A reunion in Rome…

Sparks an affair to remember!

Responsible widow Lilian Fairclough is persuaded to travel to Rome for a hard-earned break and to let down her hair! She’s surprised to be reunited with passionate, cynical Italian duke Pietro Venturi. He reawakens her sensual side and intrigues her with glimpses of pain beneath his rakish surface. Enticed into a secret and temporary affair, what will happen once she returns home?

When VIRGINIA HEATH was a little girl it took her ages to fall asleep, so she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at the ceiling. As she got older the stories became more complicated—sometimes taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex, with her wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her for ever to fall asleep.

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Lilian and the Irresistible Duke by Virginia Heath

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Lilian and the Irresistible Duke

Virginia Heath

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90123-3

LILIAN AND THE IRRESISTIBLE DUKE

© 2020 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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For all my writing friends

who help me climb every mountain.

You know who you are.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

April 1843

Lilian huddled beneath her fancy new shawl, enjoying the bracing sea breeze almost as much as the soft heat of the early morning sunrise. Some things were simply too special to miss and her first sighting of Italy was one of them.

What a painting it would make! The wispy clouds peppering the orange-tinged sky, the shadows they cast on the green hills on the horizon, both framing the clusters of pale stone buildings as they trickled down into the town and the imposing high walls of the ancient port, standing tall and proud in the turquoise ocean.

She had seen Turner’s beautiful depictions of Italy years ago, at an exhibition in Somerset House, and had fallen in love with his romantic landscapes, but now she realised even his talented brush had not done this magnificent vista justice. It was more beautiful than she could have ever imagined…not that she had imagined she would ever get to see it.

Hers had been a life of great responsibility and great purpose. Three children to bring up. A devoted wife to a wonderful and philanthropic man. Helping him to build his dream—the Fairclough Foundation—from the ground up so together they could help hundreds of unfortunate women forge better lives for themselves with new skills and a clean slate. Then continuing that dream and raising their family all alone after her beloved husband had been taken from her much too young. Life had been hard. At times, downright impossible. Only a few months ago it had all seemed likely to fall crashing about her ears.

Yet here she was.

Still standing and a little lost, truth be told, because the world seemed to be moving rapidly around her and she no longer knew her place in it. Her purpose had been diminished and she had allowed it to happen. And happily. It was only right that her children should forge ahead with their own lives. The natural order of things was for parents to step aside as they did so.

Yet it didn’t make it any easier. Especially as in her mind she felt no different from the way she had two decades ago. At five and forty she was a long way off old, yet equally well past young. Neither ready to retire to a life of knitting or embroidery nor sure what she might do next. She felt as if she was standing at a crossroads and this unexpected trip to Rome a temporary reprieve from the indecision of which path to tread. An adventure.

A new adventure pursuing a lifelong passion. An adventure entirely for herself for a change. Finally going to see the great masterpieces she had always dreamed of and most particularly Michelangelo’s spectacular ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. A painting she had wanted to see since she had viewed a tiny example of his work briefly on loan to the National Gallery. Art had always been her solace—not that she had any talent for drawing—but it had been a way for her to relax when life got too much. When the world got on top of her, stealing an hour looking at the beauty which others created with a simple brush and palette always rejuvenated her. Something about the Italian painters and landscapes always called to her, but she had never dreamed she would ever visit Italy to actually see it. After a quarter of a century devoting her life to others, she still couldn’t quite believe it. Or get used to the new freedom she had not been ready to experience.

‘I’ll wager you are glad we all talked you into coming now, aren’t you?’ Beside her, Alexandra was grinning. She had seen this panorama many times before and had a whole host of friends here. ‘We shall have a leisurely breakfast, drinking cappuccinos in Civitavecchia and be in Rome with Carlotta in time for dinner. Palazzo delle Santafano is just outside the city. Close enough to see it all and far enough away to escape when the city gets too much.’

