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The path along the valley floor meandered through the vineyards before beginning an easy climb toward the next rolling hill. They walked side by side, as if they had all the time in the world, Bethany thought. As if they were under enchantment. As if this game of theirs was real and they could live this day forever.
What did it say about her that so much of her wished that they could?
“When I returned to Toronto …” she began, sneaking a look at him and flushing slightly when he met her gaze, his eyes sardonic. “I wanted to finish my degree,” she continued hurriedly, jerking her gaze away. “And I suppose in some way I wanted to honor her, too. It felt like a continuation of her studies, somehow.”
“I am glad for you,” he said simply when she stopped talking and returned her attention to the path in front of them. “I know you wanted very much to maintain ties with your family however you could.”
She did not like the way he said that—as if he had spent time pondering her. As if he knew things about her that she might not, as if he cared in ways she was not prepared to accept. It made her feel restless in a way she could not name.
“That cannot be something you ever worry about,” she said, changing the focus of this odd, out-of-body conversation, pushing the spotlight away from herself and the panic that she desperately wanted to hide. “You cannot take a step without coming face to face with the Di Marco history.”
He smiled slightly.
“Indeed I cannot,” he agreed. “But it is not necessarily the voyage of discovery you seem to imagine, I think.” He let out a short laugh. “My father was not an easy man. He believed absolutely in his own dominion over all things. His wealth and estates. His wife and family. He was neither tolerant nor kind.”
“Leo …” But he did not hear her, or he did not choose to stop.
“I was sent to boarding school in Austria when I was barely turned four,” Leo said in that same matter-of-fact, emotionless voice. “It was a slightly more nurturing environment than my father’s home. I was raised to think that nothing and no one could ever be as important as the Di Marco legacy. My responsibilities and obligations were beaten into me early.” His eyes met hers, and she could not read what swam in those bittersweet, chocolate depths, just as she could not identify the mess of emotion that fought inside of her. “There is a certain liberty in having no choices, you must understand.”
“That sounds horrible,” she said, her eyes heavy with tears she could not shed where he could see her. “Cancer took my mother too soon, and my father grieved for her the rest of his days, but he loved me. I never doubted that he loved me.”
“I was raised to disdain such foolishness,” Leo said, something indefinable across that mobile, fascinating face before he hid it behind his customary mask of polite indifference.
She knew she should recognize that odd expression—that something in her swelled to meet it, to match it—but her mind shied away from it before she could properly identify it. She found she was holding her breath.
“The Di Marcos, no doubt, had more important things to concentrate on,” she managed to say, forcing herself to breathe past the knot in her belly.
“My duties were very clear from a very young age, and there was never any point in rebelling or arguing,” he continued, his voice hushed, his eyes clear. “I must never forget myself and act with the recklessness of other young men. I must always think of the Di Marco legacy first, never my own needs or desires.” He shrugged. “If I forgot myself, there were never any shortage of people around to remind me. Especially my father, using any means he deemed necessary.”
“That seems so cruel.” Bethany could not look at him; she was afraid she would try to do something she should not, like hold him, or soothe him, or try to make something up to the little boy she was not certain he had ever been. “You were a child, not a tiny robot to be programmed according to a set of archaic demands!”
“My father did not want a child,” Leo said quietly. “He wanted the next Principe di Felici.”
There did not seem to be anything she could say to such a simple yet devastating statement. It hung there with them, as if it ripened on the vines that stretched out beside them and climbed the hill along with them.
Bethany could not bring herself to speak because she was afraid the tears she fought to keep at bay would spill over and betray her, and the worst of it was, she was not entirely certain what emotions these were that held her so securely in a tight, fast grip. She only knew that things were clear to her now that had not been clear before, though she could not have articulated what she meant by that.
