‘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,