Civitavecchia… Palazzo delle Santafano… Cappuccino… Every word in Italian was music to her ears, sounding sinfully mysterious and romantic. She had always been a romantic soul at heart. ‘I cannot imagine it ever getting too much.’ Lilian watched the walls of the port loom ever closer like an excited girl at her first assembly. ‘It is so lovely.’ And so unlike London she might as well be in a different world. But then she had practically crossed the world to get here. Trains, carriages, ships…so many days of travel she no longer knew which day of the week it was and really couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when every day had suddenly seemed like a bold new adventure. She had never seen France, or even the white cliffs of Dover for that matter until she started this trip. Thanks to the Foundation and more than two decades of motherhood in her spartan home at the back of the institute, her life had been rooted in London on the dubious streets close to the Irish Rookery in the shadow of Westminster Abbey.

‘Trust me—it will. The pace of life, the heat, the customs, the people… The Italians are very different from what you are used to. They are a passionate race.’

Lilian knew that. Or rather she suspected as much thanks to her lone encounter with her first and only Italian at Christmas. Pietro Venturi—Duca della Torizia… Another jumble of seductive Italian words.

He had been nothing like any man she had ever met. Dark, much too tall and exotic, he was more confident and considerably less reserved than the typical English male. He had looked boldly into her eyes, lingered over kissing her hand, flirted outrageously and his deep voice and seductive accent had quite taken her by surprise. She blamed that and, of course, the three glasses of wine she had consumed at Lady Fentree’s soirée last Christmas for agreeing to travel back to Alexandra’s house alone with just him in the carriage. And she blamed the alcohol, the shameless flirting, the accent, those intense sultry dark eyes and the intimacy of the carriage for allowing the Duca della Torizia to steal that kiss. And for kissing him so enthusiastically back.

Her first kiss in a decade. Although she still hadn’t made her mind up if it was the unexpected surprise of a single kiss after so long without which made it so scandalously memorable, or the fact that he did it so well and so thoroughly. For its entire duration she quite forgot she was a middle-aged widow who had never shown any desire to be kissed again before he had stolen one.

‘Mrs Fairclough…you have such beautiful eyes…’

He had stared deeply into them, tracing the pad of one finger gently down her cheek and making her skin tingle for the first time in a decade.

‘For some reason they call to me…’

Then his lips had whispered over hers and everything—the carriage, the snow, all her myriad responsibilities, all her problems—everything but him disappeared as she lost herself in his kiss.

And as much as the incident was regrettable in the extreme and completely unlike her, against all her better judgements her mind had frequently wandered back to it since, reminding her body that, although it was older, it still had the capacity to crave a man’s touch just as it always had.

But that brief, chance meeting had signalled the start of something and was perhaps one of the reasons she had agreed to this exciting holiday abroad. While she disagreed she had earned a break from her life as her children had insisted—because she was too selfless by half and they wanted to repay her for everything she had done—Lilian did agree she was due an adventure. She also needed to do something to get away from her children, not because she didn’t love them all to distraction, because she did, but because they were all newly married and ready to start their own adventures. Since her daughter Lottie had taken over the running of the Foundation with her husband, Jasper, Lilian had felt redundant and a little in the way.

She had once been a besotted newlywed herself and knew how all-encompassing and thrilling that heady time was. Love, lust, longing…the sheer joy of one another’s company. She had had that once. Except she had got to enjoy Henry on her own, without a well-meaning parent in the wings, and she wanted the same for them. Millie and Cassius were at Falconmore Hall. Silas and Mary, freshly returned from America, had rented a house close to the Foundation so they could spend some time in England. And Lottie and Jasper had moved in with Lilian. It was they who most needed their privacy. Even with the very best intentions, she had walked in on them too many times in the midst of an embrace and felt awful when they had guiltily pulled apart when they should be basking in the first flush of love. Just as Lilian had shamelessly and greedily basked in it with Henry all those years ago. She had always been a passionate romantic at heart, too.

Not one of her children needed her now. They would, when grandchildren inevitably came along, but for the time being she had no real purpose and didn’t want to be underfoot as they all enjoyed those first precious months with their new spouses. As much as her children loved her in return, they had also been unsubtly keen to reward her for her years of selfless service by acting together to send her on this extended trip abroad. She was both grateful and philosophical about their generosity, but she certainly didn’t intend to squander the opportunity and hoped two months of distance from her old life and purpose might give her some clarity on what to do with it next.

