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The Italian Millionaire's Marriage
Lucy Gordon
Rome: a bride by arrangement?Harriet isn't interested in netting a rich husband–but her little shop is thigh-deep in debt, so she's tempted when gorgeous Italian millionaire Marco Calvani makes her a proposal. If Harriet returns to Rome with him, Marco will lend her the money to pay off her creditors. If they marry, he'll write off the loan!Harriet will go to Rome–Marco's very persuasive, not to mention irresistibly attractive–and at least the bailiffs will be off her back! And she'll go ahead with the marriage deal, but only if it's based on love, not convenience….


Harlequin Romance
presents a brand-new trilogy from bestselling author
LUCY GORDON
The Counts of Calvani


These proud Italian aristocrats are about to propose!
The Calvani family is a prosperous, aristocratic Italian family headed by Count Francesco Calvani.
He has three nephews:
Guido—charming, easygoing and wealthy in his own right, Guido is based in Venice. He’s heir to the Calvani title, but he doesn’t want it….
Marco—aristocratic, sophisticated and very good-looking, Marco is every woman’s dream, managing the family’s banking and investments in Rome.
Leo—proud, rugged and athletic, Leo is a reluctant tycoon, running the family’s prosperous farms in Tuscany.
The pressure is mounting on all three Calvani brothers to marry and produce the next heirs in the Calvani dynasty. Each will find a wife—but will it be out of love or duty…?
Find out in this emotional, exciting and dramatic trilogy:
The Venetian Playboy’s Bride #3744
The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage #3751
The Tuscan Tycoon’s Wife #3760
Don’t miss it!

Dear Reader,
After Venice, Rome is my favorite Italian city, a place that once ruled the world, and the Romans still know it. There is an instinctive pride that makes Roman men, like Marco Calvani, especially fascinating. They deal with life on their own terms, and woe betide anyone who crosses them. Aloof on the surface, they conceal passion that is irresistible, but only for the right woman.
Marco, the cool-headed Roman banker, viewed his cousin Guido’s adventures in love with wry amusement, certain that when his own time came he could keep his dignity. In The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage we find him determined to marry, but not to risk his feelings. He seeks a marriage of convenience with the granddaughter of his mother’s dearest friend.
Harriet is not what he expected: Half Italian, half English, she has a passion for antiques. She sees in Marco a passport to the great art treasures of Rome, and agrees to an engagement—but only an engagement. How can this man, who likes to be always in control, admit to himself that winning her love is growing more important every day? It is only when he’s ready to cast aside pride and dignity that he finds the courage to be honest about his feelings. But by then it’s almost too late….



The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage
Lucy Gordon

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE

PROLOGUE
‘I DO not need a husband, do you understand that? I do not need a husband. And I certainly don’t want one.’ These last words were said with a mild shudder that shocked Harriet d’Estino’s listener.
‘Harriet, calm down,’ she begged.
‘A husband? Good grief! I’ve lived twenty-seven years without troubling myself with a creature so bothersome and unnecessary—’
‘Will you just listen?’
‘—and when I find my own sister matchmaking for me— Stars above! You’ve got a nerve, Olympia.’
‘I wasn’t matchmaking,’ Olympia said placatingly. ‘I just thought you might find Marco useful.’
Harriet made a sound that would have been a snort if she hadn’t been a lady.
‘No man is ever useful,’ she said firmly. ‘The breed isn’t made that way.’
‘All right, I won’t argue.’
They were half-sisters, one English, one Italian. Only their rich auburn hair linked them to their common parent, and each other. But in Olympia, the younger, the glorious tresses were teased into a glamorous creation. In Harriet, the same colour hung, straight and austere on either side of an earnest face.
Their clothes too revealed their opposing characters. Olympia was dressed in the height of Italian fashion. Harriet looked as though she’d put on whatever was comfortable and handy. Olympia’s figure was slender and seductive. Harriet was certainly slender. It was hard to be sure about anything else.
Olympia looked around her at the exquisite shop in the heart of London’s West End. It was filled with fine art and antiques, several of which caught her interest.
‘He’s splendid,’ she exclaimed, noticing a bronze bust of a young man.
‘First-century Roman,’ Harriet said, glancing up. ‘Emperor Caesar Augustus.’
‘Really dishy,’ Olympia purred, studying the face close up. ‘That fine nose, that aristocratic head on the long, muscular neck, and that mouth—all stern discipline masking incredible sensuality. I’ll bet he was a tiger with the women.’
‘You spend too much time thinking about sex,’ Harriet said severely.
‘And you don’t spend enough time thinking about it. It’s disgraceful.’
Harriet shrugged. ‘There are more interesting things in life.’
‘Nonsense, of course there aren’t,’ Olympia said with conviction. ‘I just wish you were as interested in living men as dead ones.’
‘Listen to you!’ Harriet riposted. ‘You’ve just been mooning over a man who’s been dead for two thousand years. Anyway, dead ones are better. They don’t tell lies, get legless or chat up your friends. And you can talk to them without being interrupted.’
‘So cynical. Mind you, Marco’s pretty cynical, too. Otherwise he’d have married long ago.’
‘Aha! He’s a grey-beard!’
‘Marco Calvani is thirty-five, loaded, and extremely good-looking,’ Olympia said emphatically.
‘So why aren’t you marrying him? You said he asked you first.’
‘Only because his mother’s an old friend of Pappa’s mother, and she’s got this sentimental idea of uniting the two families.’
‘And he does what she tells him? He’s a wimp!’
‘Far from it,’ Olympia said with a little chuckle. ‘Marco is a man who likes his own way all the time. He’s doing this for his own reasons.’
‘He’s a nutter!’
‘He’s a banker who devotes his life to serious business. He reckons it’s time to make a serious marriage and he isn’t into courting.’
‘He’s gay!’
‘Not according to my friends. In fact, his reputation is of a ladykiller, with the emphasis on killer. You might say he “loves ’em and leaves ’em” except that he doesn’t love ’em. No emotional involvement just a quick fling and goodbye before things get too intense.’
‘You make him sound irresistible, you know that?’
‘It’s only fair to tell you the downs as well as the ups. Marco doesn’t go for moonlight and roses, so you can see why he’d be doing this. It would be more of a merger than a marriage, and I thought that since you were serious, too—’
‘I’d be happy to take on one of your rejects. Gosh, thanks Olympia.’
‘Will you stop being so prickly? I took all this trouble to warn you that he might turn up here next week—’
‘And I’m grateful. I’ve been planning a vacation on the other side of the world. Next week will suit me just fine.’
‘Dio mio!’ Olympia threw up her hands in sisterly exasperation. ‘It’s impossible to help some people. You’ll end up an old maid.’
Harriet gave a cheeky grin that transformed her face delightfully.
‘With any luck,’ she said.

CHAPTER ONE
‘MY DEAR boy, have you really thought this through?’
Signora Lucia Calvani’s face was full of concern as she watched her son lock the suitcase. He gave her a brief smile, warmer for her than for anyone else, but he didn’t pause.
‘What is there to think through, Mamma? In any case, I’m doing what you required of me.’
