Virginia Heath - Lilian And The Irresistible Duke

Today he had sold a painting by di Banco , a lesser artist of the Renaissance. Pietro had never much cared for his work because the brushwork and skill lacked the sophistication and subtlety of many of his significantly better contemporaries. He had picked up the small portrait, done in oils, for next to nothing a few years back from a conte who had been systematically stripping his villa of valuables. Uninspired by this one, Pietro had consigned the little portrait to storage where it lay forgotten until he sensed he had found a buyer. The Conte didn’t know who the ancestor was so had no emotional attachment to it.

The wealthy English merchant who had bought it only wanted the portrait to give credence to the expensive illusion he was creating—to convince others his money was old and his bloodline was noble, buying the nameless ancestors of others to hang in his new mansion built in the fashionably classical style. These sorts of transactions, although not exciting, were currently very lucrative. Anyone who wasn’t anyone, but desperately wanted to be someone now they had money, knew if they came to Pietro Venturi, he would be able to fill their walls with suitably aged and convincing fake ancestors to impress their visitors while being guaranteed of his silence. In fact, at least a hundred forgotten and unwanted portraits hung in the private gallery behind his main one on the Via del Corso. He had never cared if his clients walked away with a stunning Canaletto cityscape to hang above their fireplace or the cracked portrait of a nameless, forgotten old lady by an unknown artist of yore. All he cared about was making the sale.

Yet Pietro had pondered that crude portrait all day, wondering for the first time about the young man who was staring tentatively out of the aged canvas rather than the handsome profit he would make from it. He wished he had shown it to Lilian before he had sent it off. She would have come up with at least twenty theories about the fellow—who he was, what he was thinking and why he was having his portrait painted in the first place—just as she did each evening when they strolled together around the palazzo and he pointed out some new treasure for her to speculate over. She wouldn’t care how many scudi it had made. He had never met a person more unimpressed with money than Lilian and in turn that lack of interest made him re-evaluate his obsession with it. He had made himself far more money than he could ever spend—perhaps now he should take a leaf out of her book and begin to enjoy life? He envied her her freedom, even though all the restrictions in his life were of his own making.

She came through the door and he drank in the sight of her. ‘You were right, Pietro!’ Typically, she was beaming and brimming with the excitement of the day’s adventure. ‘The Piazza del Popolo was well worth the visit. And so unspoilt. I felt exactly as if I was walking in the Rome of the fifteenth century.’

‘My feet feel as if I’ve been walking since the fifteenth century!’ Alexandra flopped on to the sofa opposite him. ‘If you are going to continually offer her new suggestions to drag me along to, I think you should take some of the responsibility for the walking. I was all done by two. But somebody…’ she glared at her cousin ‘…insisted we traipse all the way down the Via Leonina because a certain somebody…’ then she glared at him ‘…encouraged her to seek out the fresco at the Trinità dei Monti, which also involved the climbing of those ridiculous Spanish Steps. All one hundred and thirty-eight of them!’

He ignored Alexandra’s complaining to focus on her companion. ‘What did you think?’

Lilian’s face said it all. ‘It was a stunning fresco! And you are right, da Volterra is a master. One I had never heard of before. Yet, you can still can see the influence and genius of Michelangelo in the painting—exactly as you said.’

‘It was he who gained da Volterra the commission in the first place. Volterra is said to have based it on Michelangelo’s design and drawings.’ It was so wonderful to be able to converse with another about art. One who reminded him why he had fallen in love with the subject in the first place. He had never met another person who seemed to feel it all as keenly as he did.

‘That doesn’t surprise me. The composition…the way he paints the figures. It leaps out at you. The expressions of grief on the faces of his followers as they reverently lower the body of Christ from the cross brought a tear to my eye. It was so visceral…so utterly tragic.’

Alexandra rolled her eyes, unenthused with their topic of conversation. ‘The pain in my poor feet brings tears to my eyes, too. Not that anyone cares. I hope you know a good cobbler, Carlotta. Another couple of days at this pace and my walking shoes will need new soles.’

‘Yet history has condemned him to be known for ever as Il Braghettone —literally the breeches maker—because he was hired by Pope Pius the Fourth to cover the genitalia on works of art in the Vatican.’

‘Poor da Volterra. To have his greatness forgotten.’ Her eyes locked with his and he realised they were kindred spirits. She understood his thoughts. He understood hers. He could see them in her eyes.

How bizarre…

‘Why don’t you take the carriage? You do not have to walk everywhere.’ His sister, like Alexandra, couldn’t see what all the fuss was about and this, too, was reflected in the amused exasperation in Lilian’s lovely gaze.

‘Because Lilian is determined to immerse herself fully in the experience and, apparently, she would miss things in the comfort of Pietro’s fine conveyance. Like the charming smells wafting from some of the side streets, for instance. The heady combination of rotting vegetables, stagnant water and the sweaty bodies of the great unwashed are also apparently intrinsic to Rome’s charm. It made me want to gag so I had to resort to burying my nose in my handkerchief, but Lilian didn’t appear the least bit offended by the stench. I swear, all her years working at the Foundation have completely destroyed her sense of smell.’

‘I am simply more robust of both body and character than you, Cousin.’ Another thing Pietro liked about her. Lilian was no shrinking violet. The brief years of his marriage had proved he had no time for those. ‘However, to be annoyingly magnanimous and to appease you and your poor old feet, we shall take the carriage to the Pantheon tomorrow.’

‘But Sofia has invited us to take tea with her tomorrow. I accepted on your behalf, Alexandra.’

‘Oh.’ Pietro saw the flash of disappointment on Lilian’s face at his sister’s announcement. ‘Who is Sofia?’

‘The Marchesa di Gariello.’

Pietro tried not to curl his lip in disgust at the mention of her name. Sofia was one of his greatest mistakes. A conniving, shallow and spiteful woman who lived to elevate her own importance by putting down others. She had also been one of the main reasons he had made unbreakable rules about the sort of affairs he had. She had claimed to only want an affair, but, being an old friend of the family, had used her friendship with his sister to attempt to force an engagement, claiming heartbreak and broken promises. And then when those did not work—worse.

‘A great friend from our youth. She hasn’t seen Alexandra in for ever.’ Carlotta’s eyes flicked to his awkwardly. To this day she did not know the half of it. ‘And we do not get to see her so much now either.’ Because Pietro had banned the manipulative witch from his house and had been upfront about his refusal to make promises to any woman beyond a night of unbridled passion ever since to avoid any confusion. He’d had one wife and that experience had taught him he never wanted another. And if he did, which he obviously very much didn’t, she would never be a woman like Sofia!