The Lady and the Wish Page 16

  As soon as I sent it, I wished I hadn’t. I’d had little reason to contact him recently. Only now and then did I think up some excuse to send a text or voicemail. He always responded within a day or two, but I felt the distance between us expanding. One afternoon last month, I’d seen his car in the circle drive when Lady B and I were leaving for one of her social events. It was gone by the time we returned. Maybe he would have tried to see me if I’d been home?

  Staring at my silent phone, I felt frustration and anger build in my chest. My text wasn’t funny or urgent, just truthful. A guy like him probably wouldn’t understand straightforward truth.

  When my phone beeped a short time later, I refused to look. Not until we got home and Lady B was distracted by a television show did I pull it out and take a look at his text: You’re not crazy. I’ll be there the second weekend of April—we need to talk in person. Miss you.

  A few days later I sat near the balcony doors, gazing blankly at rain dripping down their windows. I was so used to my view of sunlit gardens and hills that rain seemed an imposition. Gloomy days made me restless and Lady B fractious. Not that we weren’t that way most of the time—who am I fooling?

  She had moved back into her suite in early February—the renovations had turned out to be more complicated than expected, though well worth the trouble. Now the gold room and the hall bathroom were undergoing a facelift. I could only hope the ceiling mirror would discreetly disappear.

  After all our sorting and purging, we staff members had returned only necessary articles of furniture and the finest decorative pieces to the suite. Lady B’s sitting room was now bright, airy, and far less cluttered. She remarked repeatedly on the joy of returning to her rightful place after weeks of exile and said not a word about her missing possessions, so I’m pretty sure she didn’t realize why everything felt so fresh and bright.

  This particular morning she’d been watching an old movie. When it ended, she turned off the television and said, “On rainy days like this, Arturo could always cheer me. He would play and sing for as long as I liked.”

  I listened with half an ear, not entirely certain she was speaking to me.

  “I wish Arturo would come and play for me today.”

  Arturo instantly appeared behind her chair. I let out a strangled shriek of surprise that startled them both. “Don’t be rude!” Lady B ordered. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen my husband many times before.”

  “I-I . . . Pardon me!” I scrambled for words. “I have never seen . . . I mean . . . This is the first time . . .” It wasn’t getting better.

  Lady Beneventi’s expression darkened as I stammered and stuttered, but Arturo, who this visit appeared to be no older than his twenties, his black beard neatly trimmed, stepped toward me and bowed. “I beg your pardon for startling you, Lady Gillian. Usually Catriona waits until she is alone to wish for my company. I understand how suddenly seeing me this way”—he swept one hand before his figure—“must be upsetting.”

  Better this way than as a zombie flashed through my head, but for once I kept my mouth shut. If Arturo was a ghost, he was no haunting, restless spirit. In this young form, he was quite charming, with twinkling dark eyes that somehow seemed familiar.

  Oh. He probably looked like his grandson. Guilt, and more guilt.

  “Um, I’ll order coffee,” I suggested.

  “No need.” Lady B banished the idea and me with a wave of her hand. “You go on and amuse yourself. Take Bacio with you.”

  I glanced from her to Arturo, who graciously inclined his head.

  Classical music flowed through the house as I left the suite with Bacio in my arms and headed downstairs to let the dog outside. The view from the window was lovely despite the rain. Trees were greening, and spring flowers filled the planters.

  When Bacio returned, shivering after a brief excursion, I toweled him off with many exclamations of “What a good boy you are!” He capered about the kitchen, claws clicking on the tile floor, pausing frequently to shake himself. Once he finished greeting Elena and the kitchen staff, I wrapped the quivering creature in a fresh towel and carried him upstairs.

  Back in my blue-flowered room, I dumped Bacio on the bed, where he proceeded to rub his face and ears on the counterpane. Then I opened my laptop and posted a photo I’d taken the day before from Giano’s bench showing the frog-fountain pond surrounded by flowering spring bulbs. I captioned it: April is glorious here in Vetricia! Then, on impulse, I snapped a photo of Bacio rolling on my bed, his topknot in a messy mohawk, then another of him licking my cheek while I made a kissy face. They both turned out cute of him, so I posted them with the caption: My trusty sidekick.

