Rinaldo's Inherited Bride

‘But how? You want your money.’

‘Hey, there’s no need to make me sound mercenary—even if Rinaldo thinks I am.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. But if we can’t raise the money soon there’ll be plenty who can, not just Montelli. Have any of the others approached you?’

Alex regarded him with her head on one side.

‘Gino,’ she teased, ‘why don’t you just tell Rinaldo not to treat me like a fool? Say you’ve had a wasted day.’

Gino’s eyes gleamed.

‘But the day isn’t over yet. And, though you may not believe it, the mortgage seems less important by the minute. There are so many other things about you that matter more.’

She gave him a smiling glance, but didn’t answer in words.

They rode quietly back to the stables in the setting sun. Gino said little as he drove her back to Florence, but as he drew up outside the hotel he said, ‘May I take you to dinner tonight?’

She couldn’t resist saying, ‘To make sure that nobody else does?’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘Not for that reason.’

She just stopped herself from saying, ‘And pigs fly!’ He was a nice lad, and she was going to enjoy flirting the evening away with him. It would be different if she were fooled by his caressing ways, but she wasn’t. Her heart was safe, and so, she was sure, was his.

There would be no disloyalty to David, and she might learn something useful in the coming battle.

‘I’ll believe you,’ she teased. ‘Thousands wouldn’t.’

They settled that he would collect her at eight o’clock, which gave her time to find something to wear. She had thought herself well equipped with clothes, but the hotel’s shopping arcade had a boutique with the latest lines from Milan.

With leisure to steep herself in Italian fashion she discovered it was unlike anything she had known before. She stepped into the shop, telling herself that she would just take a quick look. When she stepped out again she was the proud owner of a dark blue silk dress, demure in the front and low in the back, clinging on the hips.

His eyebrows went up when he saw her in the daring dress, complete with diamond earrings.

‘Signorina,’ he said softly, ‘to be seen with you is an honour.’

Alex couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

‘What?’ he asked in comic dismay.

‘I’m sorry,’ she choked. ‘But I can’t keep a straight face when you start that “signorina” stuff. I wish you’d just call me Alex, and remember that you’re far more appealing when you’re not trying so hard.’

‘Does that mean you do find me appealing sometimes?’ he asked with comical pathos.

‘Are you going to feed me, or are we going to stand here talking all night?’ she asked severely.

‘I’m going to feed you,’ he said hastily. ‘I’ve booked us a table in a place very near here. Can you walk in those shoes?’

Her long legs ended in delicate silver sandals, with high heels.

‘Of course I can,’ she told him. ‘It’s just a question of balance.’ She added significantly, ‘And I’m very good at doing a balancing act.’

It was a perfect evening as they strolled down to the banks of the Arno and across the Ponte Vecchio. Alex paused to look into the shops that lined the bridge. There had been goldsmiths here for centuries, and their wares were still displayed in gorgeous profusion.

As at lunchtime, they ate near the river. Now the daylight was fading, the lamps were coming on, reflected in the water, and there was a new kind of magic.

Gino was also a perfect host, surrounding her with a cocoon of comfort and consideration, entertaining her with funny stories.

She made him talk about the farm and his life there, while she ate her way through chicken liver canapés, noodles with hare sauce, and Bistecca al la Fiorentina, a charbroiled steak.

‘It’s been cooked this way since the fourteenth century,’ Gino explained. ‘The legend says that the town magistrates used to cook it themselves in the Palazzo Vecchio, if it was a busy day. It saved going home for lunch.’

‘You made that up.’

‘I swear I didn’t. I don’t say that it’s true, but it’s the legend.’

‘And a good legend can be as powerful as the truth,’ Alex mused.

He nodded. ‘More. Because the legend tells you what people want to believe.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Like your brother wants to believe in me as a Wicked Witch.’

Gino regarded her wryly. ‘Do you know how often you do that?’ he asked.

‘Do what?’

‘Bring the conversation back to Rinaldo. You’ve convinced yourself that he’s pulling my strings, and I feel as though you don’t really see me at all. You’re looking over my shoulder at him all the time.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to sound like that. It’s just—well, perhaps you should blame him. I’m sure he likes to think of himself as pulling your strings—everyone’s strings. Somehow, one takes him at his own estimation.’

‘That’s true,’ he said with a rueful sigh. ‘Let’s have some champagne.’

He turned to call the waiter, leaving Alex to reflect. She was shaken by the realisation that Gino was right. While she smiled and flirted with him, Rinaldo seemed to be constantly there, an unseen but dominant presence.

When the champagne had arrived he began to reminisce once more about his childhood.

‘I’ll never forget the day my father brought me to Florence for the carnival in the streets. We went through it together, visiting all the stalls. He was as much a kid as I was. At least, that’s what my mother always said.’

‘How old were you when she died?’

‘Eight.’

‘How sad! And your father never remarried?’

‘No, he said he never would, and he stuck to that until his own death.’

‘Your father sounds like a delightful person,’ she said warmly.

‘He was. Of course, Rinaldo thought he was too frivolous, always joking when he should have been serious. Poppa would tease him and say, “Lighten up, the world is a better place than you think”.’