Challenge became a shockwave of testosterone.
She turned and ran inside before it hit her, receded into the depths of the palace to the sound of his stunned, aroused, unbridled laughter.
Chapter Nine
“You do look like a queen!”
Clarissa stared at her reflection in the gilded, Rococco-style, antique full-length mirror. She had to admit that Antonia was right.
She felt like a new person, a real woman, a royal one, in this dress. It fit her like her skin did. No wonder. She’d stood for endless hours while a dozen designers had molded it around her.
But during the stages of its creation, she hadn’t imagined how the finished product would look. Last she’d seen it, it had yet to be put together and embroidered. The result was…amazing.
Its second-skin bodice, with an off-shoulder neckline, accentuated curves she’d never noticed she possessed, nipped her waist to a sparseness she hadn’t believed humanly possible—which remarkably wasn’t achieved by a breath-depleting corset or contrast with a mushrooming skirt. The lack of the latter was Ferruccio’s doing. “No parachutes,” he’d decreed.
She’d fought against the “parachute” they’d planned for her to wear, until he’d ended the debate. Thankfully. Infuriatingly.
At least she now had what she’d petitioned for—a skirt that molded to her hips before flaring gently in layers made of the extra-light, bulk-free cloths Ferruccio had said should be allowed to touch her body. Chiffon, tulle, lace and, for public exposure purposes, a base of opaque silk. The whole dress was made up of these materials and was extensively adorned in pearls and transparent, rainbow-reflecting sequins. Those coalesced in the middle of her trimmed, scalloped skirt to form the crest of Castaldini.
She looked over her shoulder as Luci and Gabrielle hooked her twenty-foot train where it connected undetectably to the skirt. Also Ferruccio’s doing. He’d demanded it be removable. Not that she had anywhere near enough layers to satisfy his expectations.
Well, he couldn’t give her the mane she’d demanded, either. Not in just five days.
The ladies finished the tricky job and stood back, exclaiming over the beauty of the train. The heavily pregnant Phoebe applauded their efforts from a nearby sofa. Antonia came forward to add the final touch, the crown tiara of Castaldini.
Clarissa caught Antonia’s tearful gaze in the mirror as she secured the tiara on top of her head. The heavily layered tulle veil flowed from the back of her chignon.
Clarissa knew that Antonia felt like the mother of the bride. Clarissa felt that she really was, too. But there was more to Antonia’s distress than that. Not only was she seeing the daughter she’d hadn’t given birth to getting married and crowned queen all at once, but she must be remembering the tragedy that had been Clarissa’s mother’s life, how different it could have been, how badly it had ended.
Her mother had worn this tiara, till she stopped appearing in public, around the time she’d gotten pregnant with Clarissa. Durante had insisted that Clarissa have it, had said that, when a new queen was crowned, he’d commission a replica to be made.
She’d told him she didn’t want keepsakes, but he’d been adamant. She deserved to have something beautiful of their mother, a reminder of better times, when she’d been whole and had worn the crown with pride and grace.
She couldn’t rebuff his thoughtfulness, misguided or not, and had taken the boxes containing this crown along with the rest of their mother’s jewelry and personal treasures. She hadn’t even opened them. She didn’t ask who had, to get the crown out.
Now she was going to be the queen, and the crown was no longer just a keepsake. It was officially hers to wear.
Would her mother’s misfortune go along with it?
Antonia placed her hands on her shoulders, squeezed, her breath uneven, her voice shaky. “Ah, cara mia, you are a vision.”
Clarissa smirked at her in the reflection, so that her pillar-of-power nanny’s poignancy wouldn’t wreck her own fragile composure. “Clothes do make the woman, don’t they? To your immense relief, I’m sure. You finally got me to look the part.”
Antonia scowled, indignation palpable. “You always did. You always were the most beautiful, refined princess in the world.”
“You tell her, Donna Antonia,” Luci piped in, resplendent in her pale-gold gown with its corset-like bodice and full-bodied skirt. Yes, bridesmaids were allowed to wear parachutes. “I always said she was a true princess, unlike those affected, artificial types. But she never believed it. She has serious self-image issues, our girl. Where they originated from, I’ll never understand.”
Gabrielle sighed. “Ah, self-doubts. You never know what might form them. One thing is certain—every person you know has more to them that they let on or that you’ll ever understand.”
Wise woman, Clarissa thought. She’d never told Luci of the events of her childhood, so Luci had always been puzzled by what seemed inexplicable traits in Clarissa’s character. Some had been as incomprehensible to Clarissa herself. She found the explanation to one now, as she gazed at herself in the mirror.
She’d thought pristine white would make her paleness look sickly. Thinking that, she’d never worn white. In fact, she’d never given her looks much attention at all, believing there wasn’t much to pay attention to. She now realized she’d been suffering from the sense of unworthiness that all who’d been abused as children suffer. It had made her unable to see her own assets.
She did now. She now noticed a golden tinge to her complexion, reflecting the hundred shades of her hair, and thought the white made her glow with vitality.
And she realized something more. It wasn’t the effect of the dress. Ten days ago, its opulence and glamor would have only deepened her sense of gawkiness.
This new self-acceptance and assurance was all the magic of Ferruccio. The memory of his eyes and body worshipping every part of her. She now saw herself through his hunger and appreciation.
Suddenly a burst of sound shook the whole chamber.
It was the royal brass orchestra playing the royal anthem, heralding the beginning of the ceremonies. The coronation would start in twenty minutes. The wedding would follow immediately.
She turned around in panic. “Ladies, thank you for all your help. But can I please have a few minutes alone?”
“Our queen has spoken! Let’s mosey on, folks.” Luci winked at her as she and Gabrielle helped Phoebe up from the sofa. “You better not run away the moment our backs are turned, hear?”