  Only after I posted them did I remember that my hair was a mess and I hadn’t bothered to put on makeup. I gave the post another look and shrugged. If people didn’t like me au naturale, no big deal. Then, with Bacio dozing in my lap, I took time to read for pleasure.

  When my phone rang, I picked up and answered without looking at caller ID. “Hello?”

  “This is a welcome surprise. I thought I would have to leave a voicemail. Is Lady Beneventi napping?” Manny’s deep voice sounded pleased, and my heart skipped a few beats.

  “No, she’s with Arturo.”

  “Wow, it’s good to hear your voice. I mean, I have your voicemails, but recordings tend to repeat themselves. What are you up to today?”

  “Just relaxing, posting silly photos on social media.”

  “Send me one?”

  A little thrill ran through me. “Of Bacio?”

  “Sure, as long as you’re in it.”

  My face went hot. Did I really want to send Manny that photo? “Lower your expectations,” I warned, and sent him the picture. “It’s on the way.”

  Then I heard his low chuckle. “Cute. Bet you want a hundred of him now.”

  “No!” I blurted but then had to laugh. “One is plenty. So, where are you? I mean, are you all right?” I desperately wanted to talk to him on video but didn’t dare ask.

  “I’m fine health-wise but bummed otherwise. I can’t come this weekend after all.”

  My heart sank low. It wasn’t as though I’d been counting the days and wondering how much he really did miss me. “Oh. Well. I guess we can survive another month or two.” Disappointment sharpened my tongue. “Is your location a secret or something?”

  “I’m in Khenifra. Working on the renovation of an old palace.”

  “Oh! Oh my.” I had been imagining him somewhere in Vetricia, not across the sea on a different continent!

  “I know this all sounds like excuses, but if people weren’t depending on me, I’d have cut and run by now.” His voice sounded tight, restrained. “It’s been a long winter.”

  “Yes. Yes, it has.” He might have called me a few times if he really missed me. “Enjoy Khenifra. See you when I see you.”

  “Gillian, wait—”

  But I ended the call and turned off my phone. Then I sat there and tried to will the ache away. Why was I so hung up on this guy, a commoner who confused me more than anyone else I had ever known? Loneliness does crazy things to people’s brains was the best I could figure.

  Curiosity got to me, and I turned on my phone that night. There were three texts from Manny. I deleted them, unread. He also sent a voicemail. I ignored it.

  I did read a social media message from Max: I’ll be passing through Vetricia the weekend of April 16 and plan to take you into the city for an evening in your real world. I know where you are—no need to send directions.

  I stared at my phone, my mind frozen in a spinning blue circle. Why did it have to be Prince Maximilian? I longed for companionship—and, yes, romance—but not with him. I had never encountered a less companionable or romantic man . . . human . . . sentient being. A troll might give him competition in that department. I wouldn’t know. I had tried to walk in the feet of one, yes, but never actually met one.

  An adventure in the city appealed, however. How long had it been
since I felt like . . . myself? I was losing my identity at this hermitage, socializing with housemaids and geriatrics, falling for a construction worker, and posting selfies with a toy poodle.

  I checked my social media page. The only reactions to my poodle photos were laughing emojis. I deleted the whole post, feeling increasingly sorry for myself. No one but Max cared enough even to comment on my social pages. He faithfully wrote unpleasant comments and messages. Attention was attention.

  On the dire impulse of self-pity, I typed, I have Sunday afternoon off, but I can’t be out late. He didn’t need to know it was my only day off and my curfew was ten o’clock.

  I hit send.

  And I froze. What had I done? What was I thinking? Prince Max? The man who’d once wanted to hunt down and kill a unicorn? The man whose proximity made my flesh creep?

