Lucy Gordon: The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage

‘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.