Winter Wedding for the Prince(11)

“Well, that explains why it’s better than usual.”

Rosa felt his warm breath on the top of her head as she adjusted the tie. Despite having done this dozens of times, she’d never noticed the distinctness of his aftershave until now. Reminded her of a wood after summer rain, earthy and cool. The kind of scent that made a person want to run barefoot through the moss.

Or comb their fingers through their hair.

“There.” Smoothing his collar, she stepped back before her thoughts could embarrass her again. “Much better.”

He gave her a smile. “Whatever would I do without you?”

“Spend eternity with a crooked tie, for one thing.” Once again, her body reacted as though he weren’t making a comment he’d made before. This was ridiculous. Tonight was really no different from any other night. Why, then, was she acting as though it was? Surely she wasn’t so desperate for male validation that her subconscious needed to assign deeper meaning to everything Armando said and did. “I just need to get my wrap and I’ll be ready to go.”

“You’re not...”

“What?” She’d not gotten more than a few feet before he spoke. Turning around, she caught the hint of a blush crawling down his cheekbones.

“You’re not going to put on some jacket and wear it all night, are you?”

“No. Just a velvet wrap for when we’re outside. Why?”

“No reason,” he replied quickly. “It’s...well, I’m not as big a fan of jackets as you are.”

“I wouldn’t be either, if I had your rock-hard abdomen.” Rosa squeezed her eyes shut. Please say she didn’t speak those words aloud.

Armando chuckled as he sauntered toward her. “You were looking at my abdomen, were you?”

“Not on purpose. It’s difficult to ignore a man’s torso when he’s standing in a bathing suit.”

“I see. Well, I’m glad you found my torso to your satisfaction.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh?” He reached around her to lift her wrap from where it lay draped on the back of her chair. “What did you mean, then?”

“Simply that your midsection doesn’t need camouflaging.”

“Neither does yours,” he replied, laying the velvet across her shoulders. “You worry too much about your weight. Curves are to be celebrated. There’s a reason Botticelli didn’t paint stick figures, you know,” he added, low in her ear.

Rosa’s knees nearly buckled at the way his breath tickled her skin. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“Please do. There’s nothing worse than listening to a beautiful woman denigrate herself.”

“Nothing?” Rosa asked, trying to react to the word beautiful. He’d handed her more compliments in the past five minutes than she’d had in the last decade.

His returning smile was devastating. “Well, maybe not as bad as reviewing the revised energy regulations or listening to Arianna complain about the arts endowment, but definitely bad.” He held out an arm. “Shall we?”

* * *

No matter how many times Rosa told herself that technically this evening was no different than any other, Armando and the evening kept proving her wrong. To begin with, there was a lot of difference between sitting in the rear of the royal box and sitting with the crown prince. In the past she would take her seat several minutes before the performance and patiently wait along with everyone else for Armando to take his seat. Tonight, she was the one hanging back while the audience assembled, the one receiving the applause as she entered the box at the Royal Opera House. Really it was Armando receiving the applause, but standing by his side, she couldn’t help but feel special, too.

Armando himself was contributing to the feeling as well. She couldn’t put her finger on how, but there was something about his behavior tonight. He was solicitous, charming. Flirtatious, even, peppering his conversation with subtle touches and low, lilting commentary. The skin behind her ear still tingled from their conversation in her apartment. Curves are to be celebrated.

She squeezed her knees together.

“Everything all right?” Armando asked, mistaking her shifting as discomfort.

“Just sitting up straight,” she replied. “I don’t want to get caught on camera slouching.”

“Fortunately, most of the time they stay focused on the orchestra, or so I’ve been told. I was afraid you might not be having a good time.”

“Why would you think that?” she asked, doing her best not to frown as she turned toward him.

“I don’t know, perhaps because you’ve been avoiding me all week. I wasn’t sure if you were still angry with me.”

“I was never angry with you. I had a lot to do, is all.”

“Then you weren’t annoyed that I asked about Fredo?”

He was kidding, right? What was it that drove him to introduce awkward conversations at the most inopportune times?

“I know,” he added when she opened her mouth, “you don’t want to talk about him right now.”

No, she did not, but now that the door was open, she figured she should at least give him a quick explanation. “Nothing personal. In my experience, anything to do with Fredo will only spoil a good time.” As far as she was concerned, her ex was an ugly cloud she’d rather forget.

She started as a hand settled atop her forearm. Looking up, she noticed Armando wore a pleased expression. “Does that mean you’re having a good time?”

“Very.”

“Good.” His hand squeezed her arm and then remained. “I’m glad. You deserve the best evening possible,” he added in a low voice. His whispered breath caressed her jaw, reminding her of gentle fingertips. Thankfully, the house lights had started to dim, hiding how her skin flushed from the inside out.

Onstage, the conductor emerged from behind a curtain, drawing another round of applause. After bowing to Armando, the man stepped on his dais and tapped his baton. Like a well-trained army, the musicians raised their instruments. A moment later, the room filled with the delicate hum of violins.

“Don’t tell my family,” Armando whispered in her ear. Between the dark and the hand on her arm, the innocent comment sent a trail of goose bumps down her spine. “But I do not like classical music.”

“Since when?” Considering the way his sister and late mother had revered music, the confession wasn’t just shocking, it was almost treasonous.

“Since ever,” he replied. “Why do you think Arianna is the only one who still plays the piano? As soon as I could, I stopped lessons and haven’t touched a keyboard since.”

“I didn’t realize.” Both that he disliked classical music and that he played piano. Keeping her eyes forward, she leaned her shoulder closer to his. There was something naughty about whispering together in the dark. “How long did you have to take lessons?”

“Twelve very long years.”

That long? “Why didn’t you stop sooner?”

“Because it was expected I would become a master.”

Expected. Sadly his answer didn’t surprise her. So much of what he did stemmed from expectations or tradition. Even this concert, in a way. Made her wonder how long it had been since he did anything purely for fun.

She settled back against her seat as the music crescendoed over them. “Does this mean I’ll need to poke you in the ribs to keep you from nodding off?” she whispered.

“Don’t be silly. I never fall asleep.”

“Never?”

“Okay, not since I was twelve. I have a secret trick.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

Behind them, Vittorio Mastella, the head of security, gave a sharp cough, and Rosa bit her lip. Because it was the crown prince doing the whispering, no one was going to say anything directly, but apparently the security chief had no problem delivering a subtle hint. Armando smiled and winked. “I’ll tell you after the concert,” he whispered.

They spent the rest of the concert in silence. Unlike Armando, Rosa did enjoy classical music, although purely as an amateur. She hadn’t had many opportunities to enjoy it when she was married, since Fredo would only attend a concert if there was business involved. The few times they did attend, however, were some of the best memories of her marriage. She would sit in the dark and let the music send her to a world far away, to a place where she was beautiful and happy. Like the Rosa she used to be.

As the music washed over her tonight, she realized she already felt beautiful and happy. Whether it was the dress or Armando’s appreciative words or the two combined, she was content with herself for the first time in a long time. More than content—it was as though she’d woken up from a long sleep and remembered she was a woman. Her body was suddenly aware of even the lightest of touches. Armando shifted in his seat, and the brush of his pant leg against her ankle left her insides aching. It did not help that he shifted in his seat a lot. Nor the fact that his hand lingered on her forearm till midway through the concert, his long fingers absently tapping a melody against the lace. The more he tapped, the more she couldn’t stop remembering how he looked climbing out of the pool. Did he know what he was doing to her? The thoughts he was putting into her head? She had no business thinking of Armando this way, like a strong, desirable man. He was... Armando. Her boss. Her brother-in-law. Her future king.