“Oh, you’ll be more than that someday. You’ll be the wife of an earl.”
“And what do I know about that?”
Why was she doing this? Why was she attempting to talk him out of his love for her?
His smile fell, and he became utterly serious. “Our life—the one we create, the one we live day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute—will have naught to do with a title. You keep my feet on the ground, Valentina. You let me fly.”
And Valentina, at last, saw how it could work between them. “And you let me fly wild and free though my feet remain on the ground.”
“You see? We are perfect for each other.”
And she saw with perfect clarity that he was right.
“I’m utterly struck with love for you, Valentina.”
“Colpo di fulmine,” she whispered.
“My Italian is a little rusty.”
“The thunderstrike.Here.” She touched her chest. “Andhere.” She touched the place directly above his heart.
Archie shook his head. “A thunderstrike is temporary. What exists between us is forever.”
“Sayyes, already,” shouted a voice.
She smiled and no few tears broke and streamed down her cheeks. “Yes,” she said. “Forever?” She had to hear it one more time.
He tucked his thumb beneath her chin and gently tugged her forward. “Forever,” he whispered into the scant space between their mouths, so only he and she could hear.
She trusted this man with her life, her body, her soul…her future. They completed each other in ways that only they knew.
“Kiss her already,” came another shout. The voice sounded suspiciously like her little brother Luca.
“We can’t keep our audience waiting,” said Archie just before his mouth claimed hers.
Cheers and clapping sailed up to the sky. But Valentina had no care for them or the spectacle she and Archie were creating.
She would need to accustom herself to it, for life with this man who lit her soul—and thighs—on fire would never be boring or small or bound by society’s rules.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she surrendered to his kiss, and to the life they would create together.
Epilogue
Florence, October 1823
Archie was nervous.
He wouldn’t attempt to deny the fact as he sat in the fifth-row, crimson velvet theater seat, his hands clutched at his sides, his heart already a hammer in his chest.
The music hadn’t even yet begun.
Not just any music.
Hismusic.
A hand reached over, and elegant, feminine fingers twined through his. He wasn’t alone, his wife’s hand told him.
The theater was nearly full—a fact difficult to fathom. Theatergoers had come to hear his composition. It defied belief. Only two years ago, his work had never seen the light of day.
