From the Baroness’s Diary III: The Happily Ever AfterS

By Cristiane Serruya

I’ve been trying to get away from one man, I didn’t think I’d end up with three. 

I flee my abusive husband and travel to Italy to find Salvatore Di Luca, my long-lost love. But the moment I set foot in Sicily, my life takes an unexpected turn: I meet Enzo, a dominant, broken-hearted man, and we connect at first sight. I couldn’t have imagined he is Salvatore’s elder brother and that they have a younger brother, Angelo, who thinks he is damaged for life.

It’s more than a trip. It’s a lifetime journey. 

All three of them want me and I want to heal their tortured souls. Before I even realize what is happening, we are entangled. Yet I am still married and the darkness of my past comes crashing down on us sooner rather than later, threatening more than our happiness.

But I won’t go down without a fight—and neither will my Harem—because my journey won’t be complete until forever belongs to the four of us.

If you are a fan of Reverse Harem Romance, you will love this scandalous, refreshing, and, of course, incredibly sexy story which involves three alpha Italian knights who will do anything for their baroness—oops, their Principessa. 

This quick-blush, perfect bedside read by USA Today bestselling author Cristiane Serruya can be read as a standalone!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Between the Pages
• Release date: Aug 28, 2018

Book preview

Faulkner

Prologue

A Note from the Author

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As you might know already, the previous diaries fell into the hands of one of my book-friends, X, who was an employee at Beardley Manor, and we thought Chloé’s happily-ever-after would be forever unknown, since we knew of no more diaries.

But on a stroke of luck, during a trip to Italy to locate Salvatore’s nonexistent diaries, this author had the pleasure of meeting the mythological Lady Chloé de la Fleur Beardley Di Luca in person—or rather, just Chloé. I had access not only to her other secret diaries but I also interviewed her family.

Chloé confessed to me that she surely never dreamed that the memories I created to her would someday be put before others’ eyes, but she is very happy to have you reading about her adventures—and misadventures.

So, this time, differently from the previous diary installments, we get to know an even more interesting Chloé, who…ah, but I will let her tell her story on her own words. And Salvatore, Enzo, and Angelo in their own words…

Welcome again to Lady Chloé’s world!

Chapter One

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A great deal has happened since I last wrote in my journal. I didn’t leave it on a whim, but because life called, and called greatly.

I decided that I should go after my true love, my Salvatore, to Italy, since my husband of almost seven-years, the eleventh Baron Beardley, Joseph Georges Charles Fitzroy Von Tussen Beardley, with all his pomp and circumstance, has yet to come home to me after eight months of traveling for business.

I am not certain, but I am guessing he is not coming home any time soon.

I wonder if he has fallen in love—and if it was with his partner, Carl Wainsteam—and finally decided to follow his natural sexual impulses. Now that I know he has a male lover, I suspect that is what keeps him away from here.

Not that I can blame him.

Honestly, I envy his freedom. He can leave under the guise of business and live his life as he wishes to do so. And I wish him well.

Me, on the other hand, I have too many eyes watching my every move, expecting me to be their baroness, a lady, and to never step outside this pretty little box I have been forced into.

But that is not going to stop me from going after Salvatore. I am going to find him and live the life I wish to live—Non. That I deserve to live.

After a small stint in London with my dearest friend Collette, and her husband, Jean, I have returned to the manor, to the empty halls and memories of what has transpired in this house since I have become its lady.

Collette begged me not to come back, but I had a subject to discuss with my husband: our divorce. Plus, London had become a bore, the endless parties and leering men no longer capturing my attention as they once did.

Milady, he has arrived.

I scramble off the settee and straighten my shirt, undoing another button to give the barest hint of my breasts when I move.

Is it shameful? I do not care.

No one in this dreadful house has made me feel special or even looked at me in months. Not even my flourishing garden brings the joy it once did. I wish to leave this place for a while, spread my wings as my husband has.

Send him in.

Mr. Longman, our butler, nods and a fissure of excitement shoots through my veins. It was Collette’s suggestion to hire a private investigator to find my dear Salvatore, citing that the country was too vast for me to go traipsing on my own. I have done exactly what she suggested—discreetly, of course—and he is coming to visit today.

The door opens and a tall man steps in the room, his eyes landing on me. He is younger than I had anticipated, his lean frame encased in a somber grey suit that matches the color of his eyes. There is a spark of interest in their depths as he walks toward me, bowing. Lady Beardley, a pleasure.

Monsieur Brown, I reply, clasping my hands tightly to steady my nerves. The pleasure is all mine. Shall we sit?

