8
She snorted with laughter, rolling her eyes. "For you, perhaps," she pointed out in amusement. "He's never really approved of me. Too much of a child, as he always says."
There went those brows of his again. "Has he?" Lorenzo asked. "Well, we shall just have to prove how wrong he is, won't we, mia cara?" he said, as he handed her one of the two glasses, both of them filled to the brim with a ruby-colored liquid.
She giggled, taking the glass gratefully and managing to swallow half the contents in one go. Biting her lip, she looked around the bedroom she hadn't seen very much of.
"You took your grandmother's portrait out," she commented, glad of that. As lovely as the de Bueri matriarch had been before her death, her portrait had always seemed to be judging anyone who looked at it for too long.
He chuckled to see her drain half the glass in one gulp. "Easy, Lena. We have all night," he assured her, taking a much smaller gulp from his own glass. He shrugged a little at her remark regarding the portrait. "I am not a boy any longer. I did not think we wanted her watching us now that we are, well, married," he said, with just a hint of nervousness in his voice.
"I wish I had known her," Madalena said softly, absentmindedly sitting on the edge of the bed. "Nonna always said she was a lovely woman, and your father was so fond of telling stories about her."
"I don't remember much about her," he replied, snagging the bottle to refill her glass, a small frown on his face at the memory of his paternal grandmother. "I think she would have liked you," he added. Then again, who didn't like Madalena? She was a sweet girl who didn't have a bad word for anyone.
"What do you remember?" she asked, her bright eyes just a little sleepy. While they talked, it was easier to forget that they were married and about to go to bed together.
"Mmm, not much," he replied with another small frown. "I remember that she liked to tell me stories," he said, as he, too, took a seat on the bed. "And she was very fond of sweets," he added, the frown changing to a faint smile at the memory.
"So are you," she teased, giggling a little as she did so. "Do you still keep a stash of sweets under your bed, or do you have a more grown up hiding place for them these days?"
He laughed, a mischievous gleam in his eyes at her question. He held up an index finger and laid it across her lips, as if to silence her. "A secret stash, mia cara," he whispered, all the wine starting to go to his head. "Shhh."
She pouted, her lips pressing against his finger even as she blushed at the unexpected touch. "But I like sweets, too," was her complaint, though she hardly seemed to mind.
"But it wouldn't be a secret stash, if I told you where it is," he reasoned, his finger brushing her lips as he drew his hand away, a silly smirk on his face. "Perhaps you will just have to find it."
"That's a challenge," she pointed out. "You know I will, I always win." Mostly because people let her win, but she hadn't quite worked that one out yet.
He laughed, unafraid to tell her the reason she always won, or just drunk enough to feel uninhibited enough to do so. "That, my little coccinella, is because I let you," he told her, tweaking her nose with a finger.
"But not this time?" She laughed as he tweaked her nose, batting at his hand with less than perfect coordination. the wine was going to her head, but that didn't stop her from taking another drink from her glass.
"Not this time," he echoed, grinning like an idiot. If nothing else, the wine was relaxing both their nerves, even if they were acting like children. "But feel free to search for it!" he told her, waving a hand at her, as if giving her permission to do so.
"I will!" Downing the rest of her wine, Madalena set it on the nearest flat surface and stood up determinedly, only to sway as the wine finally hit her like a ton of bricks. "Oooh ..."
He chuckled, amused at the way she was swaying. He doubted his so-called stash was in much danger of being found considering the way she was swaying. "I think perhaps you have had enough wine," he teased her.
She thumped back down onto the bed, and onto her back, arms raised over her head comfortably, face flushed but smiling. "You might be right," she conceded. "But tomorrow, I will hunt your sweets out!"
"Not before breakfast!" he warned, chuckling as she thumped back onto the bed. He tried not to think too much about what was expected of them tonight, content just to see her smiling. He drained the wine in his own glass and leaned over to set it beside hers before dropping onto his back next to her. "Do you think there is any chance we could be happy together, Lena?" he asked her, staring up at the wooden beams above their heads.
"We've always been happy together, Lory," she pointed out, her fuzzy head making it easier to say such things than it would have been an hour ago. "I don't see why that should change just because we're living together now."
Not only living together, but married and expected to have sons and daughters together in the not-too-distant future. Especially sons. An heir. No pressure there. But he didn't want to spoil her good mood by pointing that out. "I suppose," he admitted, half-heartedly. "Do you think ..." he started before breaking off, turning his head toward hers, the spot between his brow crinkled with worry.
"I don't think, I'm just pretty," she said without thinking, repeating the mantra her grandmother had drummed into her head since she was small. She giggled as she said it, her own head turning toward his with a warm smile.
He frowned at her, reaching over to brush a stray strand of hair away from her face. "You are more than just a pretty face, Madalena," he scolded her gently. "You only need to believe in yourself."
Her smile warmed further at his scolding, her heart swelling at his obvious care for her. "You're very sweet," she said, rolling onto her side to look down at him. "And I'm very drunk."
He chuckled at her insight. "Si, I am sweet, and si, you are drunk," he told her, tapping a finger against her nose. "Perhaps I am the secret stash," he teased her with a smirk.
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