‘Nonsense! You never do anything except to suit yourself,’ she retorted with motherly scepticism.
‘True, but it suits me to please you,’ Marco replied smoothly. ‘You wanted a union between myself and the granddaughter of your old friend, and I consider it suitable.’
‘If you mean that you like the idea, kindly say so, and don’t address your mother like a board meeting,’ Lucia said severely.
‘I’m sorry.’ He kissed her cheek with a touch of genuine contrition. ‘But since I’m doing as you wished I don’t understand your concern.’
‘When I said I’d like to see you marry Etta’s granddaughter I was thinking of Olympia, as you well know. She’s elegant, sophisticated, knows all the right people in Rome, and would have been an admirable wife.’
‘I disagree. She’s frivolous and immature. Her sister is older and, I gather, has a serious mind.’
‘She’s been raised English. She may not even speak Italian.’
‘Olympia assures me that she does. Her pursuits are intellectual, and she sounds as if she might well suit my requirements.’
‘Suit your requirements?’ his mother echoed, aghast. ‘This is a woman you’re discussing, not a block of shares.’
‘It’s just a way of talking,’ Marco said with a shrug. ‘Have I forgotten to pack anything?’
He looked around his home which was at its best in the brilliant morning sun that came in through the balcony window. He stepped out for a moment to breathe in the fresh air and enjoy the view along the Via Veneto. From this apartment on the fifth floor of an elegant block he could just make out St Peter’s in the distance, and the curve of the River Tiber. In the clear air he caught the sound of bells floating across the city, and he paused a moment to listen and watch the light glinting on the water. He did this every morning, no matter how rushed he might be, and it would have surprised many people who thought of him as a calculating machine and nothing else.
The inside of his home, however, would have reinforced their prejudices. It was costly but spartan, without any softening touch, the home of a man who was enough unto himself. The cool marble of the floors gleamed. The furnishings were largely modern, adorned with one or two valuable old vases and pictures.
It was typical of Marco that he had chosen to live in the centre of Rome, for his heart and mind, his whole presence were Roman. Height, bearing, and the unconsciously arrogant set of his head all spoke of a man descended from a race of emperors.
Nor was it far-fetched to see him as one, for were not international bankers the new emperors? At thirty-five he lorded it over his contemporaries in the financial world. Buying, selling, merging, making deals, these were the breath of life to him, and it was no accident that he spoke of his prospective marriage in a businesslike way that scandalised his mother.
Now he gave her his most charming smile. ‘Mamma, I wonder that you dare to reprove me when you yourself proposed the merger.’
‘Well, somebody has to arrange proper marriages for this family. When I think of that old fool in Venice, getting engaged to his housekeeper—’
‘By “old fool” I take it you mean my Uncle Francesco, Count Calvani, the head of our family,’ Marco said wryly.
‘Being a count doesn’t stop him being an old fool,’ Lucia said robustly. ‘And being his heir doesn’t stop Guido being a young fool, planning to marry an English woman—’
‘But Dulcie comes from a titled family, which is very proper,’ Marco murmured. He was teasing his mother in his dry way.
‘A titled family who’ve blown every penny on gambling. I’ve heard the most dreadful stories about Lord Maddox, and I don’t suppose his daughter’s much better. Bad blood will tell.’
‘Don’t let either of them hear you criticising their ladies,’ Marco warned her. ‘They’re both in a state of positively imbecile devotion, and will resent it.’
‘I’ve no intention of being rude. But the truth is the truth. Someone has to make a good marriage, and there’s no knowing what that bumpkin in Tuscany will do.’
Marco shrugged, recognising his cousin in this description. ‘Leo probably won’t marry at all. There’s no shortage of willing females in the area. I gather he’s very much in demand for brief physical relationships on account of—’
‘There’s no need to be coarse,’ Lucia interrupted him firmly. ‘If he won’t do his duty, all the more reason for you to do yours.’
‘Well, I’m off to England to do it. If she suits me, I’ll marry her.’
‘And if you suit her. She may not fall at your feet.’
‘Then I shall return to you and report failure.’
He didn’t sound troubled by the prospect. Marco had found few women who were unimpressed by him. Olympia, of course, had turned him down, but they’d known each other since childhood, and were too much like brother and sister.
‘I worry about you,’ Lucia said, studying his face and trying to discern what he was really thinking. ‘I want to see you with a happy home, instead of always wasting yourself on affairs that don’t mean anything. If only you and Alessandra had married, as you should have done. You could have had three children by now.’
‘We were unsuited. Let’s leave it there.’ His voice was gentle but the hint of warning was unmistakable.
‘Of course,’ Lucia said at once. When Marco’s barriers went up even she knew better than to persist.
‘It’s time I was leaving,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, Mamma. I’m simply going to meet Harriet d’Estino and form an impression. If I don’t like her I won’t mention the idea. She won’t know anything about it.’

As he boarded the plane for London Marco reflected that he was behaving unlike himself. He believed in thinking things through, but he was committing an impulsive action.
An apparently impulsive action, he corrected the thought. He was an orderly man who lived an orderly life, because success flourished from good order. That meant stability, the correct action performed at the correct time. He’d intended to marry at thirty, and would have done so if Alessandra hadn’t changed her mind.
That thought no sooner lived than he killed it. Everything concerning his aborted engagement, including the emotional fool he’d made of himself, was past and done. A wise man learned from experience, and he would never open himself up like that again.
His mother’s suggestion of a sensible marriage had been a godsend. To found a family, without involving his heart suited him exactly.
He arrived in London in the late afternoon, taking a suite at the Ritz and spending the rest of the day online, checking various deals that needed his personal attention. The five-hour time difference between America and Europe was too useful to be missed, and it was past midnight before he was through. By that time the Tokyo Stock Exchange was open and he worked until three in the morning. Then he went to bed and slept for precisely five hours, efficiently, as he did everything.
This was how he spent the night before meeting the woman he was planning to make his wife.

He breakfasted on fruit and coffee before setting out to walk the short distance to the Gallery d’Estino. He judged his time precisely, arriving at a quarter to nine, before it was open. This would give him a chance to form an impression of the place before meeting the owner.
What he saw, he approved. The shop was exquisite, and although he could discern little of the merchandise through the protective grilles over the windows, what he could make out seemed well chosen. His mental picture of Harriet d’Estino became clearer: a woman of elegance, mental elegance, as well as intellect. He began to warm to her.
The warmth faded a little as nine o’clock passed with no sign of the shop opening. Inefficiency. The unforgivable sin. He turned and collided with someone who yelled, ‘Ouch!’
‘My apologies,’ he murmured to the flustered young woman who was hopping about on the pavement, clutching one foot.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, wincing and nearly losing her balance until Marco took hold of her.
‘Thanks. Did you want to go in?’
‘Well it is past opening time,’ he pointed out.
‘Oh, gosh yes, it is, isn’t it. Hang on, I’ve got the key.’
While she scrabbled through a large collection of keys he studied her and found nothing to approve. She wore jeans and a sweater that looked as though they’d been chosen for utility, and a blue woollen hat that covered her hair completely. She might have been young. She might even have been attractive. It was hard to tell since she looked like a worker on a building site. Harriet d’Estino must be desperate for staff to have employed someone so gauche and clumsy.