He straightens and I feel the thrum of my pulse against my neck, a sign that is vaguely familiar to me.

I move us to the wingback chairs before the roaring fire, where Longman has already placed the tea cart.

You stated in your call that you are looking for someone? he asks, watching me pour each of us a cup of tea. Have you lost him?

I chuckle lightly, handing him a cup and saucer. That, Monsieur, remains to be seen. You see, he left no forwarding address when he departed and I desperately need to speak to him.

Interesting, he answers, eyeing me speculatively. Not even the baron knows?

I clear my throat. The baron is away on business, which is why I cannot ask for his help. He would want me to handle this matter on my own and you will be adequately compensated, Monsieur Brown.

His eyes slide over me, pausing at the gap in my shirt before a slow smile passes over his lips. I close it quickly. I have no doubt that I will be successful, milady. No doubt at all.

How long will this take, Monsieur? I ask after a moment.

A few weeks, he answers, setting his cup on the cart between us. I trust you have a name for me?

I nod. After all this time of being separated from Salvatore, I am finally going to find him. Though he has never written or called, I know Salvatore loves me. Our…relationship was so much more than just whetting our sexual appetites for each other.

Gone is the girl that had come into this marriage with stars in her eyes. Now I am a woman who demands more from this world.

His name is Salvatore di Luca, I say quickly before I lose my nerve. He was our most treasured gardener and my husband would like for him to come back to the manor.

Your husband? Monsieur Brown arched a brow. What about you, milady? Do you wish for him to come back as well?

I do, more than I can put into words. When Salvatore departed for Italy, I felt as if he had taken a piece of my heart with him. I hadn’t known how much you could love another like the very air you breathe, and while I had been upset about his departure, I hadn’t known.

Not until he was no longer within arm’s reach.

"Bien sûr, Monsieur, I finally answer. I do wish for my gardener to return."

Well then, the investigator says with a short nod. We’ll get your gardener back where he belongs.

I listen as he speaks of his fees but I breathe, relieved. Joseph has money enough but I don’t. I am entirely dependent on him and the few cents I scrape from the monthly house budget. I have to save whatever I can.

I’ll be on my way, he says after a few more questions on details and information he thinks might be helpful for his quest, like why Salvatore left, the death of his father, and how long ago—almost four years.

We stand and I place my hand in his outstretched one. I will be looking forward to your next visit, Monsieur Brown.

I hope to bring you the news you wish to hear.

I give him a smile and he walks out of the library, leaving me to think about what I am about to embark on. I already have money to purchase my ticket to Italy, but I hadn’t been able to find him.

That and a sudden illness had struck me down, confining me to my bed for the better part of a month. Nerves, I believe.

But now I am ready to seek my happiness.

Pressing my fingers to my forehead, I think about Collette’s conversation with me before I departed London.

Divorce is such an ugly word, with ugly implications, but the baron and I were well on our way to doing so. Why would either of us wish to stay where we are unhappy?

But Joseph is traveling from one place to another and can’t be bothered to come back to discuss it with me. I sent him a letter via his secretary explaining the reasons I didn’t want to continue with our marriage. Not that I needed to. He has been separated from me for the same reasons for a long time already.

To which he responded with another letter.

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Dear Chloé,

I hope this message finds you well.

No one in the Beardley family has ever sought a divorce and it will not be me—or you—who is going to break the tradition.

It would do you well to remember your parents owe me a lot of money and even now their financial situation is not very comfortable. You would also be well served to remember that not only are you completely dependent on me, but you have no qualifications with which to get a job.

Plus, Catholics don’t divorce. Never. So, wipe these ideas from your mind.

Your husband,

~ Joseph

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P.S. - I am still very busy with my new company and I will not be home for the next three months.

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Oh, well. I believe in God and I am religious—kind of, since I spent seven years of my life in a convent—but not so much as to endure a lifetime of abuse. And, let’s be frank, if God ever looks at our messy issues down here, He must be horrified and disgusted with His children.

But my parents’ financial situation, now that is something more palpable.

This is the real issue that has kept me locked in this gilded prison. Now, years later, I see that what they did was very reproachful. They sold their only daughter to a rich, old man in exchange for settling their debts. But I was only seventeen at that time and fresh out of the convent. I did not know the true reasons why they were so quick to approve of not only my crush on an older man, but marrying me off to him as well.

I could always threaten Joseph’s reputation, knowing his business depends on it, and make him give me the divorce while maintaining his agreement with my parents.

But I don’t have the heart to do so.

