Page 50 of A Queen's Match
Hélène stared as comprehension sank in. “You’re talking about a motorcar race?”
“Just wait, these races are the future of Europe. Far more exciting than horses.”
“A horse is far grander, far more noble and more interesting to watch, than a bunch of gears and a wheel,” she said dismissively. “How fast can your cars go? Five miles per hour?”
“Fifteen, actually.”
“A horse can go up to thirty at a gallop!”
“But can your horse sustain this gallop for a hundred miles?” Emanuele shook his head. “If you ever visit Turin, I promise to take you out in my motorcar, and you’ll see what I mean.”
“Thank you, but I’ll pass,” Hélène said crisply.
“On the motorcar ride, or on more time with me?”
He really was an incorrigible flirt, the sort of man who charmed and teased as naturally as breathing. Hélène deliberately walked past him. “Do you know where the kitchens are? I should like some tea.”
“Of course I know where the kitchens are.” Emanuelehurried to keep pace with her. “I spent much of my childhood in this palace, you know.”
Hélène knew the story. After Emanuele’s father died, his uncle had begun sending for him every summer, quietly preparing Emanuele to be king—just in case.
“I’m sorry about your father,” she said clumsily. “It must have been hard for you, growing up without him.”
They had paused halfway down the corridor. Massive windows revealed the gardens behind the house, full of shadowed hedges and white marble statues.
“I loved going out in those gardens. I used to hide there, actually,” Emanuele admitted.
“From your tutor?”
“Oh yes. He had this awful habit of trying to teach me arithmetic.” Emanuele shuddered.
“For me, it was the dictées. My brother Philippe and I loved climbing the old oak in our garden to escape them. My governess would eventually find us there, but we just pelted her with acorns until she went to get my father. Poor Madame de Morsier,” Hélène added, “I don’t think she liked the dictées any more than we did.”
“Forgive my ignorance, but what is a dictée?” Emanuele asked.
“You never had to do dictées? Sentences designed to be purposefully hard to spell. Like,Charlotte et son chat chantent dans leur chambre?” She glanced over at Emanuele’s profile. “Is there no such thing in Italian?”
“Not in the Italian I speak, but more than half of Italy speaks a regional dialect. That is why French is our court language, because at least we can all understand each other.” Hegrinned. “Perhaps I should make everyone start doing these dictées you speak of.”
“Prepare to be wildly unpopular,” Hélène warned.
She should have guessed that the Italian language was as unruly and disorganized as its various regions. After all, the nation that Emanuele’s uncle ruled was only a generation old. The political movement known as the Risorgimento had united all the Italian kingdoms, Lombardy and Veneto and the Two Sicilies and the Papal States, into a single entity under the Savoys, who had previously been the Kings of Piedmont.
Rome might be one of the most ancient cities in Europe, but it was part of one of the newest countries.
“You know what?” Emanuele declared, turning to her. “I think we should climb a tree.”
“Now? Are you mad?”
He unlocked the doors and stepped onto the palace’s back terrace. “Why not? You just said that you used to love it.”
Because she couldn’t. Hélène had pushed the boundaries of ladylike behavior so many times: riding with the men, taking off her gloves more often than she should, eating too much dessert. Climbing a tree was so far beyond appropriate, it waslike…
Like sleeping with a man for over a year, and falling in love with him against your better judgment, and then losing him to a scheming manipulator?
What did it matter if someone saw Hélène climbing a tree? What punishment could she possibly be given that was worse than losing Eddy?
“You’re right,” she declared, and strode outside.
