The Italian Millionaire's Marriage

‘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.’