The baron, with all his secrets and strange behavior, has never harmed me in any way. Well, not physically at least. He has entrapped me in this mausoleum for almost seven years already, but he is not an evil man, and I don’t have it in me to ruin him to satisfy my own desires. Besides that, this is more my parents’ fault than his.

I remember one of the important things I learned during all those years I lived in the convent is that one should never justify one’s bad choices on others’ bad judgements.

So, non, I won’t be his downfall, it could send him to prison or make him undergo a chemical treatment.

I already made one huge stupid mistake—letting my parents convince me to accept Joseph’s proposal—and it ruined my life. And I already let too many people make the important decisions in my life, so if he is not coming home in the next three months, well, it means I can live a bit, right?

I sigh deeply, seeing no light at the end of the tunnel, but to take an easy way out of the marriage. And no, suicide is not an option. Ha! I am going to flee to Italy into the arms of my long lost love: Salvatore Di Luca.

Maybe when my husband arrives home, he will not even bother to look for me. Maybe he will feel relieved I was the one who took the first step.

With another deep sigh, I walk out of the library toward my bedroom, hoping the private investigator will be successful in his attempts to find my love.

For if he is not, I am likely to wither and fade away in this manor like a rose without sun, water, and air.

Chapter Two

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That’s not sex, Carla, I say as she walks to the bathroom to wash up. That’s masturbation.

She looks over her shoulder at me and Enzo, my older brother, and shrugs. It’s often more efficient.

But it’s usually more fun with someone else, isn’t it?

She grins wickedly, slowly trailing her fingers down her body, before she crosses the threshold and closes the bathroom door.

She’s a master at making herself come, says Enzo.

Enzo and I are sons of two brothers our mother was married to. And if our suspicions are right, Angelo, our younger brother, might have a different father as well. But that is another story altogether and not mine to tell but my mother’s.

"Sì, she is, but I can get her there quicker and better." And that brings me great satisfaction to know and, at the same time, leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, which signals to me it’s time to end my relationship with Carla.

Because it’s all good to masturbate—physical and sexual pleasure for yourself then go on with your day or fall asleep for the night.

But when you apply that same self-centered approach to partnered sex, you lose out and so does your partner. Or partners—me and Enzo.

The mistake so many people make when they have sex—or shared sex, in our case—is they get so excited to have sex, and also so anxious about their sexual performance, getting and staying hard, lasting as long as possible, that they forgot the purpose of what they are there for: to have enjoyable partnered sex.

With the keyword being partner.

I love this. I love making women come. It’s possibly my favorite pastime.

To make things worse, Carla is never available to stay the night. That’s fine with Enzo, who doesn’t want a steady relationship, but not with me. She could’ve done the same thing staying home and maybe have us on speakerphone. I’m just saying…if we’re not going to be intimate and pleasure each other…

Enzo grins at my grimace, chuckling softly. You’re too soft.

Fuck, what’s wrong with showing affection or wanting to feel close to someone? If this is something to be embarrassed about or—God forbid!—a sin, I confess I’m a naughty man, condemned to the fires of hell.

I must say that I love—with all the possible capital, shouty letters—feeling a woman melt against me in pleasure, to know that she’s vulnerable and trusting of me as she falls asleep after a good bout of sex.

It feels incredible to share that with someone but it seems that people are changing and not for better.

And that reminds me of my Chloé.

Although in my rational brain I know she’s not the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, she still strikes me as incomparable. It’s not only her beauty that captivated me five years ago, but mostly her innocence and her enthusiasm.

She enchanted me.

Bewitched me.

Ruined me for all other women.

Even now, even after all the time we have been apart, I am still searching for a woman who is half of what Chloé is.

And there was something in her few people have. A tenacity to wrest pleasure from daily life, a determination to have what she wanted, and a desire to see the best of everything.

Always.

And hidden, deep inside all the sexual energy I liberated, there was a sadness so great it hurt me sometimes.

But it was just a symptom of the rotten root: her husband. Every employee in Beardley Manor knew her husband didn’t like her and had other lovers. Male lovers.

To me, Chloé was like a castaway in need of rescue. Impossible not to help.

We spent delicious months together and I knew that on the day I said goodbye, she was ready for more. Maybe she would have fled with me. But as much as I wanted that, I had nothing to offer.

I am fundamentally changed after her. Not only was sex with her amazing—although that would have messed me up for good by itself—but the moments we spent together were worth going to hell for.

She stole my heart and I gladly took hers in return.

She had promised to follow when she could. Or call, or write. We would plan and plot and we would succeed in being together.

I hoped for months.

