Page 41 of A Touch of Charm
Yes, in the soft meadow, on a little hill, rolling around like a lovesick farmer’s boy on the meadows in south Tirol. But this was London; he wasn’t just a boy but a physician, and in his arms was a princess.
Not just any princess, but the princess.
The one whose heartbeat he felt against his chest.
The one whose sweet breath made him want to kiss her.
The one who was laughing out loud, ignorant of the forbidden thoughts he had.
He mustn’t betray her trust, nor Stan’s. His task was to look out for her.
Basta!Enough!
Basta, Basta, Basta! That was all.
It had to be enough. He’d help her up, feign utmost regret for the mishap, and let her run off, leaving him disgraced for not stopping her fall, for harboring the most unchaste thoughts for a princess whose virtue he ought to protect.
Yes, he was going down, especially if Stan saw him like this.
She’d probably scream and run away.
How could he possibly explain himself if Stan confronted him about the situation?
Thea rolled off him and onto her back in the meadow just then. She closed her eyes and just lay there.
This was the moment, Andre knew, he ought to seize. It all unfurled so perfectly in his mind’s eye. He’d climb over her, put one hand on either side of her shoulders, she’d blink at him when he blocked the sun from her, and then she’d smile that perfect smile of hers. So he’d lower his mouth onto hers, and they’d topple in the meadow, under the bright sky and surrounded by fragrant flowers, for that’s what he felt like near Thea—wild and free.
But he couldn’t do it.
She was a princess, and he was just a bastard of the distant Habsburg branch. They weren’t even alone since Mary was there. Again!
Thus, he propped himself on his elbow and looked at the lovely princess crinkling her nose under the sunshine.
“It tickles, doesn’t it?” she asked, her eyes still closed.
“What does?”
“The grass on our necks.”
She thought he’d been lying beside her. She couldn’t know that he had been admiring her. He knew he’d hardly have another chance to commit such perfection to his memory. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he could remember this moment forever and draw from it when he was alone at night. He was sure he would be because something had changed in his heart, and he never wanted to look at another woman again—only Thea, the princess of his heart, since she couldn’t ever be the princess in his life.
“You are so beautiful, I have no words,” Andre said, half hoping she hadn’t heard him.
“No words?” she asked.
“None.”
“Not in any of the languages?”
She’s flirting.
He took heart. “Perhaps in a combination.”
“Which ones?” Thea blinked into the sun, but he felt her gaze on his skin like a wave of something he didn’t dare describe either.
“Let me think about it.” Andre lay beside Thea, the world around them a blur of soft sounds and gentle warmth. The sunlight poured over them like thick honey, slowing down time as Andre tried to stifle his impulse. A halo of flyaway hairs and the lace rim of her bonnet made her too inviting as she lay with her eyes closed, her expression one of pure tranquility. Every detail of her seemed etched into his mind—the way her breath created a gentle rhythm in the air, the slight upturn of her lips that hinted at an unspoken joy.
“Thea,” he began, “the superlative ofbellaisbellissima, and it’s not enough for you in Italian alone.” She looked at him as his words lingered between them, delicate as the sunlight that seemed to wrap around her blonde curls. “Painters couldn’t capture your golden glow. But even that pales, foréclatante, as the French say, gleaming with a radiance as if the heavens shaped you, blending the skies with their most precious hues, still isn’t enough.”