  But I couldn’t take back a message. Frantic, I sent another: Thanks for the invitation, but I can’t go out with you.

  Almost at once, he replied: Second answer doesn’t count. Be ready, gorgeous. I’m coming.

  I turned off my phone and buried my head under two pillows.

  I didn’t check social media all the next day. I even left my phone in my room. It didn’t help. Feeling as if a predator were creeping up behind me, I kept looking over my shoulder. Not even Lady B’s dancing hair and conversations with her shoulder penetrated my haze of regret and dread.

  That night I opened one of my social network pages, scrolled down my wall, then noticed that Max had mentioned my name in a post and tagged me in a photo. My heart seemed to freeze, and I couldn’t make myself click the link.

  But how bad could it be? Probably not as bad as my imaginings. So I clicked.

  And there it was on his page, posted early that morning: Hey, just want to share my big news. I’ll be spending next weekend with the most beautiful woman in the world at a luxury villa in Vetricia. I expect to have important news to share very soon.

  With this note he had shared a candid photo of himself and me slow-dancing in the ballroom at Faraway Castle nearly two years ago, when he had the bushy beard. I recognized my dress and hair, but my face wasn’t visible. Seeing that photo brought back all the unpleasantness of dancing with Max. He had held me too close, so close that I felt embarrassed. So close that his beard brushed my face. And he would squeeze my hand just hard enough to hurt if I tried to squirm it out of his grasp.

  I should have kicked him. I should have shouted for help. But he was a crown prince, and I was the daughter of an earl, and a lady always behaved with decorum in public places.

  When my brain started functioning again, I saw that over three hundred people had responded to his post, mostly “likes,” although there were many shocked or laughing responses as well—and the few comments I read turned my face scarlet.

  I felt ill. Physically ill.

  In a sudden rage, I spent the next hour deleting every photo and closing every one of my social media pages.

  I kept remembering the way Max would push his fingers into pressure points or bend my fingers to force me to walk with him, ordering me to smile. The way his eyes burned with bloodlust whenever he spoke of hunting and shooting creatures. Shuddering, I remembered the way he’d tried to claim me last summer at Faraway Castle. He would have succeeded if not for Bird-nest Beard—the man I had then treated like dirt under my feet, the man who had been nothing but kind and thoughtful.

  I lay awake deep into the night, thinking through and reconsidering many aspects of my life.

  In the morning I emailed Max:

  Your Royal Highness, I regret to inform you that I must work the entire weekend, so I cannot go out with you. Have a wonderful visit to Vetricia. It is a beautiful country.

  Sincerely,

  Lady Gillian Montmorency

  He wrote back:

  “HAHAHA! Nice try. See you Sunday. I am now part of your plans. Yours, Max

  I stared at the message. What could he possibly mean about being part of my plans?

  I wrote:

  Prince Maximilian, I do not understand your response. Do not come to the villa. I cannot go anywhere with you. Thank you for offering to visit me, but I must refuse.

  Sincerely,

  Lady Gillian Montmorency

  His answer:

  Gillian baby, you are mine now. Don’t worry about your job. I’ll see you next Sunday. Your Max

  My reply:

  Your Royal Highness, I am in no sense of the word “yours.” I will be working Sunday, and if you come here, you will be asked to leave.

  Lady Gillian Montmorency

  By this time I was frightened nearly to death. Sure, there were plenty of big, tough men at Torre Santa Lucia, but would any of them dare thwart a royal prince? Max was a determined, overpowering, and intimidating man, and for all I knew he would drag me away while holding Lorenzo, Luigi, and Luca at gunpoint!

  After much thought, I told Elena, Oriede, and Valentina that an old acquaintance had discovered where I was and might drop by Sunday afternoon or evening, but I didn’t want to see him. They were sympathetic and offered to take me away from the villa. But I knew I needed to face Max, look him in the eye, and tell him, once and for all, that I would never, ever marry him. Nothing could induce me to subject myself to a lifetime of his control and abuse.