I told myself Joseph, the bastard husband of hers, only had one telephone line in the whole mausoleum she was locked in. I told myself she was being watched by the employees and her mother-in-law and could not walk to the post to send me a letter.

But after a year, my hopes began to shrink and now it is my heart that is atrophying. Without her laugh and her teasing and her innocent stare which could turn into sexy smiles and mischievous winks, one day it will stop beating.

Ah, Chloé, my life is good, but it’s darker without you in it.

"Cazzo, Enzo mutters, breaking my reverie. You’re thinking of her again, aren’t you?"

What? I pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about because Enzo doesn’t understand my heartache. Or maybe he understands it too well, but as he hasn’t yet dealt with his own, he doesn’t want to be reminded of it.

Oh, come on, Salvatore. He lights a cigar and then lounges back on the sofa of the sitting room between our bedrooms. You have this expression on your face. Like you are in deep pain.

I scratch my chin, wondering if I should bother to deny, but I can’t. Besides, I don’t have to be ashamed of a broken heart. In fact, much to the contrary, I’m so proud I have loved and been loved by a unique woman. "Sì. My baroness."

So go to her. He takes a deep pull of his cigar and lets the smoke escape his mouth. When you came back from England, your excuse was that you had nothing to offer her. Now, what is it?

She is married.

Enzo shrugs his big shoulders as if that is not a huge wall between us. And maybe it’s not, in our case. She was never treated like a wife should be. Her husband doesn’t have any consideration for her, not even as a human being.

According to what you have told me, she doesn’t love him. Nor he, her. He takes a drag from his cigar and watches for a moment as the smoke which leaves his mouth spirals toward the ceiling. Doesn’t he leave her alone for long periods? To be with his lover? What kind of marriage is that? What kind of sanctimonious love is that?

Yeah. But still… She never wrote, never called. I might arrive at her doorstep and find a different Chloé than the one I knew. She might have taken another lover.

Would you begrudge her that? You are the one who left her, he says with a strange note in his voice, as if he were cross with me for having left her.

Which makes no sense, since he knows I had to take care of my father’s burial and to bring our mother back here. Then I had to take care of so many things: the will, and the wineries, and, Madonna mia, our younger brother Angelo, who at the time was still a teenager and a completely lost and scarred teenager at that.

No, I wouldn’t have a problem with her taking another lover. It’s not like I have been using a chastity belt.

You can go to England in my place, Enzo suggests. Besides, you are the talented one for sales.

Yeah, I could. I can. It’s not like he likes doing the marketing part of selling wines. The tasting and all the blending grapes and decanting and what Angelo calls the alchemy stuff is what Enzo loves to do. And he is right. Now, I do have something to offer her.

Who’s going to drive me home? Carla asks, finally emerging from the bathroom.

As I get up to grab my keys, I make a mental note to cancel Enzo’s ticket tomorrow.

And buy one for me.

Chapter Three

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God almighty, Chloé! Do you have ants in your pants?

Carefully spearing my orange wedge with my fork, I pick up a piece and push it in my mouth, sucking the juices out of the fruit. Of course not. I am glad that the rains have finally decided to stop, that’s all.

But that is a lie. I am fidgeting because the private investigator, Mr. Brown, is due to return today with news and I hope it is going to be exactly what I need to hear.

The dowager glowers at me, her lips pursed in a very unbecoming manner. She too has lost some of her, what do you say, glow, since the baron has been absent. Everyone knew that the dowager was not very pleased with the baron’s marriage to me and I was never considered her favorite amongst the women he could have married.

But it was not as if we were enemies, non.

We make each other company and she refuses to live anywhere else but here at the manor, with me.

Chloé, it’s time to do some work on the manor, she continues on, taking a dainty bite of her toast. I have experienced many breakfasts with the dowager over the years and she never fails to have anything different than her dry toast and weak tea for her morning meal.

I, on the other hand, enjoy breakfast with relish. A good breakfast always sets the day’s activities and while some of my…hmm…more vigorous activities have grown cold over the past few months, I still hope for the days when life will change for the better.

Starting with today.

What kind of work? I ask, finally putting my silverware on my plate, indicating to the footman a few feet behind me I have finished my breakfast. Mr. Brown is due within the hour and I hope that the dowager will go lay down after breakfast and not linger for conversation.

It seems that fate is not with me this morning.

Sprucing up the manor. She folds her linen napkin exactly on the fold marks and sets it beside her empty plate. For the baron’s return. The gardens have not been as well kept as they were when that gardener worked here.

The thought of Salvatore causes my chest to ache. It isn’t just the gardens that have suffered in the wake of his absence.

