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Monet’s lips curved in reluctant amusement. “I do sometimes read the story two or three times a day.”
“And she’s learned it by heart. Trying to create a Russian fantasy in this castello in the midst of the worst winter storm in years hasn’t been easy.”
Monet couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “And yet you’re doing it.”
“Trying. I don’t know if anyone from the village will come, but they have all been invited, and my staff have been invited, along with their families, and I think it should be fun.”
Fun. He’d just used the word fun. Last night he’d played the piano and sung carols. Today he was throwing a party and talking about fun. “The children know, though,” she said slowly.
“The children know I’ve invited people, and they know the staff have been cleaning and cooking, but they haven’t seen the ballroom yet. We’ve tried to spruce it up a bit, and add a little festive color.”
Monet’s chest grew warm and she felt a pinch of sharp emotion. “The fact that you tried to do something for them is wonderful. You will have made your children happy, your Rocca most of all.”
He fell silent for a moment. “She adores you, you know.”
“I adore her, too.”
He gave her another long look then walked from the room. Monet exhaled slowly, painfully, as she heard the door close behind him.
The day passed slowly for everyone, but finally it was midafternoon. After helping the children dress in new clothes that had arrived for them, Monet glanced at the clock and saw she had fifty minutes before the party. Fifty minutes to try to pull something together for herself. She returned to her room to see what she could do, and stopped short at the sight of a stunning strapless red silk ball gown hanging from the frame of her four-poster bed.
For a split second she couldn’t breathe. Marcu hadn’t forgotten her, either.
She blinked and tried to take another breath. It was the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, the boned bodice and gleaming silk skirt embellished with embroidered white flowers and green beaded leaves. The skirt was cut narrow and featured a dramatic train. Monet could recognize the designer from the construction of the exquisite bodice, and the shape of the skirt. This was old-school glamour, Italian couture, a gown that probably equaled half of her annual salary. If not more.
Silk heels sat on the floor, just beneath the long silk gown, the shoes red, perfectly matching the dress.
“What on earth?” she whispered, lifting the hem of the gown to feel the luxurious fabric.
A little girl giggled behind her and Monet turned to see Rocca standing there, beaming with pleasure. “Papà bought it for you,” Rocca said happily, pressing her hands to her own silk dress, the red of her gown darker, deeper, like the color of burgundy wine. “He had it flown in from Milan. It’s by a famous person.” She ran over to pick up one of Monet’s high heels. “These match your dress, too!”
“It’s incredible,” Monet said, so overwhelmed she didn’t know what to think.
“Do you need help dressing?” Rocca asked.
“No, my love, I’m good. Why don’t you keep an eye on Antonio so he doesn’t get his handsome suit dirty before everyone arrives?”
Marcu had said he’d invited everyone from the village, and everyone from the village came.
He’d also said that he’d tried to make the ballroom festive, and he’d done far, far more than that. The ballroom had been turned into a winter wonderland with a huge Christmas tree dominating the middle of the room, easily fifteen feet high, and covered in thousands of tiny white lights.
Fragrant green garlands were swagged over the doorways, and framed the tall windows. Ornate gingerbread houses filled a banquet table, the houses created by the Swiss chef who’d come to lend the Uberto cook a hand. Tables groaned beneath the weight of all the food and drink and candles. It was just as Rocca had wanted, a glittering holiday party with music and dancing and much laughter.
Entering the ballroom, Monet felt overdressed as no one else had such a formal gown, but after enough guests arrived, and the music was playing, she forgot her self-consciousness, and enjoyed watching the children play with the children from the village. Now and then Rocca would run to Monet and give her hand a squeeze. “Isn’t this fun?” she’d say. “Just like in The Nutcracker!”
Each time Monet would squeeze her hand back, and say, “Yes. And isn’t it wonderful?”
More than once her eyes would fill with tears because it really was a gorgeous party, and everyone was so happy, and this was what Marcu’s life should be like—busy, warm, loving, filled with friends and music and laughter.
Monet felt fortunate to be part of the Christmas celebration. It felt a bit like a miracle and she would always be grateful she was here to witness it.
* * *
During the party, Marcu couldn’t keep his eyes off Monet. She was dazzling in the red silk ball gown, her bare shoulders gleaming, her dark hair swept into a half-up, half-down style that made her look like a fairy-tale princess. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life, and he loved her. All she needed was a tiara to finish the vision. A tiara, and his ring on her finger.
He loved her.
He’d never loved any woman but her. No woman had ever felt so right in his arms. No woman’s kiss or touch had ever affected him so strongly. There had been plenty of women in his life, women he’d desired and cared for, but no one that mattered to him like Monet. No woman made him want to throw caution to the wind. He’d only ever lost his head once, and it was with her, eight years ago. And fast-forward to the present, she still had that same power over him. It didn’t make sense, either. He had analyzed his actions in the past, analyzed his response to her then and now, and there was no rational answer for why he felt this want and need for her. The desire wasn’t logical. There was nothing logical about the attraction, or the emotional connection between them, which was so deep he didn’t know how to articulate it. Truthfully, his need for her, his desire to have her in his life, at his side, forever, was baffling if only because he couldn’t find words to explain it. It simply was. And she mattered that much.
And why her?
He didn’t know the answer to that, either, only that her smile gave light and life to his heart. Her eyes—so expressive—revealed so many truths, and he needed them. He needed her. He needed her honesty, and her ability to stand up to him, and confront him when he was wrong. So many people tried to impress him, and court his favor, but she wasn’t one of them. She never had been.
* * *
The guests were all gone. The children had been taken to bed and would be tucked in by Elise while the rest of the staff moved through the castello, blowing out candles, extinguishing lights, locking doors in all rooms but the ballroom as Marcu had given them instructions to leave the ballroom alone. And now Marcu had Monet alone. His heart pounded and he felt like a boy—shy, nervous, ridiculously tongue-tied—as he drew Monet closer to the soaring Christmas tree, still glittering with lights and delicate glass ornaments, and the beautiful hand-carved angels.
“It was a beautiful party,” Monet said.
“It was.”
“I think everyone had an incredible time,” she added, as they gazed up at the tree.
“Yes.”
“I’ve never been so surprised,” she said, glancing at him with a smile. “Who knew that Marcu Uberto, who doesn’t celebrate Christmas, would throw the most magical Christmas party I’ve ever been to?”
“It was Rocca’s idea,” he answered, pulse thudding.
“Rocca is an incredible little girl.”
“She is,” he agreed, before drawing a deep breath. “And you are an incredible woman. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you’ve changed everything in a matter of days. You arrived here nine days ago and somehow saved all of us.”
“Not so.”