After what seemed like an age she let him in.
‘Just give me a moment,’ she said, dumping her packages and starting work on the grilles. ‘Then you can have all my attention.’
‘Actually I was hoping to see the owner.’
‘Won’t I do?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
The young woman grew suddenly still. Then she shot him a nervous glance and her whole manner changed.
‘Of course, I should have realised. How stupid of me. It’s just that I’d hoped for a little more time—that is, she hoped for a little more time—I’m afraid Miss d’Estino isn’t here just now.’
‘Can you tell me when she will be here?’ Marco asked patiently.
‘Not for ages. But I could give her a message.’
‘Could you tell her that Marco Calvani called to see her?’
Her eyes assumed the blankness of someone who was playing ‘possum’.
‘Who?’
‘Marco Calvani. She doesn’t know me but—’
‘You mean you’re not a bailiff?’
‘No,’ Marco said tersely, with an instinctive glance at his Armani suit. ‘I’m not a bailiff.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I think I’d know if I was a bailiff.’
‘Yes,’ she said distractedly. ‘Of course you would. And you’re Italian, aren’t you? I can hear your accent now. It’s not much of an accent, so I missed it at first.’
‘I pride myself on speaking other languages as correctly as possible,’ he said, enunciating slowly. ‘Would you mind telling me who you are?’
‘Me? Oh, I’m Harriet d’Estino.’
‘You?’ He couldn’t keep the unflattering inflection out of his voice.
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Because you just told me you weren’t here.’
‘Did I?’ she said vaguely. ‘Oh—well—I must have got that wrong.’
Marco stared, wondering if she was mad, bad or merely half-witted. She pulled off the woolly cap, letting her long hair fall about her shoulders, and then he realised that she was speaking the truth, for it was the same rich auburn shade as Olympia’s hair. This was the woman he’d been considering as a wife. He took a deep cautious breath.
Harriet was watching him, frowning slightly. ‘Have we met before?’ she asked.
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘It’s just that your face is familiar.’
‘We’ve never met,’ he assured her, thinking that he would certainly have remembered.
‘I’ll make us some coffee.’
Harriet went into the back of the shop and put on the coffee, annoyed with herself for having made a mess of everything after Olympia’s warning. But she’d half convinced herself that Marco wouldn’t bother coming to see her, and her mind had been so taken up with worries about her creditors that she’d had little time to think of other things.
As an expert in antiquities Harriet had no rival. Her taste was impeccable, her instincts flawless, and many an imposing institution accepted her opinion as final. But somehow she couldn’t translate this skill into a commercial profit, and the bills were piling up.
The coffee perked and she brought herself back to reality. She would have given anything not to have betrayed her money worries to this man, but perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Then he appeared beside her and she became distracted by the resemblance. Just where had she seen him before?
She’d promised Olympia not to let Marco suspect that she’d been forewarned, so it might be safest to play dumb for a while. It was a melancholy fact, she’d discovered, that if you pretended to be really stupid people always believed you.
‘Why did you want to see me, Signor—Calvani, was it?’
‘My name means nothing to you?’
‘I’m sorry, should it?’
‘I’m a friend of your sister Olympia. I thought she might have mentioned me.’
‘We’re only half-sisters. We grew up far apart and don’t see each other often.’ She added casually, ‘How is she these days?’
‘Still the beautiful social butterfly. I told her I’d look you up while I was in London. If it’s agreeable to you we might spend this evening together, perhaps go to a show and have dinner afterwards.’
‘That would be nice.’
‘What kind of show do you like?’
‘I’ve been trying to get into Dancing On Line, but the seats are like gold-dust and tonight’s the last performance.’
‘I think I might manage it, just the same.’
She was conscience stricken. ‘If you’re thinking of the black market, the tickets are going for thousands. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘I shan’t need to resort to the black market,’ he said, smiling.
She regarded him with something approaching awe. ‘You can get seats for this show, at a moment’s notice?’
‘I can’t afford to fail now, can I?’ he remarked, somewhat wryly. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll collect you here at seven.’
‘Fine. And we can always go to a different show. I really don’t mind.’
‘We shall go to this show and no other,’ he said firmly. ‘Until tonight.’
‘Until tonight,’ she said, a trifle dazed.
He turned to the door, but stopped as though something had just occurred to him.
‘By the way, I believe in mixing business with pleasure. Perhaps you would look at this and value it for me.’
From his bag he drew a package which he unwrapped before her eager eyes, revealing a fabulously beautiful ornate necklace in sold gold. She took it gently and carried it to a desk, switching on a brilliant light.
‘I have a friend in Rome who specialises in these things,’ Marco said smoothly. ‘He thinks this is one of the best Greek pieces he’s ever seen.’
‘Greek?’ she said, not raising her eyes. ‘Oh, no, Etruscan.’
She’d passed the first test, but he concealed his pleasure and pressed her further.
‘Are you sure? My friend is a real expert.’
‘Well it can be difficult to tell them apart,’ she conceded. ‘Etruscan goldsmiths of the archaic and classical periods…’
She was away and there was no stopping her, he recognised. Words poured out. ‘Their jewellery of the third to first centuries BC often closely resembles Greek works but—Celtic influence—’
He listened with growing satisfaction. She might be a little strange but here was the educated lady he’d hoped for. This fabulous piece had been in his family’s possession for two centuries. It was pure Etruscan. And she’d spotted it.
Then she blew his satisfaction out of the water by saying regretfully, ‘If only it were real.’
He stared. ‘Of course it’s real.’
‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s a very good copy, one of the best I’ve ever seen. I can understand why it fooled your friend—’
‘But not you,’ he said, feeling illogically annoyed at her slander of his non-existent ‘friend’.
‘I’ve always taken a special interest in artefacts from Etruria,’ she said, naming the province that had later become Rome and its surrounding countryside. ‘I visited a dig there a couple of years back and it was the most fascinating—’
‘And this qualifies you to pronounce on this piece?’ Marco interrupted, his annoyance overcoming his good manners.
‘Look, I know what I’m talking about, and frankly this “expert” of yours doesn’t, since he can’t tell Greek from Etruscan.’
‘But according to you it’s a fake which means it can’t be either,’ he pointed out.
‘It’s a copy, and whoever did it was copying an Etruscan piece, not a Greek one,’ she said firmly.
The transformation in her was astonishing, he thought. Gone was the awkward young woman who’d collided with him at the door. In her place was an authority, steely, assured, implacable in her own opinion. He would have found it admirable if she wasn’t trying to wipe a million dollars off his fortune.
‘Are you saying that this is worthless?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, not entirely worthless. The gold must be worth something.’
She spoke in the manner of an adult placating a disappointed child, and he ground his teeth.
‘Would you like to explain your opinion?’ he said frostily.
‘All my instincts tell me that this isn’t the real thing.’
‘You mean feminine intuition?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said crisply. ‘There’s no such thing. Funny, I’d have expected a man to know that. My instincts are based on knowledge and experience.’
