Page 71 of Royally Roma
But she didn’t. She couldn’t appreciate the impossibility of anything like this happening again. There was no room in his life for her. Or anyone. He’d seen what the promise of a future on the throne had done to his mother. He couldn’t... wouldn’t... thrust such a fate on someone. Somewhere there was a royal bride waiting for him—someone who’d been born with a crown on her head, just as he had. Someone who would know what to expect. And on some future date, as far away as Niccolo could reasonably manage, his parliament would bring her to Lazaretto. They would be matched together, like two caged animals. He would marry a stranger. Someone who knew nothing about him, other than the carefully crafted man he presented to the outside world.
He hadn’t realized how weary he’d grown of that man. Until he’d spent the past forty-eight hours being someone else.
He wished he could explain. God, how he wished that. “The other day—Caesar’s grave, the flowers—brought back many memories for me, Julia.”
Her full lips turned down in a slight frown. “Oh?”
“Of my mother. She died when I was a young man.”
The silence that followed grew thick. Expanded. Wrapped around them like a blanket.
“Nico, there’s something you should know...” she started.
He didn’t let her finish. Memories and feelings that he’d managed to hold at bay for years had come rushing to the forefront, and there was no holding them back. “She committed suicide. Pills.”
“Oh, Nico.” She rested a tender hand on his shoulder.
“No one knew. The cause of her death was kept secret. The situation was...” He swallowed, remembering the frantic efforts of the palace to hide the truth from the press. “... complicated.”
The blame would have been placed squarely on his father’s shoulders. His extramarital activities had already been splashed all over the papers. Through it all, Niccolo’s mother had gone about her royal duties with her head held high. No one had known what a toll it had taken on her—the humiliation, the depression. Until it had been too late.
Then, as now, Lazaretto’s government was a delicately balanced partnership between the parliament and the monarchy, with the parliament having a slight upper hand. The public outpouring of grief over the death of his mother was unprecedented. If they’d known the truth, his father would have been crucified by the press. Parliament would have had no choice but to abolish the monarchy. His family’s legacy would have been ruined.
“You were never able to properly grieve for her, were you?” Julia asked softly.
Grief hadn’t been a priority. The crown had come first, as it always had. As it always would.
He swallowed. “No, I suppose I wasn’t.”
His father had abdicated as heir to the throne, citing overwhelming grief and gaining what little favor he could in the media. Niccolo, the golden child who bore such a resemblance to his famous mother, had taken his father’s place as crown prince, future king. He’d been the one to move the royal family beyond the tragedy. He’d saved the monarchy. Overnight, he’d both lost a mother and gained a lifelong burden—the responsibility of ensuring the future of his family’s sovereignty.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she said, letting her fingertips flutter up the length of his neck until she was cupping his face with both hands.
There was such tenderness in her eyes in the wake of his naked truth. The number of things he hadn’t told her was countless, yet he’d just revealed his deepest, darkest secret—the one truth he’d never told anyone. Even Piero didn’t know. Only his closest family members and the palace doctor had been privy to the intimate details of his mother’s death.
And now the enigmatic Julia Costa, whom he would never see again after this morning.
She leaned forward to brush his lips with the gentlest of kisses, and the delicate strap of her nightie gave way, exposing the sensuous curve of her ivory breast. He grew instantly aroused, mesmerized by the softness of her lips and the breathtaking beauty of her body.
“My darling,” he whispered, as though it were true. As though she were really his. “Let me look at you.”
He ran his fingertips beneath the other strap and lifted it free. Champagne-colored satin fell and pooled at her waist. She sat before him, bare-breasted and breathless. Such grace, such charm. Niccolo cupped her lovely breasts in his hands and bent to kiss their tender rose peaks, worshipping her beauty with a gentle brush of his lips.
There was comfort to be found in such adoration, atonement in the giving and receiving of pleasure. And even though he knew he had no right to seek such solace, he had to make love to her. Now. He’d moved beyond the ability to decide.
She’d shared herself with him, and he’d shared himself in return. He’d said things to her that he’d never said to anyone before. He didn’t even know why, other than the fact that he wanted to be real with her. She might not know his name, but she knew the real him. The Niccolo La Torre that no one else knew. There was more to him than a crown and a picture on the cover of a magazine. Somehow, some way, this stranger who’d stumbled into his life purely by chance actuallysawhim.
Making love to her was no longer a choice. It was a raw, aching need. He needed to penetrate her pain, her past, and her present. Doing so was the only way he would find peace.
The future would never be theirs. But there was a world inside this woman. A world beyond Lazaretto, beyond Rome. A world where he could lose himself.
A world where she could be his.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
“Niccolo,” Julia murmured, moving to sit astride him, nearly fainting with desire when she felt the press of his erection against her center through the whisper-thin barrier of the bedsheets.