  I chose to take this stand at the villa. It was my territory, offering more safety than even a public setting.

  Saturday afternoon, I told Lady Beneventi. “My lady, I need to tell you that a man might come to the villa tomorrow, intending to take me on a date to the city, but I do not plan to go.”

  She raised one brow. “Why not? I assume the man is a peer?”

  “Yes, but I don’t like him. He frightens me.”

  “What nonsense! A peer will value his reputation enough to respect your rank in society. Stand tall and get a backbone, girl!”

  She was right about my needing a backbone but not about Max respecting my rank or anything else about me.

  Huddled in my bed that night, I checked my text messages. None. I hadn’t received a text from Manny for days. That one voicemail still waited. My finger hovered over the button for a while before I opened it to hear his low, earnest voice: “Gillian, I know you’re ignoring my texts, probably not even reading them. I know you feel as if I’ve ditched you and don’t care. Maybe you even think I’ve lied to you and led you on. Please believe me when I say that I don’t tell you certain things because I can’t right now, for reasons I can’t explain yet. I kissed your forehead under the mistletoe because I wasn’t ready for things to move faster. We’re still getting to know each other as friends, and . . . Believe me, I wanted— Look, I promise I will explain—”

  The message cut off, and he hadn’t called back to finish it. I replayed that voicemail five times, hearing the hesitation, the way his voice deepened and sometimes cracked. I didn’t know what to think of his excuse for the kiss on my forehead. He sounded as if he meant every word . . . but what was he hiding?

  I awakened Sunday morning with a looming sense of dread.

  Lady B was unusually quiet. Not once during breakfast did she talk to her shoulder, and her hair remained in place.

  “We need to leave for church in about ten minutes,” I informed her while returning our breakfast tray to the dumbwaiter.

  “I’m not sure I want to go today.” She looked me up and down. I wore a simple white-eyelet sundress with a blue-knit shrug and had styled my hair in a French braid. “You look childish.”

  “I really don’t think they will mind at church.” I waited, hands on hips.

  “Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll go. Might as well, since I’m dressed for it.”

  “Good. You look pretty today,” I told her truthfully. Her white hair shimmered in the morning light, and her chic suit brought out the blue in her eyes.

  “Hmph. I look old.”

  I finally got her into the car, but as we skimmed down the drive, she turned in her seat and studied
me again.

  “My hair was far more beautiful than yours when I was young,” she stated. “It was deep red. Quite stunning. My figure was better too, and my legs.”

  On any other day I would have given back as good as I got. But worry about Max preoccupied my brain. “I’m sure you were far more beautiful,” I said absently. Anything to shut her up.

  Big mistake.

  “I wish to trade hair with you,” she snapped.

  That brought me back to the present in a hurry. Sensing the ripple of magic, I glanced in the rearview mirror. It was a good thing we were on a back road with no traffic behind us, because I braked to a complete stop. I had silvery-white hair in a stylish pixie cut. I let out a shriek. “I’m old! I look butch!”

  “You always tell me that style makes me look young and feminine,” Lady Beneventi said with a wicked smile.

  “That’s because you are old,” I snapped. “On me, it looks like I stuck my finger in a light socket!” I turned my head from side to side. “If I doubled my eyeliner, I might pass for a rock star or high-fashion model.”

  “Not in that dress.” Lady Beneventi pulled out a mirror and smoothed her . . . no, my hair. “I haven’t had long hair in years! I don’t want to wear it up today.” She felt around, pulled out the band, and unraveled the French braid. My glossy red-gold locks rippled over her shoulder and framed her wrinkled face. She gasped and cooed. “So beautiful!”

  “Someone told me yours was much more beautiful when you were young,” I snapped. “Why didn’t you wish to have it back?”

  “We will be late for church if you don’t start driving,” she answered.

  I put the car in gear and drove on, speechless with rage. Lady B knew I had company coming. The last thing I needed was a wish to deal with! She’d done this on purpose to get back at me for . . . something. I had no idea what.