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
