Read Online Princess From the Past by Caitlin Crews - Free Book Online
Authors: Caitlin Crews
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am a recalcitrant adolescent or a lowly member of your staff, Leo,” she told him, her voice tight and hard. “I understand that you live in a world where you need only express a desire and it is met, but I am not your underling. I am a grown woman. I do, in fact, know my own mind.”
Leo let out a short laugh. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said. “Does that mean the antique vases are safe from your rampages? I will notify the household staff.”
Her face darkened, but she did not scream at him. Against his will, Leo’s fascination deepened.
“Treat me like a child and I will treat you exactlythe same way,” she said instead, her words very precise, very pointed. “And I very much doubt your exalted sense of self could handle it.”
She was an adult? She had outgrown her childishness? He was thrilled, he told himself, eyeing her narrowly. Overjoyed, in fact. Wasn’t that why he’d allowed her to run off to Canada in the first place? She had been so very young when he had met her; far younger than her years. Hadn’t he wanted her to mature?
He had only himself to blame if he did not quite care for the specific direction her show of maturity had taken—if he found he preferred the angry child to this unknowable woman who stood before him with unreadable eyes.
“You are still my wife,” he said after a long moment, his tone even. “As long as that is true, you cannot stay in the village. It will cause too much comment.”
“Thank you for speaking to me as an adult for once,” she said. Her chin tilted up and her bright eyes sparkled with a combination of defiance and a certain resignation that made his hackles rise. “What does that say about you, I wonder, that it was so hard to do?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“I TRUST that was rhetorical,” he said mildly enough.
But Leo’s gaze was too sharp, and Bethany knew that she could no longer maintain any pretense of calm if she continued to look at him.
She moved, restless and more agitated than she wanted to admit, wandering further into the room. She let her gaze dance over the painting that dominated the far wall, a richly imagined, opulently hued rendition of the view outside these very windows, give or take a handful of centuries, painted by no less an artist than Titian.
Murano glass vases glowed scarlet and blue on the dresser, picking up the light from the Venetian chandelier that hung from the ceiling high above. Bethany knew that one of this room’s more famous occupants hundreds of years ago had been the daughter of a grand and noble Venetian family, and this room had ever since been adapted to pay homage to her residency.
What legacy might Bethany have left behind, she wondered, had she stayed? Would she have left her mark at all or would she have been swallowed whole into this castle, this family, this history? Annoyed by her sentimentality, and that wrenching sense of loss that inevitably followed, she shook the thought away.
She pretended she was not aware of Leo still standing in the doorway that connected his suite to hers. She pretended she could not feel the weight of his gaze and the far heavier and more damaging crush of the memories she fought to keep from her mind tugging at her, pulling at her, making her feel as if she waded through molasses.
Yet, despite herself, she was attuned to his every movement, his every breath.
“Dinner will be served at eight o’clock,” he said in his inexorable way when the silence in the room seemed to pound in her ears. “And, yes, we still maintain tradition and dress for dinner.”
She turned back toward him, hoping the fact that she was wearing jeans annoyed him as much as it had three years ago, when he had had his social secretary admonish her for her relentlessly common fashion-sense. She had been seen wearing them in the village, where anyone might have recognized her—oh, the horror.
“As you are not a student but the
Principessa di Felici
, it would be preferable if you dressed in
Leo let out a short laugh. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said. “Does that mean the antique vases are safe from your rampages? I will notify the household staff.”
Her face darkened, but she did not scream at him. Against his will, Leo’s fascination deepened.
“Treat me like a child and I will treat you exactlythe same way,” she said instead, her words very precise, very pointed. “And I very much doubt your exalted sense of self could handle it.”
She was an adult? She had outgrown her childishness? He was thrilled, he told himself, eyeing her narrowly. Overjoyed, in fact. Wasn’t that why he’d allowed her to run off to Canada in the first place? She had been so very young when he had met her; far younger than her years. Hadn’t he wanted her to mature?
He had only himself to blame if he did not quite care for the specific direction her show of maturity had taken—if he found he preferred the angry child to this unknowable woman who stood before him with unreadable eyes.
“You are still my wife,” he said after a long moment, his tone even. “As long as that is true, you cannot stay in the village. It will cause too much comment.”
“Thank you for speaking to me as an adult for once,” she said. Her chin tilted up and her bright eyes sparkled with a combination of defiance and a certain resignation that made his hackles rise. “What does that say about you, I wonder, that it was so hard to do?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“I TRUST that was rhetorical,” he said mildly enough.
But Leo’s gaze was too sharp, and Bethany knew that she could no longer maintain any pretense of calm if she continued to look at him.
She moved, restless and more agitated than she wanted to admit, wandering further into the room. She let her gaze dance over the painting that dominated the far wall, a richly imagined, opulently hued rendition of the view outside these very windows, give or take a handful of centuries, painted by no less an artist than Titian.
Murano glass vases glowed scarlet and blue on the dresser, picking up the light from the Venetian chandelier that hung from the ceiling high above. Bethany knew that one of this room’s more famous occupants hundreds of years ago had been the daughter of a grand and noble Venetian family, and this room had ever since been adapted to pay homage to her residency.
What legacy might Bethany have left behind, she wondered, had she stayed? Would she have left her mark at all or would she have been swallowed whole into this castle, this family, this history? Annoyed by her sentimentality, and that wrenching sense of loss that inevitably followed, she shook the thought away.
She pretended she was not aware of Leo still standing in the doorway that connected his suite to hers. She pretended she could not feel the weight of his gaze and the far heavier and more damaging crush of the memories she fought to keep from her mind tugging at her, pulling at her, making her feel as if she waded through molasses.
Yet, despite herself, she was attuned to his every movement, his every breath.
“Dinner will be served at eight o’clock,” he said in his inexorable way when the silence in the room seemed to pound in her ears. “And, yes, we still maintain tradition and dress for dinner.”
She turned back toward him, hoping the fact that she was wearing jeans annoyed him as much as it had three years ago, when he had had his social secretary admonish her for her relentlessly common fashion-sense. She had been seen wearing them in the village, where anyone might have recognized her—oh, the horror.
“As you are not a student but the
Principessa di Felici
, it would be preferable if you dressed in
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