The Last Di Sione Claims His Prize. Maisey Yates
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fact, her experience with such things was leading her to odd conclusions regarding yetis and the Loch Ness monster. After all, if multiple cultures had rumors about similar beasts, it was logical to conclude that such a thing must have a grain of truth.
But until she was able to sift through the facts and fictions of her familial heritage, she would leave cryptozoology for other people.
“What should I do with our visitor, ma’am?”
Gabriella tapped her chin. She was inclined to have their visitor told that she and her grandmother were Not at Home, in the Regency England sense of the phrase. But he knew about The Lost Love. She was curious what exactly he knew about it. Though she didn’t want to confirm the existence of it to a total stranger. Particularly when she hadn’t established the existence of it in all certainty to herself.
She had to figure out what his game was. If this was just a scammer of some sort determined to make a profit off an elderly woman—and that was likely the case—then Gabriella would have to make sure he was never given entry.
“I will speak to him. There is no sense in bothering the queen. She is taking tea in the morning room and I don’t wish to disturb her.”
Gabriella brushed past the servant, and headed out of the library, down the richly carpeted hall, her feet sinking into the lush, burgundy pile. She realized then that going to greet a total stranger with bare feet was not the most princess-like act. She did quite well playing her part in public. A lifetime of training made a few hours of serene smiling and waving second nature. But when she was home, here in the wonderful, isolated estate in Aceena, she shut her manners, along with her designer gowns, away. Then unwound her hair from the tight coil she wore it in when she was allowing herself to be trotted out in front of the public, and truly let herself simply be Gabriella.
She touched her face, her glasses. She also didn’t go out in public in those.
Oh, well. She didn’t want to impress this stranger; she wanted to interrogate him, and then send him on his way.
She padded through the grand entryway, not bothering with straightening her hair or preening in any way at all.
He had already been admitted entry, of course. It wouldn’t do to have a man like him standing outside on the step. And she could see what kind of man he was immediately as he came into her view.
He was...striking. It reminded her of an experience she’d once had in a museum. Moving through wall after wall of spectacular art before entering a small room off to the side. In it, one painting, with all of the light focused on it. It was the centerpiece. The only piece that mattered. Everything that had come before it paled in comparison.
The journey had been lovely, but this man was the destination.
He was like a van Gogh. His face a study in slashing lines and sharp angles. Sharp cheekbones, an angular jaw roughened with dark stubble. There was a soft curve to his lips that spoke of an artist with a deft hand. Who knew that after so much hardened and fearful symmetry there needed to be something different to draw the eye. There was a slight imperfection in his features, as well, one peak of his top lip not quite rising as high as the other. It gave a human quality to Alessandro that was missing from the rest of him. Those broad shoulders, muscular chest and slim waist covered by his severely tailored suit. Long, strong legs, feet covered by handmade shoes.
Yes, everything about him was formidable perfection.
Except for that mouth. The mouth that promised potential softening. That hinted at the fact that he was a man, rather than simply a work of art.
She blinked, shaking her head. That was a lengthy flight of romantic fantasy. Even for her.
“Hello?” She took a step deeper into the entry. “Can I help you?”
His dark eyes flickered over her, his expression one of disinterest. “I wish to speak to Queen Lucia about The Lost Love.”
“Yes. So I was told. However, I’m afraid the queen is unavailable to visitors at the moment.” She resisted the urge to push her glasses up her nose, and instead crossed her arms, trying to look slightly regal, though she was wearing black leggings and an oversize sweatshirt.
“So she sent... I give up. What are you exactly? The resident disaffected teenager? Ready to head out to a mall or some such?”
Gabriella sniffed. “Actually, I am Princess Gabriella D’Oro. So when I say that my grandmother is not available to see you, I speak from a place of authority. This is my home, and I regret to inform you that we have no space for you in it.”
“Strange. It seems quite spacious to me.”
“Well, things are organized just so. Quite a few too many American businessmen have been by of late. We would have to store you in the attic, and you would just collect dust up there.”
“Is that so?”
“I fear you would atrophy completely.”
“Well, we can’t have that. This is a new suit, and I don’t particularly want to atrophy in it.”
“Then perhaps you should be on your way.”
“I came a great distance to speak to your grandmother. This may surprise you, but I did not come to Aceena to engage in frivolity. But rather to speak to her about a painting.”
“Yes, so you said. I regret to inform you there is no such painting. I’m not entirely certain what you heard about it...”
“My grandfather. He is...the collector. I came to see about purchasing the painting on his behalf. I’m willing to offer a generous sum. I imagine disgraced royals might not be in a position to turn such an offer down.”
“Oh, we do just fine, thank you for your concern. Should you like to make a donation to someone in actual need of your charity, I would be happy to provide you with a list.”
“No, thank you. The charity was only a side effect. I want that painting. I’m willing to pay whatever the cost might be.”
Her mouth was dry. It made it difficult to speak, and yet she found she also couldn’t stop the flow of words. “Well, I’m afraid to disappoint you. While we do have paintings, we do not have that painting. That painting, if you weren’t aware, might not even exist.”
“Oh, I’m well aware that it’s what your family would like the public to think. However, I think you know more than you’re letting on.”
“No,” she said, and this time she did push her glasses up her nose. “I’m just a teenager headed out to the mall. What could I possibly know that you,” she said, sweeping her hand up and down, “in all your infinite and aged wisdom, do not?”
“The appeal of Justin Bieber?”
“I’m not entirely certain who that is.”
“I’m surprised by that. Girls your age love him.”
“In that case, can I offer you a hard candy? I hear men your age love those.”
She was not sure how this had happened. How she had wound up standing in the hallowed entry of her family estate trading insults with a stranger.
“I’ll accept the hard candy if it means you intend to give me a tour while I finish it.”
“No. Sorry. You would be finishing it on the lawn.”
He rubbed his hand over his chin and she shivered, an involuntary response to the soft noise made by the scrape of his hand over his whiskers. She was a sensualist. It was one of her weaknesses. She enjoyed art, and soft cushions, desserts and lush fabrics. The smell of old books and the feel of textured pages beneath her fingertips.
And she noticed fine details. Like the sound skin made when scraping over stubble.
“I’m not entirely certain this is the tactic you want to use. Because if you send me away, then I will only circumvent you. Either by contacting your grandmother