CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THESOUNDOFthe storm split the night. Thunder boomed like the clash of cymbals, while silver-white lightning forked the sky. Heavy rain was lashing relentlessly against the windows when Rosie heard a knock at the door and she frowned—because who in their right mind would be out on a night like this?
It must be the wind, she thought. Perhaps a falling branch tumbling onto the house. The forest demonstrating its own elemental power.
But no.
There it was again. Definitely a knock.
She checked the spyhole and thought she must be hallucinating. That perhaps she had conjured up a rainswept image of the man who was always hovering at the edges of her mind. She battled to open the door against the tug of the wind and when she finally managed it, her breath dried in her throat. Because this was no illusion. It was real. Corso da Vignola standing there like some avenging angel, seemingly oblivious to the rain which poured down on him. Wordlessly, she opened the door wider and he stepped inside, his black overcoat and dark hair completely sodden, and Rosie’s heart was pounding as she shut the door on the howling night.
A shot of pain ripped through her like a bullet because it was six months since she’d seen him. Six agonisingly slow months during which she’d thrown herself into her new job—while Corso had been busy choosing his new queen. Half a year of living with a constant ache in her heart and wondering why the world around her seemed so grey, even on the brightest of summer days.
Yet now that he was here, it gave her no real pleasure. What pleasure could be gained from reacquainting herself with the devilish gleam of his eyes, or the muscular power of his body and the quiet strength which emanated from it? Didn’t acknowledging his golden-dark beauty only drive home just how desperately she missed him?
‘You’re soaking,’ she said woodenly. ‘Put your coat by the fire and I’ll make some tea.’
‘I don’t want tea.’
‘Well, I do.’
Actually, what she wanted was the opportunity to prepare herself for what she suspected might be the reason why he had turned up like this, without announcement. What was it he wanted to say? To warn her about something she would soon see in the papers—that he was marrying a suitable princess at last?
I thought it only courteous to let you know myself, he would say.
That was very thoughtful of you, she would reply.
She hurried out into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later, thinking how pathetic it was that she’d loaded up the tray with her best china. Unless she really thought the King of Monterosso was going to be impressed by a few cups and saucers she’d picked up in the Debenhams closing down sale, when in his palace they regularly supped from precious, blood-red porcelain.
But Corso didn’t appear to have noticed her return—or, if he did, he didn’t acknowledge it. His back was to her as he gazed into the fire burning brightly in the grate, and his body was completely motionless. He was still wearing his coat, she registered dully, so clearly he wasn’t planning to stay long. She put the tray down with a clatter and as he turned to look at her she felt a moment of despair, tinged with a much healthier edge of anger.Whyhad he come here today—making her endure all the pain of saying goodbye to him all over again?
‘What do you want, Corso?’ she questioned quietly. ‘I assume you weren’t just passing?’
Corso studied her across the distance of the small room, which suddenly seemed as vast as one of the ballrooms in his palace. The only sound he could hear was the crackle of the fire and the fierce pounding of his heart and as he met her quizzical stare he wondered what she would say if he admitted the truth. That he was here because he had to be. Because it felt as if something were drawing him here, without his permission—like the flights of wild geese which flew north in summer, compelled by a biological imperative outside their control.
Yet for weeks now, he had been fighting an inner battle with himself, asking if what he was about to do was in Rosie Forrester’s best interests. Or just his own. He had decided to choose his words with care. To lay down the foundations for what was to be his core message—just as if he were presenting a business meeting to foreign investors. But his mouth was stubbornly refusing to obey his thoughts.
‘No.’ He paused, unfamiliar with the language of love and need. And scared of it, too. He who had never been scared of anything. ‘I’ve come to tell you how much I’ve missed you.’
She shook her head and her loose blonde hair swayed like an armful of corn. ‘Please don’t tell me things which are patently untrue. I’ve seen the photos, Corso—and I’ve read the articles in gruesome and gushing detail. You’ve been working your way through every eligible royal princess on the planet, we both know that.’
‘Because I felt I had to!’ he declared. ‘It was something I needed to do.’
‘There’s no need to make it sound like some sort of punishment,’ she accused hotly. ‘Not when every single one of those women was accomplished and beautiful!’
‘Yes, they were,’ he conceded.
‘How wonderful for you.’
He heard the crack of emotion in her voice and he couldn’t bear the thought that he had hurt her.Washurting her. And wasn’t there the inconceivable possibility she might not find it in her heart to forgive him?
‘In New York I was reeling from so many things,’ he said slowly. ‘Not least, my relationship with you and the way it was making me feel. It had never been that way with a woman before—that simple or that easy. That blissful, if you must know.’
‘Corso—’
‘And then I saw my half-brother across the room,’ he said, cutting through her whispered protest. ‘And suddenly, I wasn’t thinking straight. I found myself filled with a primitive desire to secure my legacy—a legacy which had been drummed into me for as long as I remember.’
‘To produce an heir?’ she said, in a small voice.