Page 13 of Forbidden Bride (Forbidden 1)
“I do.”
It rushes out of me before I can think clearly, but the reality is, I can’t. Of course I can’t. I’m engaged to another man.
Footfalls echo from the walkway behind us and I go tense.
“I really have to go, before my…” My voice trails off. Do I really want Marco knowing I live with a constant chaperone? How pathetic. The less he knows about me, the better.
You almost fell into the Bellanti pit!
Mercutio’s earlier words sound in my head. He’d uttered them with such distaste. I’ve never much cared about family business before, but now I want to know why the Bellanti name is said with such contempt within my uncle’s house.
“Before what? What’s wrong?” Marco searches my face.
The architecture of his features is absolutely perfect. He’s pure masculine beauty, rugged yet finely formed. The kind of man you see in an upscale magazine lounging around in his underwear while being completely aware that he’s too beautiful for most people to handle. We should be thankful for getting one peek, and here I am getting so much more.
My chest aches. I have to let this go.
“Nothing’s wrong.” I smile. “I don’t want to go, but I should. That’s all.”
I hear another shuffle of feet, closer this time. Something about it triggers the panic inside me again. I know the rhythm of those footsteps. Quick but scraping the ground.
“Mama mia, Karina, come on! We’re due at the wine bar. Pietro wants to see you!”
Mercutio is wandering around hollering for me like I’m a child who needs to come home for dinner. This. Is. My. Life.
The spell I’m under snaps and my world comes rushing back at me. What the hell am I doing? If I get caught, I’ll be so fucked.
Marco grips my wrist. “Who is Pietro?”
I detect a tinge of jealousy. I’m glad it’s shadowy under here, because otherwise he’d see my cheeks go pale.
“He’s nobody,” I lie. “I have to go. That’s my cousin.”
“Ka-rina!” Mercutio yells again. “Come and drink some wine!” A string of curses in Italian follow, and I know if I don’t show up soon, it’ll just get worse.
I give Marco one last kiss on the cheek and grab my tote off the ground. “Goodbye.”
He moves to block me. “Wait. When will I see you again?”
Never, but I’ll play along for his sake. “You found me before. I know you can do it again. Ciao.”
I blow him a kiss and hurriedly leave our sanctuary. Entering the flow of people wandering around, I sneak up to Merc and pretend to run into him.
“Where have you been?” He grabs my upper arms and looks me over as if I’ve been tarnished in some way. Ha. If only he knew.
“You said you needed some time with—”
“Oh, yeah…her.”
“You still don’t know her name?”
He waves a hand in the air. “It’s over anyway. Let’s go. Pietro is getting impatient.”
I follow slightly behind and dig around in my tote bag, popping open my clutch. Ah! My paperback book is still inside, along with my ID and credit card still tucked safely into its pages. But something else peeks from between the pages farther back—a piece of paper. I slide it out and unfold it. It’s a handwritten note. From…Marco? My heart starts to pound. Merc is talking to some random man beside him, paying me no mind, so I quickly read the note.
It’s a poem. Written in Italian.
Ecco mormorar l'onde,
E tremolar le fronde
A l'aura mattutina, e gli arboscelli,
E sovra i verdi rami i vaghi augelli
Cantar soavemente,
E rider l'Oriente;
Ecco già l'alba appare,
E si specchia nel mare,
E rasserena il cielo,
E le campagne imperla il dolce gelo,
E gli alti monti indora:
O bella e vaga Aurora,
L'aura è tua messaggera, e tu de l'aura
Ch'ogni arso cor ristaura.
I recognize it. It’s by the Italian poet Torquato Tasso.
Now the waves murmur
And the boughs and the shrubs tremble
in the morning breeze,
And on the green branches the pleasant birds
Sing softly
And the east smiles;
Now dawn already appears
And mirrors herself in the sea,
And makes the sky serene,
And the gentle frost impearls the fields
And gilds the high mountains:
O beautiful and gracious Aurora,
The breeze is your messenger, and you the breeze’s
Which revives each burnt-out heart.
I can’t stop the joy expanding in my chest. Marco did this…for me. How did he know?
“You coming?” Mercutio asks.
I didn’t realize he’d stopped short until I almost run into him. I can’t speak, of course. I don’t even look at him. Slipping the paper into my pocket, I make a little show of rubbing my eye. “Sorry, I just…think I got something in my eye.”
He digs in his pocket and hands me a clean tissue. “Here.”
He says something else, but I don’t hear him. I’m on cloud nine. Marco gave me a poem. He took the time to choose one, then wrote it out in his own hand. Just for me. For once, I get to be the heroine. The recipient of romance. Maybe there’s a bit of the countess in my life, after all.
I’m going to cherish this forever.
Especially after I marry Pietro.
