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PROLOGUE
Eighteen months ago, Il Boschetto di Sole—a lemon grove situated in the mountains of Lycander
HOLLY ROMANO STARED at her reflection. The dress was ivory perfection, a bridal confection of froth and lace, beauty and elegance, and she loved it. Happiness bubbled inside her—this was the fairy tale she’d dreamed of, the happy-ever-after she’d vowed would be hers. She and Graham were about to embark on a marriage as unlike her parents’ as possible—a partnership of mutual love.
Not for Holly the bitterness and constant recrimination—a union based on the drear of duty on her father’s part and the daily misery of unrequited love on her mother’s. Their marriage had eventually shattered, and in the final confetti shards of acrimony her mother had walked away and never come back. Leaving eight-year-old Holly behind without so much as a backward glance.
Holly pushed the images from her mind—she only wanted happy thoughts today, so she reminded herself of her father’s love. A love she valued with all her heart because, although he never spoke of it, she knew of his disappointment that Holly had not been the longed-for son. And yet he had never shown her anything but love. Unlike her mother, who had never got over the bitter let-down of her daughter’s gender and had never shown Holly even an iota of affection, let alone love.
Enough. Happy thoughts, remember?
Such as her additional joy that her father wholeheartedly approved of his soon-to-be son-in-law. Graham Salani was the perfect addition to the Romano family—a man who worked the land and would be an asset to Il Boschetto di Sole, the lemon grove the Romano family had worked on for generations. For over a century the job of overseer had passed from father to son, until Holly had broken the chain. But now Graham would be the son her father had always wanted.
It was all perfect.
Holly smiled at her reflection and half turned as the door opened and her best friend Rosa came in. It took her a second to register that Rosa wasn’t in her bridesmaid dress—which didn’t make sense as the horse-drawn carriage was at the door, ready to convey them to the chapel.
‘Rosa...?’
‘Holly, I’m sorry. I can’t go through with this. You need to know.’ Rosa’s face held compassion as she stepped forward.
‘I don’t understand.’
She didn’t want to understand as impending knowledge threatened to make her implode. Suddenly the dress felt weighted, each pearl bead filled with lead, and the smile on her face froze into a rictus.
‘What do I need to know?’
‘Graham is having an affair.’ Rosa stepped towards her, hand outstretched. ‘He has been for the past year.’
‘That’s not true.’
It couldn’t be. But why would Rosa lie? She was Graham’s sister—Holly’s best friend.
‘Ask your father.’
The door opened and Thomas Romano entered. Holly forced herself to meet her father’s eyes, saw the truth there and felt pain lance her.
‘Holly, it is true. I am sorry.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I have spoken with Graham myself. He claims it meant nothing, that he still loves you, still wants you to marry him.’
Holly tried to think, tried to cling to the crumbling, fading fairy tale.
‘I can’t do that.’
How could she possibly marry a man who had cheated on her? When she had spent years watching the ruins of a marriage brought down by infidelity? In thought and intent if not in deed. Holly closed her eyes. She had been such a fool—she hadn’t had an inkling, not a clue. Humiliation flushed her skin, seeped into her very soul.
Her father stepped towards her, placed an arm around her. ‘I am so sorry.’
She could hear the pain in his voice, the guilt.
‘I had no idea.’
‘I know you didn’t.’
Graham didn’t love her. The bleak thought spread through her system and she closed her eyes, braced herself. An image of the chapel, the carefully chosen flowers, the rows of people, family and friends
happy in anticipation, flashed across her mind.
‘We need to cancel the wedding.’
CHAPTER ONE
Present day, Notting Hill, London
STEFAN PETRELLI, EXILED Prince of Lycander, pushed his half-eaten breakfast across the cherrywood table in an abrupt movement.
It was a lesson to him not to open his post whilst eating—though, to be fair, he could hardly have anticipated this letter. Sprinkled with legalese, it summoned him to a meeting at the London law offices of Simpson, Wright and Gallagher for the reading of a will.
The will of Roberto Bianchi, Count of Lycander.
Lycander—the place of Stefan’s birth, the backdrop of a childhood he’d rather forget. The place he’d consigned to oblivion when he’d left aged eighteen, with his father’s curses echoing in his ears.
‘If you leave Lycander you will not be coming back. I will take all your lands, your assets and privileges, and you will be an outcast.’
Just the mention of Lycander was sufficient to chase away his appetite and bring a scowl to his face—a grimace that deepened as he stared down at the document. The temptation to crumple it up and lob it into the recycling bin was childish at best, and at twenty-six he had thankfully long since left the horror of childhood behind.
What on earth could Roberto Bianchi have left him? And why? The Count had been his mother Eloise’s godfather and guardian—the man who had allowed his ward to marry Stefan’s father, Alphonse, for the status and privileges the marriage would bring.
What a disaster that had been. The union had been beyond miserable, and the ensuing divorce a medley of bitterness and humiliation with Stefan a hapless pawn. Alphonse might have been ruler of Lycander, but he had also been a first class, bona fide bastard, who had ground Eloise into the dust.
Enough. The memories of his childhood—the pain and misery of his father’s Toughen Stefan up and Make him a Prince Regime, the enduring ache of missing his mother, whom he had only been allowed to see on infrequent occasions, his guilt at the growing realisation that his mother’s plight was due to her love for him and the culminating pain of his mother’s exile—could not be changed.
Alphonse was dead—had been for three years—and Eloise had died long before that, in dismal poverty. Stefan would never forgive himself for her death, and now Stefan’s half-brother, Crown Prince Frederick, ruled Lycander.
Frederick. For a moment he dwelled on his older sibling. Alphonse had delighted in pitting his sons against each other, and as result there was little love lost between the brothers.
True, since he’d come to the throne Frederick had reached out to him—even offered to reinstate the lands, assets and rights Alphonse had stripped from him—but Stefan had refused. Forget it. No way. Stefan would never be beholden to a ruler of Lycander again and he would not return on his brother’s sufferance.
He’d built his own life—left Lycander with an utter determination to succeed, to show his father, show Lycander, show the world what Stefan Petrelli was made of. Now he was worth millions. He had built up a global property and construction firm. Technically, he could afford to buy up most of Lycander. In reality, though, he couldn’t purchase so much as an acre—his father had passed a decree that banned Stefan from buying land or property there.
Stefan shook his head to dislodge the bitter memories—that way lay nothing but misery. His life was good, and he’d long ago accepted that Lycander was closed to him, so there was no reason to get worked up over this letter. He’d go and see what bequest had been left to him and he’d donate it to his charitable foundation. End of.
