought her up singlehandedly from the age of eight was not abandon him. But she visited regularly, checked up nearly daily, and she would be home soon.

Stefan stepped a little closer to her—not into her space, but close enough that for a stupid moment she caught a whiff of his scent, a citrus woodsy smell that sent her absurdly dizzy.

For a second his body tensed, and she would have sworn he caught his breath, and then he frowned—as though he’d lost track of the conversational thread just as she had.

Focus.

‘I’d like to discuss a deal,’ he said eventually, as the frown deepened into what she was coming to think of as his trademark scowl. ‘What will it take for you to walk away from this? I understand that you are worried about your father—but I would guarantee that his job is safe, that nothing will change for him. If anything, he would have more autonomy to do as he wishes with the grove. And you can name your price—what do you want?’

Holly’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t want anything.’

‘You don’t even want to think about it?’ Disbelief tinged each syllable.

‘Nope.’

‘Why not?’ The question was genuine, but lined with an edge—this was a man used to getting his own way.

‘Because the Romanos have toiled on that land for generations—now we have a chance to own the land in our own right. Nothing is worth more than that. Nothing. Surely you see that?’

‘No, I don’t. It is just soil and fruit and land—the same as any other on Lycander. Take the money and buy another lemon grove—a new one that can belong to the Romanos from the start.’

His tone implied that he genuinely believed this to be a viable solution. ‘It doesn’t work like that. We have a history with Il Boschetto di Sole—a connection, a bond. You don’t.’

His frown deepened but he remained silent; it was impossible to tell his thoughts.

‘So why don’t you take your own advice? You have more than enough money to buy a score of lemon groves. Why do you want this one?’

‘That’s my business,’ he said. ‘The point is I am willing to pay you well over the market price. I suggest you think carefully about my offer. Because I am also willing to fight it out, and if I win then you will have nothing. No money and no guarantee that your father will keep his job.’

For a second her blood chilled and anger soared. ‘So if you win you would take his job from him?’

‘Perhaps. If I win the grove it will be mine to do with as I wish.’

For a second a small doubt trickled through her—what if she lost and was left with nothing? But this wasn’t about money; this was about the land of her father’s heart. This was her opportunity to give her father something infinitely precious, and she had no intention of rolling over and conceding.

‘No deal. If you want a fight, bring it on. This meeting is over.’

Before she could head around the immense table he moved to intercept her. ‘Where are you going? To marry the first man you find?’

‘Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I already have a boyfriend ready and eager to walk me to the altar.’

As if. Post-Graham she had decided to eschew boyfriends and to run away screaming from any altar in sight.

‘Equally, I’m sure there will be women queuing round the block to marry you.’

He gusted out a sigh, looking less than enamoured at the thought. ‘For a start, I’m pretty sure it’s not that easy to just get married—there will be plenty of red tape and bureaucracy to get through. Secondly, I have a better idea than instant matrimony, even if it were possible. Let’s call a truce on the race to the altar whilst my lawyers look at the will and see if this whole marriage stipulation can be overturned. There has to be a better way to settle this.’

‘No argument here—that makes sense.’ Caution kicked in. ‘In theory...’ Because it could be a trick—why should she believe anything Stefan Petrelli said? ‘But what’s to stop you from marrying someone during our ‘truce’ as a back-up plan?’

Call her cynical, but she had little doubt that a millionaire prince could find a way to obliterate all red tape and bureaucracy.

‘The fact that even the thought of marriage makes me come out in hives.’

‘Hives may be a worthwhile price to pay for Il Boschetto di Sole.’

‘Point taken. In truth there is nothing to stop either of us reneging on a truce—and it would be foolish for either of us to trust the other.’ Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked at her. ‘The lawyers will work fast—that’s what I pay them for. We’re probably only talking twenty-four hours—two days, tops. We’ll need to stick together until they get back to us.’

Stick together. The words resonated in the echoey confines of the meeting room, pinged into the sudden silence, bounced off the chrome and glass and writhed into images that brought heat to her cheeks.

Something sparked in his grey eyes, calling to her to close the gap between them and plaster herself to his chest.

‘No way.’ The words fell from her lips with vehemence, though whether it was directed at herself or him she wasn’t sure.

In truth, he looked a little poleaxed himself, and in that instant Holly wondered if this attraction could be mutual.

Then, as if with an effort, he shrugged. ‘What’s the alternative? Seems to me it’s a good idea to spend one weekend together in the hope that we can avoid a year of marriage.’

Deep breath, Holly. His words held reason, and no way would she actually succumb to this insane attraction—she’d steered clear of the opposite sex for eighteen months now, without regret. Yet the whole idea of sticking to Stefan Petrelli caused her lungs to constrict. Go figure.

‘How would it work?’

‘I suggest a hotel. Neutral ground. We can get a suite. Two bedrooms and a living area.’

Had there been undue emphasis on the word ‘two’? A glance at his expression showed tension in his jaw—clearly he wasn’t overly keen on the logistics of them sticking together either. But she couldn’t come up with an alternative—couldn’t risk him heading to the altar, and definitely couldn’t trust him. And this was doable. A suite. Separate bedrooms.

So... ‘That could work.’

‘What are your plans for the weekend? We can do our best to incorporate them.’

‘Nothing I can’t reschedule.’

In fact her plans had been to work, chill out and continue her exploration of London—maybe meet up with a colleague for a quick drink or to catch a film. But such a programme made her sound like a complete Billy-no-mates. In truth she had kept herself to herself in London, because she’d figured there was no point getting too settled in a life she knew to be strictly temporary.

‘I do have some work to do, but I can do that anywhere with internet. What about you?’

‘I’ve got some meetings, but like you I should be able to reschedule. Though I do have one site visit I can’t postpone. I suggest we go there first, then find a hotel and swing by our respective houses for some clothes.’

‘Works for me.’

It would all be fine.

One weekend—how hard could it be?