I believe you are correct. I push back my chair and stand. I will leave all the decisions to you.

Her eyes widen. T-to me?

I nod, not caring if she paints the entire manor purple. I have more important things to be concerned with than replacing the wallpaper. Not waiting for her response, I walk out of the breakfast room and to the front room, where I will await Mr. Brown’s visit. I have lain awake all night thinking about what he could bring to me and I am ready for whatever comes of it. I have felt enough pain and longing in my life already. If Salvatore cannot be found now, then I will hire another PI. I will keep looking until I find him.

But the wait might drive me mad. I have nothing else to do. No hobbies, no friends. Not even charity work. Unless I count the dowager as charity work. The only reason I haven’t gone mad is because Beardley Manor has an extensive library.

My husband? He prefers to be anywhere else than at home with his wife. Well, a large, empty house that holds nothing but memories and ghosts. I need to find something to occupy my life with. But if I can’t go anywhere, what am I supposed to do?

Mr. Brown has arrived.

Thank you, Mr. Longman, I say, drawing in a breath to steady my nerves. Please show him in.

Mr. Brown enters the room a moment later and wastes no time shaking my hand. I bring you good news, my lady.

The huge smile on his face and the impetuousness in his voice lift my hopes even more.

I hurry to shut the door, not wishing for any passerby to hear him. Sometimes, I’m certain this house has ears because if I am not super discreet, every word I say is known by the dowager baroness or the baron by the following day’s breakfast.

The room suddenly seems small as I turn back to the investigator, gesturing toward the chaise lounge near the window. Shall we sit first?

He sits in an armchair and I settle in the one in front of him, crossing my legs so that he will not see how nervous I am.

Your gardener is alive and well, living in a small seaside town in Sicily, where he manages a winery with his family, he starts out, pulling out an envelope from his coat pocket.

Salvatore is well! My chest tightens and it suddenly seems there is not enough air for me to breathe. I can hardly contain my excitement as I take the envelope. Thank you, Monsieur. You have brought me so much joy.

The envelope contains directions to his residence, he explains. As well as some pictures taken recently. I thought you would like to see how well he’s doing.

I run my hand over the envelope, controlling myself not to push Mr. Brown out of the room and rip it open to see my lover’s face after so long. I walk him to the door and pump his hand with gusto, trying to convey all my gratitude. Thank you so much, Monsieur.

His eyes gleam with pride at a job well done and he smiles at me. My pleasure, milady.

As soon as he is on his way, I open the envelope and the first thing I pull out is a photo of Salvatore’s face.

I have to sit and take deep breaths for a moment. My legs are trembling and I feel faint.

I’ve waited so long for this.

When my eyes re-focus, I pore over the information provided to me, caressing the pictures of Salvatore with the tips of my fingers.

Even now I can just feel his lips against my skin, those long, artful fingers of his doing wonderful things to my body.

I am glad to see that he appears well and prosperous in his native country, but that does not diminish my need to see him, to hold him in my arms, and feel his body pressed up against mine.

I am so glad that he is not married and has no steady woman in his life, although my fingers turn into claws when I see a pretty brunette on his arm. I want to rip her eyes out.

Not that I begrudge him any lover he might have had. I had mine too. And above all, we had no actual commitment. But still…seeing him with another woman…it grates.

Non, I am not a woman obsessed with a man, I am a woman in love. The time we have been apart hasn’t diminished one bit my love for my Italian gardener.

I want that connection back that I had with Salvatore.

He was the first man to whom I could talk, the first one who asked me what my dreams were, what I wanted for myself—not that I could want much since the baron controlled me with his invisible strings. We shared our opinions about silly things such as favorite colors and foods. He taught me to swim and I taught him to…hmm. I don’t know. Surely I taught him something.

But to go find the love of my life, there are much more important things to think about now, things to plan. Starting with my visit to Italy.

I don’t have a solid plan yet but I know I don’t have a desire just to go there, screw him, and come back. Although I miss our physical connection a lot and I haven’t been able to satisfy my carnal desires lately.

Even Lucia, my…erm…maid, left a year ago. She married a strapping young Scottish horse trainer who works on a manor nearby and I was kind of glad. I have to confess, I was not as satisfied by her lovemaking anymore as I once was.

Maybe because I wanted more than a simple tryst. I needed more than just sex. I’m not that young woman who was looking for adventures as I once was.

But…how will I stay in Italy and support myself? I don’t even know if I have some hidden talent I can exploit. I have been locked inside this house so long, waiting for Joseph to succeed in his great desire to make me pregnant