‘Which sounds like another name for female intuition to me. Why not be honest and admit it?’
Her eyes flashed, magnificently. ‘Signor Whatever-Your-Name-Is—if you just came in here to be offensive you’re wasting your time. The weight of this necklace is wrong. A genuine Etruscan necklace would have weighed just a little more. Did you know that scientific tests have proved that Etruscan gold was always the same precise weight, and—?’
She was away again, facts and figures tumbling out of her mouth at speed, totally assured and in command of her subject. Except that she was completely wrong, he thought grimly. If this was the level of her expertise it was no wonder her business was failing.
‘Fine, fine,’ he said trying to placate her. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘Please don’t patronise me!’
He was about to respond in kind when he checked himself, wondering where his wits were wandering. When he’d considered this encounter his plans hadn’t included letting her needle him to the point of losing his temper. Coolness was everything. That was how victories were won, deals were made, life was organised to advantage. And she’d blown it away in five minutes.
‘Forgive me,’ he said with an effort. ‘I didn’t mean to be impolite.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s understandable, considering how much poorer I’ve just left you.’
‘I don’t accept that you have left me poorer, since I don’t accept your valuation.’
‘I can understand that you wouldn’t,’ she said in a kindly voice that took him to the limit of exasperation. She handed him back the necklace. ‘When you return to Rome why don’t you ask your friend to take another look at this? Only don’t believe a word he says because he doesn’t know the difference between Greek and Etruscan.’
‘I’ll collect you here at seven o’clock,’ Marco said, from behind a tight smile.

CHAPTER TWO
SEVEN o’clock found Harriet peering out of her shop window into a storm. She’d been home, dressed for an evening out and returned in a hurry, not wishing to keep him waiting.
But it seemed he had no such qualms about her. Five past seven came and went, then ten, and there was no sign of him. At seven-fifteen she muttered something unladylike and prepared to leave in a huff.
She’d just locked the door and was staring crossly at the downpour when a cab came to a sharp halt at the kerb, a door opened and a hand reached out from the gloom within. She took it, and was seized in a powerful grip, then drawn swiftly inside.
‘My apologies for being late,’ Marco said. ‘I took a cab because of the rain and found myself trapped. Luckily the show doesn’t start until eight, so even at this crawl we should make it in time.’
‘You don’t mean to say that you managed it?’ Harriet asked incredulously.
‘Certainly I managed it. Why should you doubt me?’
‘Who did you blackmail?’
Marco grinned. ‘It was a little more subtle than that. Not much, but a little.’
‘I’m impressed.’
She grew even more impressed when she discovered that he’d secured the best box in the house. No doubt about it. This was a man with good contacts.
Marco offered her the chair nearer the stage so that he was a little to the rear and could glance at her as well as the show. She wasn’t beautiful, he decided. Her slenderness went, perhaps, a little too far: not thin he assured himself hastily, but as lean as a model. Elegant. Or, at least, she would be if she worked on her appearance, which she clearly didn’t.
Her chiffon evening gown was all right, no more. It descended almost to her shapely ankles, and clung slightly, revealing the grace of her movements. The deep red was a magnificent shade, but it was exactly wrong with her auburn hair, which she wore loose and flowing. She should have put it up, he thought, revealing her face and emphasising her long neck. Was there nobody to tell her these things?
Her few pieces of jewellery were poorly chosen and didn’t really go well together. She should wear gold, he decided. Not delicate pieces, but powerful, to go with her aura of quiet strength. He would enjoy draping her with gold.
The thought reminded him of the necklace, but he was in a good humour now, and bore her no ill will. If anything, their spat had been useful in breaking the ice.
Dancing On Line was a very modern musical, a satire about the internet, dry, witty, with good tunes and sharp dancers. They both enjoyed it, and left the theatre in a charity with one another. The rain had stopped, and the cab he’d ordered was waiting.
‘I know a small restaurant where they do the best food in London,’ he said.
He took her to a place that she, a Londoner, had never heard of. Slightly to her surprise it was French, not Italian, but then she realised that surprise was the name of the game. If he really was planning an outrageous suggestion then it made sense for him to confuse her a little first.
‘Perhaps I should have asked if you like French food,’ he said when they had seated themselves at a quiet corner table.
‘I like it almost as much as Italian,’ she said, speaking in French. It might be showing off but she felt that flying all her flags would be a good idea.
‘Of course you’re a cosmopolitan,’ he said. ‘In your line of work you’d have to be. Spanish?’
‘Uh-uh! Plus Greek and Latin.’
‘Modern Greek or classical?’
‘Both of course,’ she said, contriving to sound faintly shocked.
‘Of course.’ He smiled faintly and inclined his head in respect.
The food really was the best. Harriet notched up a mark to him. He was an excellent host, consulting her wishes while making suggestions that didn’t pressure her. She let him pick the wine, and his choice exactly suited her.
The light was dim in their corner, with two small wall lamps and two candles in glass bowls on the table, making shadows dance and flicker. Even so she managed to study his face and had to give him ten out of ten for looks. His dinner jacket was impeccable, and his white, embroidered evening shirt made a background for his lightly tanned skin. He was a handsome man. She conceded that. His lips, perhaps, were slightly on the thin side, but in a way that emphasised his infrequent smiles, giving them a quirky irony that pleased her.
His eyes drew her attention, being very dark brown, almost black. She would have called them beautiful if the rest of his face hadn’t been so unmistakably masculine. They were deep set and slightly shadowed by a high forehead and heavy eyebrows. That gave his face a hint of mystery, because she couldn’t always see whether his eyes had the same expression as his mouth. And she suspected that they often didn’t.
So far, so intriguing. It was lucky Olympia had warned her what was afoot, or she might have been completely taken in; might actually have found him seriously attractive. As it was, she held the advantage. She decided to disconcert him a little, just for fun.
‘What brings you to London?’ she asked innocently. ‘Business?’
If the question threw him he gave no sign of it. ‘A little. And I must pay my respects to Lady Dulcie Maddox, who became engaged to my cousin Guido a few weeks ago.’
Harriet savoured the name. ‘Lord Maddox’s daughter?’
‘Yes, do you know her?’
‘She’s been in the shop a couple of times.’
‘Buying or selling?’
‘Selling.’ Harriet fell silent, sensing a minefield.
‘Probably pieces from the Maddox ancestral home, to pay her father’s debts,’ Marco supplied. ‘I gather he’s a notorious gambler.’
‘Yes,’ she said, relaxing. ‘I didn’t want to tell tales if you didn’t know.’
‘It’s common knowledge. Dulcie has to earn her living, and she was working as a private enquiry agent when she came to Venice and met Guido. What did you think of her?’
‘Beautiful,’ Harriet said enviously. ‘All that long fair hair—if she still has it?’
‘She had when I said goodbye to her a few weeks back. As you say, she’s beautiful, and she’ll keep Guido in order.’
She laughed. ‘Does he need keeping in order?’
‘Definitely. A firecracker, with no sense of responsibility. That’s my Uncle Francesco talking, by the way. Count Calvani. He’s been desperate for Guido to marry and produce an heir to the title.’
