Of course, that was before Valentina had come along and altered the entire course of his life.
“So, what do you know about the Teatro della Pergola?” she asked, radiating with brightness. She ever led him out of his darkness, his wife.
“It was built in the seventeenth century by the Medici family,” he said, glancing around the magnificent theater, all decked in crimson and gold.
“What didn’t the Medicis have a hand in building in Florence?”
“Not much,” he said on a laugh. He pointed his finger in the air and swooped it around. “The horseshoe shape with tiered family boxes to the sides? The first of its kind in Europe.”
As Valentina took in the towering magnificence of the theater, Archie took her in. Somehow, in the two years since their marriage, her dark-eyed beauty had only grown more luminous as she’d settled into her roles of viscountess, wife, and muse, while retaining the parts of herself that made her Valentina—her pragmatism, her voice. That his muse had consented to share her life with him was the luckiest occurrence of his life.
The lights began to dim, and the theater settled into attention. It appeared to be a full house.
Valentina caught his gaze. He detected concern in those amber depths. “Are you ready?” she whispered.
“I suppose I don’t have a choice,” he said. He’d agreed to this concert, now he must see it through.
“You’re a Windermere,” she said, smiling. “You’ve always thrived by diving in head first.”
Ah, his wife, she knew him well.
Yes, he was tetchy, but a case of nerves had never held him back from pursuing an interest once he’d taken it up. In fact, nerves only pushed and provoked him to new heights.
And his wife understood that about him.
She loved that about him.
The pianist, Signore Pasquini, strode to the center of the stage, dipped in a deep bow, and made his dignified way to the piano, flapping his coattails behind him as he lowered onto the bench. Signore Pasquini’s fingers poised above the keyboard, anticipation roared through Archie’s veins. In this silent moment before the music began not even a mote of dust dared stir.
Then Signore Pasquini’s fingers depressed the keys, and“Valentina by Night”filledthe theater.
To hear this piece played in the public sphere filled a space inside Archie he’d never known existed. It made him feel whole and complete, and somehow, strangely, useful.
Which wouldn’t have been possible without the woman sitting beside him.
Moreover, none of it would possess meaning without her.
The piece reached its end with a flourish of climax. Archie could appreciate that Signore Pasquini was quite the masterful pianist. The next instant, the crowd broke into wild applause, and something cracked open inside Archie.Pride…relief.
He turned toward Valentina, for it was only her appreciation that truly mattered.
If she deemed his work—him—worthy, then it—and he—were.
“You moved them, Archie,” she said. “This is all for you.”
Archie shook his head. “Andyou, my love.” Unable not to, he reached out and cupped the back of her head. “I’m only good for a lark and a laugh without you, my wild Valentina. I can only imagine what new adventures await us.”
“You won’t have to imagine for long,” she said. He only now noticed the secret smile curving her lush ruby-red lips.
“How do you mean?”
She took his hand and placed it low on her stomach. “I’d say you’ll only have to imagine for about seven months.”
Sudden joy surged through him. “Do you mean…”
She nodded, happy tears sparkling in her eyes.
The wild “Whoop!” that Archie let rip drew no fewer than half the eyes in the theater. No matter. There was simply no containing it.
