Winter Wedding For The Prince. Barbara Wallace
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chocolate cookies. The internet is a wonderful thing.” Rosa Lamberti looked up from her paperwork. “Are you even listening?” she asked the man in front of her.
Armando Santoro, crown prince of Corinthia, paused midstep to give her a narrow-eyed look. “Of course I did. Babbo Natale. Dragons. Cookies. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know, maybe because you have been wearing a path in the carpet for the past thirty minutes.” Pacing like a caged panther was more like it. He had been crossing the hand-woven Oushak with long, heavy-footed strides that took advantage of his extra-tall frame. Between that and the scowl plastered on his face, she half expected him to start growling. “I have a feeling I could have announced a coup and you wouldn’t have heard me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, running a hand through his dark curls. “I’m a bit distracted this morning.”
Clearly. Setting her paperwork aside, Rosa helped herself to a fresh cup of coffee. On good days, being the prince’s personal assistant was a three-cup job. When he was distracted, the number increased to four or five.
“Don’t tell me you’re upset about your sister,” she said. Only that morning, Princess Arianna had announced her engagement to an American businessman named Max Brown whom she had met in New York City. The details of the courtship were sketchy. According to Armando, the princess had taken off for America without a word why. A few days after her return, Max Brown forced his way into the castle demanding to see her. The pair had been inseparable ever since.
“No,” he said. It was more a sigh than reply. “If Arianna is happy, then I am happy for her.”
Happy was too mild a term. Rosa would go with delirious or ecstatic. The princess had lit up like Corinthia City on San Paolo Day when Max burst through the door.
Rosa suppressed a sigh of her own. Wild, passionate declarations of love and sudden engagements. It was all quite romantic. She couldn’t remember the last time a man declared anything to her, unless you counted her ex-husband and his many declarations of disinterest.
Fredo had been very good at telling her she wasn’t worth his time.
She returned to the question at hand. “If it is not your sister, then what is it?” she asked over the rim of her coffee cup. “And don’t say nothing, because I know you.” One didn’t spend seven years of life attached to someone—four as a sister-in-law—without learning a person’s tics.
An olive-skinned hand reached over her shoulder and took the cup before her lips had a chance to make contact. “Hey!”
Turning, she saw Armando already drinking. “You forgot the sugar,” he said with a frown.
“I forgot nothing.” What little was left of the warm liquid splashed against the rim as she snatched the cup free. “I’m on a diet.”
“You’re always on a diet. A teaspoon or two of sugar will not kill you.”
Said the god of athleticism. He wasn’t in danger of finishing out the year a dress size larger. Even sitting perfectly straight, she swore she could feel the button on her waistband threatening to pop.
Sucking in her belly, she said, “Stop trying to change the subject. I asked you a question.”
“Did you just demand I answer you? I’m sorry, I was under the impression that you worked for me.”
“Yes, but I’m family. That gives me special privileges.”
“Like bossiness?”
“I’m not the one ruining a one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old rug.” Reaching for the coffeepot, she poured him a fresh coffee of his own, making sure to add the two sugars before refilling her cup. “Seriously, Armando. What’s wrong?”
This sigh was the loudest of the three. Taking the coffee, he came around to the front of the love seat and sat down beside her. Rosa did her best to squeeze into the corner to accommodate him. She didn’t know if her brother-in-law kept forgetting she wasn’t as petite as his late wife or what, but he always insisted on invading her personal space rather than taking a seat across the way. As a result, they sat wedged together, their thighs pressed tight. Rosa gave a silent thank-you for long jackets. It provided another layer between their bodies.
Oblivious, as usual, to the close quarters, Armando stared at the coffee she’d handed him. “Arianna’s pregnant,” he said in a dull voice.
No wonder they were rushing the engagement. “But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” she asked. “Your father finally has another heir to the throne.” It was no secret the king was eager to establish a third generation of Santoros to protect his family’s legacy.
“It would be,” Armando replied, “if Max Brown were the father.”
“What?” Rosa’s hand froze mid-sip. She would ask if he was joking, except this wasn’t something to joke about. “Who...?” It didn’t matter. “Does Max know?”
“Yes, and he doesn’t care.”
“He must love your sister very much.” Took a special kind of love to marry a woman carrying another man’s child. Certainly not the kind of love people like Rosa got to witness. People like her got a leftover kind of love. As Fredo had been so fond of telling her, she was flavorless and bland.
“Max’s devotion is wonderful for Arianna, but...”
But it didn’t erase the problems this pregnancy caused. “He or she can’t be the heir.”
Corinthian law stated that only the biological offspring of both parents could inherit the throne. Should anything happen to Armando and Arianna, then the title would skip to someone else, such as Arianna and Max’s child or one of the distant cousins. Either way opened a host of complications.
“Not to mention that if the truth were to come out, that child would spend the rest of his or her life hounded by gossip and innuendo. Max and Arianna, too. The whole house of Santoro, for that matter.”
“Unless Arianna and Max lie.” Armando scowled at her suggestion. “What?” she asked. “You don’t think that’s happened before?” Not even the house of Santoro was that lily pure. In fact, someone trying to slip an illegitimate heir into the mix was probably the reason for the inane law to begin with.
“Whether it’s been done before or not isn’t the point,” he replied. “Other generations didn’t have tabloids or your wonderful internet.”
Good point. Today, secrets couldn’t last forever. Eventually the truth would come out, and when it did, there would be challenges. Corinthia would be plunged into a protracted legal battle that benefited no one.
“I take it you’ve already thought of trying to change the law,” she said.
“Of course, but again, this isn’t the old days, when the king could change the laws on a whim. The ministers would want to know the reason for the change.”
“All hail increased democracy,” Rosa muttered. There wasn’t much more that could be done, barring Armando remarrying and having children of his own, and a monk dated more than he did. The Melancholy Prince, the papers called him. The title fit. While Armando had always been serious, Christina’s death had added an extra layer. It was as though he was suspended in permanent mourning. He never attended anything that wasn’t an official event, and those he attended alone. Other than his sister, Rosa was the only woman in his life.
The prince had returned his attention to his coffee, studying the untouched contents from beneath thick lashes as if they contained the answer. Rosa couldn’t help but indulge in a moment of appreciation. If he decided to date again, Armando’s return to the dating world would be a welcome one. Even if he wasn’t the future king of Corinthia, he was a man worthy of desire. Granted, he wasn’t the most beautiful man in the country; his Roman features were a little too pronounced, although not so much that they looked out of proportion. Besides, she always thought a strong man should have strong