Prince's Virgin In Venice

Her latest burst of adrenaline leeched out of her and she found an answering smile as she took his arm and let him lead her into a garden lit with tiny lights that magically turned a line of trees into carriages pulled by horses towards the palazzo beyond.

And as they entered this magical world she wondered... She’d been told to expect heavy security and bag searches at the ball, but this doorman had ushered them in without so much as blinking.

‘What kind of ball is this?’ she asked. ‘Why are there no tickets and no bag searches?’

‘A private function, by invitation only.’

She looked up at him. ‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to come, in that case?’

‘I invited you, didn’t I?’

They stopped just shy of the fountain, halfway across the garden by the soaring side wall of the palazzo, so she could take in the gardens and their magical lighting. To the left, a low wall topped with an ornate railing bordered the garden. The canal lay beyond, she guessed, though it was near impossible to make out anything through the fog, and the buildings opposite were no more than shifting apparitions in the mist.

The mist blurred the tops of the trees and turned the lights of those distant buildings into mere smudges, giving the garden a mystical air. To Rosa, it was almost as if Venice had shrunk to this one fairy-tale garden. The damp air was cold against her face, but she was deliciously warm under Vittorio’s cloak and in no hurry to go inside. For inside there would be more guests—more strangers—and doubtless there would be friendships and connections between them and she would be the outsider. For now it was enough to deal with this one stranger.

More than enough when she thought about the way he looked at her—as if he was seeing inside her, reaching into a place where lurked her deepest fears and desires. For they both existed with this man. He seemed to scrape the surface of her nerve-endings away so everything she felt was raw. Primal. Exciting.

‘What is this place?’ she asked, watching the play of water spouting from the fat fish at the base of the three-tiered fountain. ‘Who owns it?’

‘It belongs to a friend of mine. Marcello’s ancestors were doges of Venice and very rich. The palazzo dates back to the sixteenth century.’

‘His family were rulers of Venice?’

‘Some. Yes.’

‘How do you even know someone like that?’

He paused, gave a shrug of his shoulders. ‘My father and his go back a long way.’

‘Why? Did your father work for him?’

He took a little time before he dipped his head to the side. ‘Something like that.’

She nodded, understanding. ‘I get that. My father services the mayor’s cars in Zecce—the village in Puglia where I come from. He gets invited to the Christmas party every year. We used to get invited too, when we were children.’

‘We?’

‘My three older brothers and me. They’re all married now, with their own families.’

She looked around at the gardens strung with lights and thought about the new nephew or niece who would be welcomed into the world in the next few weeks, and the money she’d wasted on her ticket for the ball tonight—money she could have used to pay for a visit home, along with a special gift for the new baby, and still have had change left over. She sighed at the waste.

‘I paid one hundred euros for my ticket to the ball. That’s one hundred euros down the drain.’

One eyebrow arched. ‘That much?’

‘I know. It’s ridiculously expensive, and ours was one of the cheapest balls, so you’re lucky to get invited to parties in a place like this for free. You can pay a lot more than I did, though. Hundreds more.’

She swallowed. She was babbling. She knew she was babbling. But something about this man’s looming presence in the fog made her want to put more of herself into it and even up the score. He was so tall, so broad across the shoulders, his features so powerful. Everything about him spoke of power.

Because he hadn’t said a word in the space she’d left, she felt compelled to continue. ‘And then you have to have a costume, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘Although I made my costume myself, I still had to buy the material.’

‘Is that what you do, Rosa?’ he asked as they resumed their walk towards the palazzo. ‘Are you a designer?’

She laughed. ‘Hardly. I’m not even a proper seamstress. I clean rooms at the Palazzo d’Velatte, a small hotel in the Dorsoduro sestiere. Do you know it?’

He shook his head.

‘It’s much smaller than this, but very grand.’

Steps led up to a pair of ancient wooden doors that swung open before them, as if whoever was inside had been anticipating their arrival.

She looked up at him. ‘Do you ever get used to visiting your friend in such a grand place?’

He just smiled and said, ‘Venice is quite special. It takes a little getting used to.’

Rosa looked up at the massive doors, at the light spilling from the interior, and took a deep breath. ‘It’s taking me a lot of getting used to.’

And then they entered the palazzo’s reception room and Rosa’s eyes really popped. She’d thought the hotel where she worked was grand! Marketed as a one-time palazzo, and now a so-called boutique hotel, she’d thought it the epitome of style, capturing the faded elegance of times gone by.

It was true that the rooms were more spacious than she’d ever encountered, and the ceilings impossibly high—not to mention a pain to clean. But the building seemed to have an air of neglect about it, as if it was sinking in on itself. The doors caught and snagged on the tiled floors, never quite fitting into the doorframes, and there were complaints from guests every other day that things didn’t quite work right.

Elegant decay, she’d put it down to—until the day she’d taken out the rubbish to the waiting boat and witnessed a chunk of wall falling into the canal. She figured there was not much that was elegant about a wall crumbling piece by piece into the canal.

But here, in this place, she was confronted by a real palazzo—lavishly decorated from floor to soaring ceiling with rich frescoes and gilded reliefs, and impeccably furnished with what must be priceless antiques. From somewhere high above came the sounds of a string quartet, drifting down the spectacular staircase. And now she could see the hotel where she worked for what it really was. Faded...tired. A mere whisper of what it had been trying to emulate.

Another doorman stepped forward with a nod, and relieved Rosa of both Vittorio’s leather cloak and her own wrap underneath.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said, wide-eyed as she took it all in, rubbing her bare arms under the light of a Murano glass chandelier high above that was lit with at least one hundred globes.

‘Are you cold?’ he asked, watching her, his eyes raking over her, taking in her fitted bodice and the skirt with the weather-inappropriate hem.

‘No.’

Not cold. Her goosebumps had nothing to do with the temperature. Rather, without her cloak and the gloom outside to keep her hidden from his gaze, she felt suddenly exposed. Crazy. She’d been so delighted with the way the design of the gown had turned out, so proud of her efforts after all the late nights she’d spent sewing, and she’d been eager to wear it tonight.

‘You look so sexy,’ Chiara had said, clapping her hands as Rosa performed a twirl for her. ‘You’ll have every man at the ball lining up to dance with you.’

She had felt sexy, and a little bit more wicked than she was used to—or at least she had felt that way then. But right now she had to resist the urge to tug up the bodice of her gown, where it hugged the curve of her breasts, and tug down the front of the skirt.

In a place such as this, where elegance and class oozed from the frescoes and antique glass chandeliers, bouncing light off myriad marble and gilded surfaces, she felt like a cheap bauble. Tacky. Like the fake glass trinkets that some of the shops passed off as Venetian glass when it had been made in some rip-off factory half a world away.

She wondered if Vittorio was suddenly regretting his rash impulse to invite her. Could he see how out of place she was?

Yes, she was supposed to be dressed as a courtesan, but she wished right now that she’d chosen a more expensive fabric or a subtler colour. Something with class that wasn’t so brash and obvious. Something that contained at least a modicum of decency. Surely he had to see that she didn’t belong here in the midst of all this luxury and opulence?