Postcards From Rome: The Italian's Pregnant Virgin / A Proposal from the Italian Count / A Ring for Vincenzo's Heir. Lucy Gordon
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Her eyes, which she had always thought were almost comically large, didn’t look comical now. Though, they still looked large. They had been rimmed with black liner, the corners of her eyes highlighted with gold. They had brushed something onto her cheeks, too, making them glow. And her lips... A bit of pale, burnished orange gloss colored them, just slightly, highlighting them, just enough.
She looked like a stranger. She couldn’t see so many of the defining features of her face, not the way she usually did. Those dark circles that had permanent residence beneath her eyes were diminished, her nose somehow appearing more narrow, her cheeks a bit more hollow, thanks to a technique they had called contouring.
And then there was her body. She had never thought much about it. She didn’t have overly large breasts, and for convenience, she typically opted not to wear a bra, sticking to plain, high-necked tops in dark colors that she always hoped concealed enough.
Even though this gown still didn’t allow for a bra, it created an entirely different effect on her bustline than the simple cotton tank tops she preferred. Her breasts looked rounder, fuller, her waist a bit more dramatically curved, rather than straight up and down. The shape of the skirt enhanced the appearance of her hips, making her look like she almost had an hourglass figure.
It was strange to see herself this way. With all her attributes enhanced, rather than downplayed.
The bedroom door opened and she froze when Renzo walked in. She felt hideously exposed in a way that she never had before. Because for the first time in her life she was aware that she might look beautiful, and that there was a man who was most certainly beautiful looking her over. Appraising her as he might a work of art.
“Well,” he said, turning his focus to the team of people who had accomplished the effect, and away from her, “this is a very pleasant surprise.”
“She is a dream to dress,” Tierra said. “Everything fits so nicely. And that golden skin of hers allows her to pull off some very difficult colors.”
“You know all of that is lost on me,” he said. “However, I can see that she is beautiful.”
Warmth flooded her. Such a stupid thing. To feel affected by this charade. But she wasn’t entirely sure if she cared at all that it was a charade. What did it matter, really? Even playing a game like this was new. Feeling like she was the center—the focus—of male attention was something that she had scarcely gotten around to dreaming about.
She had been grappling with freedom. Both the cost of it and the gains. With who she wanted to be, apart from everything she’d been taught. Apart from the small rebellions she’d waged hidden in the mountains behind her house, listening to contraband music while reading forbidden books.
To find it especially appealing to link herself up to a man, even in a temporary way. But now, beneath Renzo’s black gaze, she found something deliciously enticing in it.
A swift, low kick of temptation hit her hard, making it difficult for her to breathe. And she couldn’t even quite work out what the temptation was. It reminded her of walking past the bakery down in the town she’d grown up adjacent to, and seeing a row of sweets that looked delicious. Treats she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to have.
That same feeling. Of wanting, feeling empty. Of that intense, unfair sense of deprivation that always followed.
Except, no one controlled her life now. If she wanted a cake, she could buy it and then she could eat it.
Which made her deeply conscious of the fact that if she wanted Renzo, she supposed she could have him, too.
But for the love of cake, she didn’t know what she would do with him. Or what he would do with her if she reached out and tried to get a taste.
She took a deep breath, craning her neck, straightening her shoulders and doing her best to make herself look even more statuesque. She didn’t know why. Maybe to inject herself with a little bit more pride, so she wasn’t just standing there being subjected to the judgment of every person in the room.
It was so strange being the center of attention like this. She wasn’t entirely certain she disliked it.
“That dress is spectacular. However, it is a bit too formal for dinner,” Renzo said, sitting down in one of the armchairs that were placed up against the back wall. “What else is there?”
“Oh,” Tierra said, turning around and facing the rack, pulling out a short, coral-colored dress that Esther had tried on earlier. “How about this?”
Renzo settled even deeper into the chair, his posture like that of a particularly jaded monarch. “Let’s see it.”
“Of course.”
Esther found herself being turned so that she was facing away from Renzo, and then she felt the zipper on the gown give. She gasped, then froze, not quite sure what she was supposed to do next. If she should protest the fact that she was being undressed in front of a man who was a stranger to her, or if that would ruin the charade.
And then it didn’t matter, because the green dress was pulling down at her feet, and her bare back and barely covered bottom were now fully exposed to Renzo.
“Very nice,” he said, his voice rough. “Part of the new wardrobe?”
She knew he meant the black pair of lace panties she was wearing, and she wanted to turn around and tell him off for making this even more uncomfortable. Except, then she would have to turn around. And expose herself even further, and she wasn’t going to do that. Instead, she decided that she would do her best to show him that she wasn’t so easily toyed with.
“Yes,” she said simply.
A few moments later the next dress was on and firmly in place. Then, she turned back to face Renzo, and her heart crawled up into her throat. Because as intense as he always looked, as much impact as those dark eyes always had on her, it was magnified now.
“Come closer,” he said, his tone hard-edged, the command clearly nonnegotiable.
She swallowed hard, taking one unsteady step toward where Renzo was sitting. His dark gaze flicked away from Esther, landing on the style team. “Leave us,” he said.
They did so, quickly and without a word. And when they were gone, it felt as though they had taken all the air out of the room with them.
“Do people always do what you ask?”
“Always,” he said. “Closer.”
She took another step toward him, trying to disguise the fact that her legs were shaking and that she had no idea how she was supposed to walk in heels that were tantamount to stilts.
He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, propping his chin on his knuckles. “Of course, some people obey more quickly than others.”
“Did you want me to break an ankle? Because I guarantee you if I walk any faster I’m going to.”
He moved swiftly, his movements liquid, his grace making a mockery of her own uncertain clumsiness. He stood, reaching across the space between them and sweeping her up into his arms. Then he turned, depositing her in the chair he had occupied only a moment ago.
She pressed her hand to her heart, feeling the rapid flutter beneath her palm. Her throat was dry, her head feeling dizzy. Her body felt warm. As though she had been burned all over. His arms had been wrapped around her, her shoulder blades pressed up against that hard, broad expanse of his chest.
That was what stunned her most of all. Just how hard he was. There was no give in him at all. His body was as unbending as the rest of him.
He turned away from her, facing the rack of clothing and the stack of shoes that was beneath it. “If you cannot walk then you will not present a very convincing picture. We don’t want you to look as though you were only polished today.”
“Why? Why does it matter?”
“Because