‘Hasn’t he done that himself?’
‘No, the title will go to one of his nephews. It should have been Leo, Guido’s older half-brother. Their father married twice. His first wife, Leo’s mother, was supposedly a widow, but her first husband turned up alive, making the marriage invalid and Leo illegitimate, and unable to inherit the title.’
‘That’s dreadful!’
‘Leo doesn’t think so. He doesn’t want to be a count. The trouble is, neither does Guido, but that’s going to be his fate. So uncle tried to find him a suitable wife, and was giving up in despair when Guido fell for Dulcie.
‘My uncle is also, finally, going to get married. Apparently he’s been in love with his housekeeper for years and has finally persuaded her to marry him. He’s in his seventies, she’s in her sixties, and they’re like a pair of turtle-doves.’
‘That’s charming!’ Harriet exclaimed.
‘Yes, it is, although not everyone thinks so. My mother is scandalised that he’s marrying “a servant” as she calls her.’
‘Does anyone care about that kind of thing these days?’
‘Some people,’ Marco said carefully. ‘My mother’s heart is kind but her views about what is “proper” come from another age.’
‘What about you?’
‘I don’t always embrace modern ways,’ he said. ‘I make my decisions after a lot of careful thought.’
‘A banker would have to, of course.’
‘Not always. Among my banking colleagues I have the reputation of sometimes getting carried away.’
‘You?’ she asked with an involuntary emphasis.
‘I have been known to thrown caution to the winds,’ he said gravely.
‘Profitably, of course.’
‘Of course.’
She studied his face, trying to see if he was joking or not, unable to decide. He guessed what she was doing and regarded her wryly, eyebrows raised as if to ask whether she’d worked it out yet. The moment stretched on and he grew uncomfortably aware of something transfixed in her manner.
‘Would you like some more wine?’ he asked, to bring her back to earth.
‘I’m sorry, what was that?’
‘Wine.’
‘Oh, no—no, thank you. You know your face really is familiar. I wish I could remember—’
‘Perhaps I remind you of a boyfriend,’ he suggested delicately. ‘Past or present?’
‘Oh, no, I haven’t had a boyfriend for ages,’ she murmured, still regarding him.
What was the matter with her he wondered? Sophisticated one minute, gauche the next. Still, it told him what he needed to know.
As they were eating he asked, ‘How do you and Olympia come to have different nationalities?’
‘We don’t,’ Harriet said quickly. ‘We’re both Italian.’
‘Well, yes, in a sense—’
‘In every sense,’ she interrupted with a touch of defiance. ‘I was born in Italy, my father is Italian and my name is Italian.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Marco said, seeing the glint of anger in her large eyes and thinking how well it suited her. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘Hasn’t Olympia told you the story?’
‘Only vaguely. I know your father married twice, but naturally Olympia knows very little about his first wife.’
‘My mother loved him terribly and he just dumped her. I remember when I was five years old, finding her crying her eyes out. She told me he was throwing us out of the house.’
‘Your mother told you that?’ he echoed, genuinely shocked. ‘A child?’
‘She was distraught. I simply didn’t believe it. I adored my father and he acted as though he adored me. He used to call my name first when he came home. I thought it would always be like that.’
‘Go on,’ he said gently, when she paused.
‘Well, his girlfriend was pregnant and he wanted a quick divorce so that he could marry her before the child was born. We were out. Mum said he even forced her to go back to England by threatening to be mean about money if she didn’t.’
Marco thought of Guiseppe d’Estino, a fleshy, self-indulgent man of great superficial charm but cold eyes, as he now realised. He could well believe this story.
‘It must have been a sad life for you after that,’ he said sympathetically.
‘I kept thinking he’d invite me for a visit, but he never did. I couldn’t understand what I’d done to turn him against me. My mother never recovered. She grieved every day of her life. She only lived another twelve years, then she had heart trouble and just faded away. I thought he’d send for me then, but he didn’t. I was about to go to college and he said he didn’t want to interrupt my education.’
Marco murmured something that might have been a swear word.
‘Yes,’ Harriet said wryly. ‘I suppose I was beginning to get the picture then, very belatedly. I was rather stupid about it really.’
‘The one thing nobody could ever call you is stupid,’ Marco said, regarding her with new interest. ‘I know that much about you.’
‘Oh, things,’ she said dismissively. ‘Anyone can learn about things. I’m stupid about people. I don’t really know much about them.’
‘Or maybe you know too much about the wrong sort of people,’ he said, thinking of the father who’d selfishly cast her off, and the mother who’d made the child bear the burden of her grief. ‘Did your father totally reject you?’
‘No, he kept up a reasonable pretence when he couldn’t help it. I studied in Rome for a year. I chose that on purpose because I knew he’d have to take some notice of me. I even thought he might invite me to stay.’
‘But he didn’t?’
‘I was asked to dinner several times. His second wife sat and glared at me the whole time, but Olympia was always nice. We got quite friendly. After that my father sent me a cheque from time to time.’
‘Did he help you buy the shop?’
‘No, that was money I inherited from my mother’s father. I was able to buy the lease and some stock.’
‘Your father could have afforded to help you. He ought to have stood up to that woman.’
‘You mean his wife? Do you know her?’
‘And detest her. As do most people. Of course she was determined to keep you out. My poor girl. You never stood a chance.’
‘I guess I know that now. But at the time I thought I could win him over by doing well, learning languages, passing exams, being as Italian as possible.’
Marco was growing interested in her strange upbringing. He suspected it had moulded her into an unusual person.
‘Did you really think I was a bailiff?’ he asked curiously.
‘For a moment.’ She gave a gruff little laugh. ‘You’d think I’d know how to recognise them by now. I keep thinking things will get better—well, they do. But then they get bad again.’
‘But why? That shop should be a gold-mine. Your stock is first-rate. It’s true, you made a mistake about the necklace, but—’
‘I did not make—never mind. Sometimes I get on top of the figures, but then I see this really beautiful piece that I just have to have, and bang go all my calculations.’
‘Why not just sell up?’
‘Sell my shop? Never. It’s my life.’
He ran up a flag. ‘There’s more to life than antiques.’
She shot it down. ‘No, there isn’t.’
‘You seem very sure of that.’
‘It’s not just antiques, it’s—it’s the other worlds they open up. Vast horizons were you can see for thousands of years—’
She was away again. Recognising that it would be impossible to halt the flow until she was ready Marco settled for listening with the top part of his brain, while the rest considered her.
He’d grown more agreeably impressed as the evening wore on. She was an intriguing companion, intelligent, educated, even witty. It was a shame that she wasn’t beautiful—at least, he thought she probably wasn’t. It was hard to be sure when her hair shielded so much of her face. But her green eyes flashed fire when she spoke of the ‘other worlds’ that she loved, and in them was a kind of beauty.
Her lapses into gaucheness were hardly her fault. She’d been denied the chance to grow up in sophisticated society. A few trips to the discreetly luxurious shops on the Via dei Condotti would greatly improve her. He felt he had the basis for a deal that would be beneficial on both sides.