‘What is Carlotta like?’ Their hostess, the Contessa di Bagnoregio, was a great friend of Alexandra from her youth. As a duke’s daughter, and the wife of a viscount who had loved to travel, she was used to mixing with the aristocracy of Europe.

‘A great deal like us. A similar age. Children all grown and flown the nest. Widowed like you. She has a wicked sense of humour, too, and hates being idle. Since her husband died, she has thrown herself into the art world. Her brother deals in it and makes an absolute fortune selling Old Masters to new money. He charms them into buying and she enforces the prices once the remorse of agreeing to them inevitably sets in—believe me, some of them are eye-watering. But if anyone can squeeze blood out of a stone it is she. I would hate to have to do business with her, as she has the reputation of being terrifying. Only a brave few dared argue money with her, but it is always futile as they inevitably end up paying through the nose regardless. She is also hideously philanthropic. The pair of you will get on famously.’

Lilian hoped so. There was nothing worse than staying in the house of someone you felt awkward around and she put no stock in titles or the superiority of blue blood with hers being the common red variety and her link to the aristocracy only tenuous through marriage. Not that her husband had put any stock in his snobbish family. Henry had remained happily estranged from them all after they had cut him off when he had lowered himself to marry someone so indisputably from trade. The one member of his family Henry had tolerated was his cousin Alexandra, who had been the only aristocrat Lilian had had any real contact with until her eldest daughter Millie had married Cassius and become a marchioness. Rank had never held much stock in the Fairclough household where strength of character and deed were judged to be more important measures.

‘Come—we are about to dock. Let us grab what we need from the cabin and eat.’ Alexandra tugged her arm. ‘After we’ve watched those burly men unload some of the cargo first. Nothing quite builds up an appetite like the sight of the rippling muscles of a shirtless sailor.’

‘You are incorrigible.’ As was Alexandra’s beloved husband, George, who had lobbied hard for Lilian to go to Rome with his outrageous wife. Both of them were of the belief she was in dire need of some fun. And to make sure she had it, George had declared it a ladies-only holiday, citing that he had far too many pressing business matters to attend to when she knew he simply did not want her to feel like a spare wheel. Which she was starting to feel quite a bit.

‘One of us has to be—but I am hopeful some of it might rub off on you in the next six weeks. You have been upstanding and sensible for far too long and you will need to be a little incorrigible to have a proper Italian adventure.’

The roads to Rome, although charming, weren’t quite as good as Lilian was used to. Thanks to the incessant potholes and sedentary speed of their driver, who seemed determined to go into every one of them, they arrived at the palazzo after dark. Not only did she get to miss the sight of it in daylight, her smart new travelling dress was a crumpled mess and she ached from head to foot. From what she could make out as they rattled up the long straight drive, the building was huge and rectangular in shape. Friendly lamps burned in several windows framed in lacey foliage she didn’t recognise, but that seemed to grow with abandon up the high walls. They passed through a grand archway and she realised the house was not a solid block, but more a villa built around a huge torchlit courtyard filled with a fountain, classical-looking statues and a profusion of shrubs in enormous terracotta pots.

They were greeted by their hostess, a petite, smiling woman who was not at all as Lilian had imagined her. She had expected to meet someone more formidable rather than this dark-haired, elfin creature who preferred to kiss Lilian noisily on both cheeks rather than incline her head or shake hands like strangers did when introduced at home.

‘Darlings, you must be exhausted! I shall have baths drawn for you both immediately so that you can refresh yourselves and relax before dinner. Apart from the torturous drive from Civitavecchia, which seems to get worse with each passing year, I trust the rest of your long journey was pleasant?’

‘It was indeed, Contessa.’

‘Contessa! We do not need to adhere to formality. Alexandra has told me so much about you in her letters I feel we are friends already. You must call me Carlotta—I insist. And I shall call you Lilian and by tomorrow we shall know all of each other’s secrets like the very best friends always do. We have much in common. I hear your daughters are recently married, exactly like mine, although I have been blessed with bambini already. Two grandsons. Twins. From my eldest daughter and another surprise on the way from my youngest.’

