The Italian Millionaire's Marriage
Author
Lucy Gordon
Reads
16,3K
Chapters
12
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.