Harriet was bringing her passionate arguments to a conclusion. ‘You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?’ she asked anxiously.
‘You care passionately about your subject,’ he said. ‘That isn’t being crazy. It’s being lucky. So saving your shop means more to you than anything in the world, and perhaps I can help. How much would it take to extricate you from your difficulties?’
She named a large sum with the air of someone plunging into the deep end.
‘It’s a lot,’ Marco said wryly, ‘but not too much. I think we’re in a position to help each other. I can make you an interest-free loan that will solve your problems.’
‘But why should you?’
‘Because I want something in return.’
‘Naturally. But what?’
He hesitated. ‘You may find this suggestion a little unusual, but I’ve considered it carefully, and I assure you it makes sense for both of us. I want you to come to Rome with me, and be my mother’s guest for a while.’
‘Are you sure she’ll want that?’
‘She’ll be delighted. Your paternal grandmother was her dearest friend, and her hope is that our families can become united. In short, she’s trying to arrange my marriage.’
‘Who with?’ Harriet asked, not wanting to seem to understand too much too soon.
‘With you.’
She’d known that this moment was coming, but without warning she was embarrassed. Watching him sitting there in the corner, the candlelight on his face, he was suddenly too much; too forceful, too attractive, too like an irresistible gale storming through her life, flattening all before it. Too much.
‘Hey, hold on,’ she said, playing for time. ‘Things aren’t done like that these days.’
‘In some societies marriages are still arranged—or at least, half arranged. Suitable people are introduced and the benefits of an alliance considered. My parents’ marriage was created like this, and it was very happy. They were compatible, but not blinded by emotions too intense to last.’
‘And you’re asking me—?’
‘To think about it. The final decision can be taken later, when we know each other better. In the meantime I’ll sort out your financial problems. Should we make a match I’ll wipe the loan out. If not we’ll part friends, and you can repay me on easy terms.’
‘Whoa there! You’re going too fast. I can’t take this in.’ It was true. She’d thought herself well prepared, but everything was so different to her imaginings that it was taking her breath away.
‘You can’t lose. At the worst you get an interest-free loan that will save your shop.’
‘But what’s in it for you?’ she demanded bluntly. ‘You can’t get married just to please your mother.’
It seemed to her that he hesitated a fraction, then answered with a little constraint. ‘I can if that is what I wish. It’s time for me to have a settled life, with a family, and it suits me to arrange it in this way.’
‘It will give us both time to think,’ he went on. ‘You return with me, try out life in my country—your country, and consider whether you’d enjoy it permanently. If you and my mother get on well, we’ll discuss marriage.’
‘What about you and me getting on well?’
‘I hope we may, since we could hardly have a successful marriage otherwise. I’m sure you’ll be an excellent mother to our children, and after that you won’t find me unreasonable.’
‘Unreasonable about what?’ she asked, beginning to get glassy eyed.
‘Come, we’re not adolescents. We needn’t interfere with each other’s freedom as long as we’re discreet.’
She tried to study his face, but it was hard because his eyes were in shadow.
‘Don’t you mind doing it this way?’ she asked at last. ‘Don’t you have any feelings about it?’
‘There’s no need for us to discuss feelings,’ he said, suddenly distant.
‘But you’ve got everything planned like a business deal.’
‘Sometimes that can achieve optimum results.’
The cool precision of his tone sent a frisson of alarm through her. For the first time she understood the extent to which he’d banished human warmth from this plan, and it gave her a sense of unreality. Only a man who’d built fences around himself could act like this. She wondered how high the fences were, and why he needed them.
And what about your own fences? murmured an inner voice. You know they’re there. Brains are safe. Your head can’t hurt you like your heart can. Maybe you’re two of a kind, and he sensed it?
She quickly rejected the idea, but it lingered, troubling her, refusing to be totally dismissed.
Playing for time, she said, ‘If we married you’d expect me to come to live with you, right?’
He looked slightly startled. ‘That is the usual arrangement.’
‘But if I move to Rome I’ll lose the shop that I’m trying to save.’
‘You can leave your establishment here and have it run by a manager, or move it to Rome. You might even find it helpful to be there. I’m sure there’s a great deal you haven’t explored yet.’
He’d touched a nerve. Not meeting his eyes Harriet said, ‘I suppose you know everybody.’
‘Not quite everybody. But I know a lot of people who could be useful to you.’
He would know Baron Orazio Manelli, she thought. He’d probably been in the Palazzo Manelli, with its vast store of hidden treasures. Harriet had been writing to the Baron for two years now, seeking permission to study that Aladdin’s cave. And for two years he had barred her entry. But as Marco’s fiancée…
She bid the tempter be silent, but he whispered to her of bronze and gold, of ancient jewellery and historic sculptures.
‘A visit,’ she said. ‘With neither of us committed.’
‘That’s understood.’
‘We might simply decide it wouldn’t work.’
‘And part friends. But in the meantime my mother would have the pleasure of your company.’
Torn between conscience and temptation she stared at his face as though hoping to find the answer there. And then, against all odds, she did.
‘That’s it!’ she breathed. ‘Now I know where I’ve seen your face.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said, amused. ‘Who do I remind you of?’
‘Emperor Caesar Augustus.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘I’ve got him in the shop—his bust in bronze. It’s your face.’
‘Nonsense. That’s pure fancy.’
‘No it’s not. Come on, I’ll show you.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s go and see. We’ve finished eating, haven’t we?’
He’d planned a leisurely liqueur or two, but he could tell it would be simpler to yield. ‘Yes, we’ve finished,’ he agreed.
He was a man who led while others followed, but he found himself swept along by her urgent enthusiasm until they were back in her shop, and she’d turned the lights on the bust.
‘Now is that you or isn’t it?’ she demanded triumphantly.
‘No,’ he said, astounded. ‘There’s no resemblance at all. You brought me all the way back here to look at that?’
‘I’m not imagining it. That’s you. Look again. Look.’
He didn’t look. Instead he gave a soft laugh, as though something had mysteriously delighted him, and came to stand in front of her, putting one hand on her shoulder. With the other he lifted her chin so that he could look into her eyes. She could feel his warm breath against her skin, whispering across her mouth so that a tiny shiver went through her. But although their faces were so close, he didn’t lower his head, only gave her a small, intriguing smile.
‘A sensible man would run for his life at this point,’ he said wryly.
‘And you’re a very sensible man, aren’t you?’
He brushed back a stray wisp of hair. ‘Maybe I’m not as sensible as I thought I was. I know you’re not a sensible woman. You’re completely crazy.’
‘I suppose I am. A woman who wasn’t crazy wouldn’t even consider your idea.’
‘True. Then I must be grateful.’ He looked down into her face, still smiling, still meeting her eyes.
Then something happened that shocked her. His smile faded. He released her and stepped back. ‘Can you be ready to leave in two days?’ he asked with cool courtesy.
She was too stunned to speak. One moment her body had been vibrating from the intimacy of his closeness, his hands, his breath. The next, it was all over, and by his choice, that was clear. He’d deliberately slammed the door shut on whatever might have happened between them next.
