The Italian Millionaire's Marriage. Lucy Gordon
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thought reminded him of the necklace, but he was in a good humour now, and bore her no ill will. If anything, their spat had been useful in breaking the ice.
Dancing On Line was a very modern musical, a satire about the internet, dry, witty, with good tunes and sharp dancers. They both enjoyed it, and left the theatre in a charity with one another. The rain had stopped, and the cab he’d ordered was waiting.
‘I know a small restaurant where they do the best food in London,’ he said.
He took her to a place that she, a Londoner, had never heard of. Slightly to her surprise it was French, not Italian, but then she realised that surprise was the name of the game. If he really was planning an outrageous suggestion then it made sense for him to confuse her a little first.
‘Perhaps I should have asked if you like French food,’ he said when they had seated themselves at a quiet corner table.
‘I like it almost as much as Italian,’ she said, speaking in French. It might be showing off but she felt that flying all her flags would be a good idea.
‘Of course you’re a cosmopolitan,’ he said. ‘In your line of work you’d have to be. Spanish?’
‘Uh-uh! Plus Greek and Latin.’
‘Modern Greek or classical?’
‘Both of course,’ she said, contriving to sound faintly shocked.
‘Of course.’ He smiled faintly and inclined his head in respect.
The food really was the best. Harriet notched up a mark to him. He was an excellent host, consulting her wishes while making suggestions that didn’t pressure her. She let him pick the wine, and his choice exactly suited her.
The light was dim in their corner, with two small wall lamps and two candles in glass bowls on the table, making shadows dance and flicker. Even so she managed to study his face and had to give him ten out of ten for looks. His dinner jacket was impeccable, and his white, embroidered evening shirt made a background for his lightly tanned skin. He was a handsome man. She conceded that. His lips, perhaps, were slightly on the thin side, but in a way that emphasised his infrequent smiles, giving them a quirky irony that pleased her.
His eyes drew her attention, being very dark brown, almost black. She would have called them beautiful if the rest of his face hadn’t been so unmistakably masculine. They were deep set and slightly shadowed by a high forehead and heavy eyebrows. That gave his face a hint of mystery, because she couldn’t always see whether his eyes had the same expression as his mouth. And she suspected that they often didn’t.
So far, so intriguing. It was lucky Olympia had warned her what was afoot, or she might have been completely taken in; might actually have found him seriously attractive. As it was, she held the advantage. She decided to disconcert him a little, just for fun.
‘What brings you to London?’ she asked innocently. ‘Business?’
If the question threw him he gave no sign of it. ‘A little. And I must pay my respects to Lady Dulcie Maddox, who became engaged to my cousin Guido a few weeks ago.’
Harriet savoured the name. ‘Lord Maddox’s daughter?’
‘Yes, do you know her?’
‘She’s been in the shop a couple of times.’
‘Buying or selling?’
‘Selling.’ Harriet fell silent, sensing a minefield.
‘Probably pieces from the Maddox ancestral home, to pay her father’s debts,’ Marco supplied. ‘I gather he’s a notorious gambler.’
‘Yes,’ she said, relaxing. ‘I didn’t want to tell tales if you didn’t know.’
‘It’s common knowledge. Dulcie has to earn her living, and she was working as a private enquiry agent when she came to Venice and met Guido. What did you think of her?’
‘Beautiful,’ Harriet said enviously. ‘All that long fair hair—if she still has it?’
‘She had when I said goodbye to her a few weeks back. As you say, she’s beautiful, and she’ll keep Guido in order.’
She laughed. ‘Does he need keeping in order?’
‘Definitely. A firecracker, with no sense of responsibility. That’s my Uncle Francesco talking, by the way. Count Calvani. He’s been desperate for Guido to marry and produce an heir to the title.’
‘Hasn’t he done that himself?’
‘No, the title will go to one of his nephews. It should have been Leo, Guido’s older half-brother. Their father married twice. His first wife, Leo’s mother, was supposedly a widow, but her first husband turned up alive, making the marriage invalid and Leo illegitimate, and unable to inherit the title.’
‘That’s dreadful!’
‘Leo doesn’t think so. He doesn’t want to be a count. The trouble is, neither does Guido, but that’s going to be his fate. So uncle tried to find him a suitable wife, and was giving up in despair when Guido fell for Dulcie.
‘My uncle is also, finally, going to get married. Apparently he’s been in love with his housekeeper for years and has finally persuaded her to marry him. He’s in his seventies, she’s in her sixties, and they’re like a pair of turtle-doves.’
‘That’s charming!’ Harriet exclaimed.
‘Yes, it is, although not everyone thinks so. My mother is scandalised that he’s marrying “a servant” as she calls her.’
‘Does anyone care about that kind of thing these days?’
‘Some people,’ Marco said carefully. ‘My mother’s heart is kind but her views about what is “proper” come from another age.’
‘What about you?’
‘I don’t always embrace modern ways,’ he said. ‘I make my decisions after a lot of careful thought.’
‘A banker would have to, of course.’
‘Not always. Among my banking colleagues I have the reputation of sometimes getting carried away.’
‘You?’ she asked with an involuntary emphasis.
‘I have been known to thrown caution to the winds,’ he said gravely.
‘Profitably, of course.’
‘Of course.’
She studied his face, trying to see if he was joking or not, unable to decide. He guessed what she was doing and regarded her wryly, eyebrows raised as if to ask whether she’d worked it out yet. The moment stretched on and he grew uncomfortably aware of something transfixed in her manner.
‘Would you like some more wine?’ he asked, to bring her back to earth.
‘I’m sorry, what was that?’
‘Wine.’
‘Oh, no—no, thank you. You know your face really is familiar. I wish I could remember—’
‘Perhaps I remind you of a boyfriend,’ he suggested delicately. ‘Past or present?’
‘Oh, no, I haven’t had a boyfriend for ages,’ she murmured, still regarding him.
What was the matter with her he wondered? Sophisticated one minute, gauche the next. Still, it told him what he needed to know.
As they were eating he asked, ‘How do you and Olympia come to have different nationalities?’
‘We don’t,’ Harriet said quickly. ‘We’re both Italian.’
‘Well, yes, in a sense—’
‘In every sense,’ she interrupted with a touch of defiance. ‘I was born in Italy, my father is Italian and my name