About the Publisher
MADELEINE PERCHED ON the edge of the small wooden jetty and slipped her bare feet into the cold lake, shivering at the first shock of icy water on her bare flesh. Cold as the glacier-fed lake remained despite the summer sun, the refreshing lap of waves against her hot feet usually soothed her, aided and abetted by the view. Even after nearly a year living in the Dolomites, the magnificent mountains soaring into the sky filled her with utter awe. The only thing marring her enjoyment of the landscape was the graceful castle on the other side of the lake, its delicate spires mirroring the mountain peaks. Madeleine was completely over admiring ancient, imposing seats of power; she much preferred the traditional chalets which populated San Tomo, the small village at the head of the lake.
But today she barely felt the water, hardly noticed the view. Pulling a crumpled envelope out of her pocket, she slipped the heavy cream card out of it and flipped it over, reading the engraved gold words yet again. Not that she actually needed to read it. By now she knew the brief contents off by heart.
Lady Navenby
requests the pleasure of the presence of
the Honourable Madeleine Fitzroy
at the wedding of her son,
Lord Theo Willoughby, Earl of Navenby,
and
Miss Elisaveta Marlowe
at Villa Rosa, L’Isola dei Fiori
31st August
RSVP to Flintock Hall
Madeleine turned the piece of card over and over, aware that she was frowning, her mother’s voice echoing in her head warning her that she would get frown lines. What, she wondered, was the point of an expensive Swiss finishing school if she didn’t know the correct etiquette when one was invited to one’s ex-fiancé’s wedding? Especially if one had made it all the way up the aisle and to the actual altar before said fiancé became an ex?
Not that she had any intention of actually attending this wedding. The last thing anyone really wanted was the groom’s last bride-to-be hanging around like a modern-day Miss Havisham, the ghost of weddings past. But should she send a gift? If so, of what value? Theo and Elisaveta had her blessing, of course. After all, she was the one who had actually halted the wedding, right at the iconic ‘Any persons here present’ part.
No, it wasn’t the happy couple that worried her. They belonged together in a way she and Theo never had. Madeleine stared down at her morose reflection in the water. She just hoped that this new wedding of Theo’s, just a year after their own failed nuptials, wouldn’t resurrect the intense and intrusive press interest in Madeleine herself.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to push the panic back down to where it usually lurked, never quite quelled but never acknowledged. She was safe here, far away from the British press and a scandal which surely most people had forgotten about. It had just been so unexpected. She’d never been a tabloid headline before—and fervently hoped she never would be again.
All she wanted was the whole mess to be forgotten. To move on. To be simply Maddie, no longer the Honourable Madeleine with all that entailed.
Speaking of which—she glanced at the watch on her wrist—‘simply Maddie’s’ lunch break was nearly up. It took twenty minutes to walk around the small lake to the castle, where emails, to-do lists and myriad duties awaited her. Maddie shoved the envelope back into her pocket and scrambled to her feet, mentally calculating what she had to do that afternoon. Confirm numbers with the McKellans, finalise menu choices with the Wilsons and chat to the florist about the Shepherds’ desire to only have buttercups and daisies in all their floral arrangements. The florist considered herself an artist and Maddie wasn’t looking forward to conveying the bride’s wishes and the ensuing conversation about the barbaric taste of the English.
Maddie was fully aware that it was more than a little ironic that a woman who had officially Had Enough of weddings and ancestral stately homes had secured a job combining both these elements. Yet here she was, wedding and event planner at Castello Falcone, ensuring the mainly British brides—and their grooms—had the perfect Italian wedding experience. At least she was getting a salary for her labour. The first money she had actually earned in her twenty-six years, as opposed to working all hours for love, board and an allowance. It was liberating, literally and metaphorically.
And by the end of the year, she would have enough money saved to head off somewhere where nobody had ever heard of the Honourable Runaway Bride.
Just one more moment. Maddie turned back to the mountains, raising her arms in a silent commune with the sun, with the landscape, with the heady fresh air. Closing her eyes, she basked in the sensual warmth of the sun on her face, the scent of pine. She stayed still for several seconds, arms still raised high, head tilted back until the sound of the church bell, dolefully ringing out the quarter-hour, reminded her that she really needed to be getting back. She lowered her arms and opened her eyes, only to freeze in place.
A man was getting undressed on the other side of the lake.
It wasn’t a big lake, but long and skinny, the distance from one shore to the other widthways less than three hundred metres, perfectly swimmable if you didn’t mind the cold. Which meant Maddie had a clear view of the small cove on the opposite shore and of the man purposefully and neatly divesting himself of trousers, of shirt, of socks and shoes until he stood there in just a pair of swim-shorts.
Look away, her conscience bade her. He was perfectly entitled to his swim, whoever he was. And she had places to be and many, many things to do. She certainly shouldn’t be here ogling—because that, she guiltily admitted, was exactly what she was doing. Only she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
He was tall and perfectly sculpted. Long, muscular legs led to a slim, defined torso which broadened out into a strong set of shoulders. Maddie could make out tousled dark hair, although his features were blurred. Unexpectedly desire hit her, hot and heavy, swirling low in her stomach, weakening her knees. Nostalgia followed, equally potent. It had been so long since she had experienced anything this intense. If ever.
‘So you’re reduced to gawping at half-naked strangers,’ she muttered, half in self-disgust, half in self-deprecation as she made herself turn away. ‘Face it, Maddie, this journey of discovery of yours is going to have to include getting back in the dating game. You want someone to really, passionately love you? They’re going to have to get to know you first.’
Not that she had ever really dated. A series—a very short series—of monogamous, semi-serious relationships with suitable young men that she had eventually ended when she considered herself to be in real danger of dying from actual boredom, until she had allowed herself to get engaged to Theo Willoughby. Engaged even though he had never, not once, made her tremble with desire. Nor, she admitted, had she him. No wonder they’d both been content to drift through the two years of their engagement barely seeing each other—and barely touching when they did.
She took one last look back and stilled. The man was looking across at her, and even over the lake she could sense his predatory intenseness. Heat flickered through her veins as she stood there, trapped under the weight of his gaze, über-conscious of his semi-nudity, all that flesh so splendidly displayed, feeling, under the weight of his gaze, as if she were equally unclad. Her mouth dried, her limbs heavy, under his spell, as if he were some male Medusa, turning her into a statue with a look alone.
Somehow Maddie summoned up the resolve to turn away, to walk nonchalantly as if she didn’t know that he was still staring at her, as if his gaze