She pulled herself together and replied in a voice that matched his own. ‘Speaking as a businesswoman, will I have the money by then?’
‘You will have it by midday tomorrow.’
‘But you haven’t seen my books,’ she said, suddenly conscience stricken.
‘Do I need to? I’m sure they’re terrible.’
‘Suppose you can’t afford me?’
‘I assure you that I can.’
She gave a sharp little laugh, half-tension, half-anger. ‘Then perhaps I should marry you for your money.’
‘I thought that was what we’d been discussing.’
She surveyed him defiantly, arms folded. ‘I can’t put one over on you, can I?’
‘I try to ensure that nobody can. It’s the best way to achieve—’
‘Optimum results.’ She said the words with him, and he gave her a nod of respect.
‘Let me take you home,’ he said.
‘No thank you.’ Anger had faded as she realised that the threat to the thing she loved most in the world had gone. With a sudden beatific smile that startled him she said, ‘I want to be alone here for a while. Now that it’s safe.’
‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s midnight, and I won’t leave you alone with these valuables, a target for robbers and worse. Your untimely death wouldn’t suit me at all.’
‘No, you’d have to rethink the whole plan,’ she agreed affably.
He took her hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to do business with someone who understands what matters. I’ll be outside.’
He held her hand for a moment, then raised it and brushed his lips against the back before walking out.
Left alone, Harriet looked down at her hand, where she could still feel the light imprint of his mouth. She was shaken and her heart was beating either with pleasure or apprehension, she wasn’t sure. She could only do this if she felt in control, and he’d threatened that control. Furiously she rubbed the back of her hand until the feeling had gone.
Then she looked around her and her eyes shone. Safe. At least for a while.
The tempter was there again, whispering that the ‘engagement’ could last just long enough for her to investigate the Palazzo Manelli, and no longer. And why not? The plan would be heartless if Marco’s feelings had been involved, but he’d been at pains to emphasise that they weren’t. He’d looked her over as a piece of merchandise that he could make use of, so why shouldn’t she do the same with him?
She knew another brief flare of resentment at the way he’d drawn close to her then backed off. A man who was so much in control of himself wouldn’t be easy to deal with. If she let him, he would call all the shots. But she wouldn’t let him.
His face came into her mind and her eyes fell on the bronze face of Augustus, the two so exactly alike—whatever Marco thought. She remembered Olympia’s words, ‘Really dishy. That fine nose, and that mouth—all stern discipline masking incredible sensuality.’
It was true, Harriet realised. The wonder was that she alone had seen it in the living man.

CHAPTER THREE
DURING the next couple of days the whirl of arrangements was so intense that she had no time to think. Marco inspected the shop’s books, groaned at her business practices—‘pure Alice in Wonderland’—but advanced a money order that cleared her debts. It also left her something over to pay extra to Mrs Gilchrist, her excellent manager, who was to take sole charge.
There was one tense moment when Harriet brought a customer to the verge of buying a very expensive piece, only to start talking it down until he lost interest and left the shop empty handed.
‘There was nothing the matter with it,’ declared Marco, who had watched, aghast.
‘I didn’t like him.’
‘What?’
‘He wouldn’t have given it a good home,’ she tried to explain. ‘You don’t understand do you?’
‘Not a word!’ he said grimly.
‘These aren’t just things I buy and sell. I love them. Would you sell a puppy to a man you thought wouldn’t be kind to it?’
‘Harriet, puppies are alive. These things are not.’
‘Yes they are, in their own way. I won’t sell something to a person I don’t trust.’
‘You madwoman. You’ve got windmills in your head. Let’s leave this place while I can still stand it.’
They left next day on the midday flight to Rome. Signora Lucia Calvani was waiting for them, and the moment she saw Harriet her face lit up.
‘Etta,’ she cried, advancing with her arms open. ‘My dear, dear Etta.’
Enveloped in a scented embrace Harriet felt a lump come to her throat at this unexpected welcome.
‘You know why I call you Etta, don’t you?’ Lucia asked, taking her shoulders and standing back a little.
‘My father used to call me that, when I was a little girl,’ Harriet said eagerly. ‘He said it was because of his mother—’
‘Yes, her name was Enrichetta, but people called her Etta. I did, when we were girls together. Oh, you’re so like her.’ She hugged Harriet again.
Her greeting to her son was restrained but her eyes left no doubt that he was the centre of her life. Then she immediately turned her attention back to her guest, drawing Harriet’s arm through her own and leading her towards the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce.
Their route lay out in the countryside, giving Rome a wide sweep until they were south of the city and hit the Via Appia Antica, the ancient road alongside which stood the ruins of tombs of aristocratic Roman families, going back a thousand years. Here too were the mansions of their modern counterparts. They stood well back from the road, hidden behind high walls and elaborate metal gates, housing families who quietly ran the world. A Calvani could live nowhere else.
Signora Calvani was a beautiful, exquisite woman with white hair, dressed in the height of Roman fashion. Harriet guessed her to be about seventy, but with her tall, slender figure and elastic walk she could have been younger. Her voice and gestures were those of someone who’d always been surrounded by money.
‘I was so delighted when Marco said you were to pay us a visit,’ she said as the car glided through the countryside. ‘The house seems very empty sometimes.’
They had passed the wrought-iron gates of the villa and were gliding between trees until the Villa Calvani came into view suddenly. It was a huge white house with flower-hung balconies and broad steps rising to the double front door, and Harriet could understand how it must seem empty to someone who lived there alone.
An unseen servant opened the front door and Lucia led her graciously into the hall, and from there into a large salon. A maid appeared to take Harriet’s coat. Another maid wheeled in a tea trolley.
‘English tea,’ Lucia declared. ‘Especially for you.’
As well as tea there were sweet biscuits and savouries, sandwiches, cakes. Whatever her taste it was catered for. For a while they exchanged standard pleasantries, but behind the questions Harriet sensed that Lucia’s real attention was elsewhere. She was studying her guest, and was evidently delighted with what she found. It was a welcome such as Harriet had never received in her life. Marco was looking pleased as the extent of his mother’s warmth became clear.
‘Now I’ll show you your room,’ Lucia said, rising.
Her room was even more overwhelming, with floor-length windows that looked out onto the magnificent Roman countryside. Harriet could see a river and pine trees stretching into the distance, all glowing in the afternoon sun.
The bed was big enough for three, an elaborate confection of carved walnut with a tapestry cover. The floor was polished wood, and the furniture was old-fashioned with the walnut theme repeated. The ornaments were traditional pieces, carved heads, pictures, some of them valuable Harriet automatically noted with a professional eye.
But she didn’t want to think about work just now. She was basking in the feeling of being wanted, so unfamiliar to her.
‘Do you think you’ll be comfortable here?’ Lucia asked kindly. ‘Would you like anything changed?’
‘It’s all beautiful,’ Harriet said huskily. ‘I’ve never—’ To her dismay a sudden rush of tears choked her and she had to turn away.
‘But whatever is the matter?’ Lucia asked in alarm. ‘Marco, have you been unkind to her?’
‘Certainly not,’ he said at once.
