Red Wine For Miss Parker(9)

"You are impossible!"

"Good evening to you, Frankie," Clara said, smiling ravishingly. He kissed her hand too.

"You look like a proper English Lady, Freckles."

"Don't call me that, please." She pulled a face.

"Don't pull a face in public, Clara" the Duchess admonished.

"You sound like the Earl."

"Oh well, if that's all, huh, Freckles?" She winked.

Francesco laughed. "You're certainly not in a position to behave matronly, dear Eugenia! How old are you? Twenty?"

The Duchess raised her chin. "Yes, since December."

Miss Parker curtsied to the Prince and he acknowledged her greeting with a shrug. "How do you do, Miss Parker, I hope your foot is better?"

She looked up again. Not the orchids! NOT THE ORCHIDS, I BEG OF YOU!

"Thank you, Your Royal Highness, my foot is fine." The orchids glowed.

"Ah. So! Aha! I am happy to hear it. — Eugenia, where are the egregious Lords Darlington and Lackerby anyway? And where is my most beloved cousin, His Grace the Sulk of Dreary, pardon me, the Duke of Surrey?" He grinned at his own jest, happy to have found his footing again.

Clara and the Duchess made fake noises of shock, only Miss Parker sniffed with indignation, orchids scrutinising him menacingly.

He chose not to look at her ever again, if possible.

Then looked at her once more, just to be sure, and asserted that this had been the very last time, indeed.

Which it was not.

His gaze was almost painfully drawn back to her whenever he attempted to tear himself away.

There was something magnetic about her, something dreadfully compelling and to tell the truth, he wanted to throttle her for it. How did she permit herself to come here, to his opera house and disturb his royal peace? He had suffered enough for a lifetime and had deserved his share of serenity! There was no room for turquoise-eyed girls in his life, not even for one as small as Miss Parker. He felt her presence so acutely, it made him want to scream! Yes, Francesco abhorred the woman like he had never abhorred anyone before, not his cousin Dominic, not his parents, not even Napoleon, may he rot in his grave. He considered throwing her off the balcony, when his train of thought was interrupted.

"Cousin? Did you hear me?"

"What?" He was actually surprised to be standing in the Milan opera house.

The Duchess frowned. "I said my husband was in Bergamo with the other gentlemen and I asked where you were seated."

"Oh, yes, you did. I'm in the royal box. Would you care to join me?"

"Yes!" cried Clara and Eugenia in unison.

"NO!" cried Miss Parker far too loudly.

"No?" Clara took hold Miss Parker's hand in concern. "But it would be marvellous!"

Miss Parker blinked. "I beg your pardon! I thought his Royal Highness had inquired whether we objected to sitting in the royal box."

Santo Cielo! She's fast! I will have to stay as far away from her as possible if I don't want to be intellectually harpooned! I think I will have to go back to Germany tomorrow. Nice peaceful blondes, good beer…





They reached the royal box and Francesco introduced the ladies to his own party; the Conte Giabiconi, Conte and Contessa Fiorini, Barone and Baronessa Senna, Giulia Cremonese, Anselmo Colonna and Ludwig von Hohenstein, a friend from Francesco's days in Germany.





The first notes of the overture sounded through the theatre.

Conversations were rapidly hushed and the lights were dimmed. Miss Parker was right in front of the Prince and her perfume wafted into his nostrils. Much to his displeasure, he liked it. Lilies of the valley… and something else. What was it? It was really quite wonderful but he could not place it.

He involuntarily leaned forward to get a better sniff.

Lilies of the valley and…? I have to get closer.

He dared to lean forward until he was only a hand's width from Miss Parker. Her creamy shoulders were softly illuminated by the stage lights and Francesco felt a tingling sensation in his loins. Yes, his royal staff was most certainly trying to rise. His heart was beating faster too. I can just imagine what her skin would taste like if I kissed her neck. If I put my hands around her slim waist and pulled her against me. — No, wait! I really don't like that chit of a girl, I should not be having these sensations, I most certainly do NOT want to kiss her, I want to kill her. She makes me feel uncomfortable and insufficient and silly. Oh, but her scent is really most alluring, and there is something stirringly erotic in her orchid eyes and her lips must have been painted by the great Botticelli, they should be kissed over and over, only not by me.

Well, if they have to be kissed, why not by me? I don't really like the idea of anybody else doing it. Good Lord, I think I really want to kiss her! How did that happen?