‘Nobody’s been unkind,’ Harriet said huskily. ‘On the contrary, you’ve all—I’ve never—’
‘It’s time I was getting back to my work,’ Marco said, looking uncomfortable. ‘I’ve neglected it too long—’
‘What do you mean “too long”?’ his mother demanded, scandalised.
‘I beg your pardon, and Harriet’s. I didn’t mean to be impolite. But I really must return to my office, and then to my own apartment for a few days.’
‘You aren’t coming to supper tonight?’ Lucia demanded. ‘It’s Etta’s first evening with us.’
‘Regretfully I must decline that pleasure. I’ll call soon and let you know when to expect me.’
He kissed his mother and, after a moment’s hesitation, kissed Harriet’s cheek. Then he departed hastily.
‘Such manners!’ Lucia exclaimed.
‘Well, I’ve already gathered that he’s a workaholic,’ Harriet admitted. ‘And I suppose he must have lost a lot of time.’
‘You and I will spend the next few days getting to know each other.’ Lucia seized Harriet’s hands. ‘I am so happy.’
Harriet’s feeling of having landed unexpectedly in heaven showed no sign of abating. Lucia had ordered various English dishes to please her and proudly put them on display when they dined together that evening.
‘For of course I realise that you are partly English,’ she explained, with the air of someone making a generous concession. ‘But Italian in your heart, si?’
‘Si,’ Harriet agreed, wondering just how much Marco had told her. Lucia’s eyes were full of understanding.
From then on she switched to the Italian language, and in no time they were the best of friends.
‘Why not call your father to let him know that you’re here?’ Lucia asked.
Harriet felt a strange reluctance, as though there was something to be feared, but she went to the telephone and called her father’s number. She was answered by an unfamiliar voice, a man, who explained that Signor d’Estino and his family were away for several days. Nor would he divulge their destination, even when Harriet explained that she was his daughter. It was clear that he had never heard of her. She left a message, asking her father to call, and hung up, refusing to let herself feel pain.
The next morning Harriet arose refreshed, to find that Lucia had planned their day. ‘We’ll have lunch in town,’ she said, ‘and just look around.’
It was a joy to Harriet to renew her acquaintance with Rome, the great city that lived in her dreams. Once it had been the centre of the known world. Now it was a place of traffic jams and tourists, yet still dominated by glorious ancient monuments. After lunch they strolled along the luxurious Via Veneto, and Lucia pointed out Marco’s apartment, high up on the fifth floor. Harriet looked up at the windows, but they were closed and shuttered. Like the man himself, she thought.
She spent the next day alone as Lucia was on several charity committees and had meetings to attend. Now she could reclaim Rome in her own way. Happily she wandered its cobbled streets, exploring narrow alleys, and finally coming across a shop that specialised in Greek items. The next moment she was inside, inspecting, bargaining, and finally securing. When she left the shop her debt had grown substantially.
She was looking forward to showing her bargains to Marco, but so far there was no word from him, and that evening the two women dined alone. Later, as they sat together over coffee, Lucia suddenly said, ‘Perhaps we should speak of what is on our minds. My dear, does it seem very terrible to you that I’m seeking a suitable wife for my son?’
‘A little odd perhaps. Doesn’t Marco mind the idea of marrying a stranger?’
‘That’s the worst of it, he doesn’t mind at all. He was engaged once but it came to an end. Since then he’s acted as though emotion was nothing but a stage in life that he’d put behind him and was relieved to have done so.’
‘Did he love her?’
‘I believe so, but he’s never spoken about it. He slammed a door on the subject and nobody is allowed past, even me. Perhaps I’m a sentimental fool, but I loved Etta so much, and she died far too young. If I could see our families united in marriage and then in children, that’s all I could ask for.’
‘I wish you’d tell me about her.’
‘I was friends with one of her sisters, who took me home to meet the family. Etta was ten years older than me, but she took me under her wing, for my mother was dead. I was a bridesmaid at her wedding, and one of the first people to see your father when he was born.
‘We wanted our sons to grow up together, but I married late, and then it was years before Marco was born, so it didn’t happen. And then my darling Etta died, and I still miss her so much. She was the only person I could confide in. Men aren’t the same.’
‘Am I really like her?’
For answer Lucia opened a cupboard and pulled out a photo album.
‘There!’ she said, opening it at an early page. ‘That’s Etta when she was your age.’
The young woman in the picture was dressed in the fashion of fifty years earlier, and her face was the one Harriet saw in her own mirror.
‘I really am her granddaughter,’ Harriet said, in a slow, wondering voice.
‘Much more than Olympia,’ Lucia confirmed. ‘She would have been quite unsuitable. A sweet girl but an airhead, although, of course, I thought of her first because I’d known her for years. I wish I’d known you better. If only your mother hadn’t kept you from us!’
‘If only—what?’
‘Your father said she wanted nothing to do with any of us after the split. She insisted on going home to England and raising you to be English.’ She was looking at Harriet’s face. ‘Isn’t that true?’
‘No,’ Harriet seethed, ‘it most certainly isn’t. He forced her to go back to England and just shut us out.’
‘That woman!’ Lucia said at once. ‘He’s always been in thrall to her. I never liked your father. He’s a spineless weakling and quite unworthy of his mother. Now I’m totally disgusted with him.’
‘So am I,’ Harriet fumed. ‘He denied me my Italian heritage.’
‘Well, now you can claim it back again,’ Lucia said warmly.
‘Yes,’ Harriet mused. ‘I can.’
‘Would it be tactless of me to suggest that you start by dressing in our country’s fashion?’
‘You mean my clothes look as if I bought them secondhand?’ Harriet asked bluntly.
‘Of course not. But among the many English talents haute couture is not perhaps—’ she left the sentence delicately unfinished.
‘No, it’s not,’ Harriet said decisively. ‘You’re right. It’s time I started being who I am.’ Then her confidence wavered. ‘Whoever that is,’ she added uncertainly.
‘Never say such a thing again,’ Lucia commanded. ‘From this moment, you start life again.’
Next morning they went to the Via dei Condotti, the most exclusive shop in Rome. There Lucia cast a critical eye over the parade of garments, loftily dismissing this one, ordering that one set aside.
Slowly the pile of clothes grew, some to be taken as they were, some to be altered. The total wipe out of her wardrobe gave Harriet the feeling of being another person. It was strange, but she liked it.
Then she was introduced to Signora Talli, an ultra-fashionable modiste who spent a whole afternoon studying her face and redesigning it. Harriet had barely bothered with make-up. A touch of lipstick, a hint of eye shadow, and who needed more? That was her philosophy. She was soon shown the error of her ways.
Her eyes—such a magnificent shade of green, they must be highlighted, made larger—‘How?’ she asked nervously. The colour of the lipstick must be balanced with the colour of the eyes. Apparently any shade other than the one she normally wore would be preferable. She relapsed into cowed silence, convinced that she’d stumbled onto a branch of the higher science.
At last everything was in place. The woman who looked back at her from the mirror was a stranger with enormous, shadowy eyes and a mouth whose width had been cleverly emphasised. She herself had always tried to minimise that width.
Then Signora Talli took up a pair of scissors.

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