‘I had twins! A boy and a girl. Silas and Millie. Both very recently married alongside my youngest daughter Lottie. But only in the last few months. My daughter-in-law is already expecting, but no sign of…’ What was the lovely word Carlotta had used? ‘bambini yet for the girls. Although I hope it won’t be long.’

‘They married for amore, did they not? That always speeds things along.’ She wiggled her dark eyebrows suggestively. ‘Ah…to be young and in love. So much passione, yes? I miss it. My Gennaro was a vigorous man.’

That she said such things out loud was both shocking and refreshing. Lilian was no prude. She had fallen head over heels in love with her husband and had enjoyed the physical aspect of their marriage immensely, but working at the Foundation, surrounded by so many unfortunate women who had not been afforded the luxury of virtue or tenderness, she knew both sides of passion. Knew it, but had never discussed it openly with anyone.

‘Don’t frighten her yet, Carlotta. Poor Lilian is fresh off the boat and still shackled by her Englishness.’

‘A good point, my friend. I forget how buttoned up you all are. We will feed her and fill her with wine and in a few days some of those buttons will come undone.’ Her hostess grinned wickedly. ‘And if she is lucky, we will find this pretty English rose a hot-blooded Italian lover to rip off the rest.’

‘Oh, I am not here for that!’ Lilian could feel her cheeks heating with a blush, when she never blushed any more and hadn’t for a good fifteen years.

‘Nobody ever is, darling…but it wouldn’t hurt now, would it?’

‘No, really. I have no interest in men any more.’

Of course she didn’t. She was forty-five, for goodness sake. Much too old for flirting. Let alone courting.

‘Why ever not? You are a long way off dead.’

‘Er…’ Although she did have a point. One Lilian had not really considered until the Duca della Torizia had reawakened it and she had begun to think about it again. Something about him had made her body hum.

‘And it is not as if we are talking marriage.’ Carlotta shrugged. ‘Who wants to give up their independence for that again? One of the great benefits of our age and situation is we can indulge our own passions without such enduring complications. Although if the right man came along to tempt me, I might consider it…but he would have to be exceptional.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘In case you haven’t already guessed, I am a hopeless romantic at heart.’ Something else they apparently had in common. ‘But I am scaring you as Alexandra says.’ Carlotta smiled and took her arm. ‘Forgive my earthy Italian nature. I have a tendency to say whatever comes into my head before I consider if it is appropriate.’

‘It is why I love you,’ said Alexandra, linking her arm through her friend’s, too. ‘And why I keep coming back here. It is good to be less English for a while, Lilian. Liberating, in fact. I am rejuvenated each time I come to Rome. Or at least I will be once I have soaked these old bones in that bath you promised, Carlotta. And you are right, the road from Civitavecchia. It is atrocious…’

It took almost an hour for the old friends to catch up and for Lilian to finally see her bedchamber. Except it wasn’t a simple bedchamber. The beautiful suite of rooms was situated on a long landing just around the corner from Lady Alexandra’s and was comprised of a small sitting room, bedroom and separate dressing area complete with an exquisite copper claw-footed bathtub filled with steaming water. She dismissed the maid, using mostly hand gestures as the girl knew no English and her own Italian was non-existent, and unpinned her hair. Sighing, she massaged her aching scalp with her fingers before kicking off her boots and undoing the back of her travelling gown.

She was about to strip it off when she remembered the decadent bar of fine-milled French soap she had treated herself to during their overnight stop in Bordeaux. Such a fine bath deserved fine soap and so did she. This trip was her time to be selfish and self-indulgent after all. She had faithfully promised her children she would enjoy the whole experience the way she wanted to and put any guilt aside for its duration. That meant she would bathe with her fancy soap and revel in every minute of it. She turned and headed to her still-unpacked trunk to fetch it when she realised the trunk was not hers, but Alexandra’s. The footmen must have mixed them up. She could hardly have a bath and have nothing clean to put on afterwards either.

She poked her head out into the hallway to call back her maid, but the girl was gone. She knew Alexandra—her maid would still be there even if her mistress was already soaking in her bath and Lilian selfishly wanted her soap. Rather than retying her dress, she wrapped her shawl tightly around the loose and gaping bodice and decided to make a dash for it before the water got cold. With one hand on the shawl and the other holding the full skirts and petticoats of her uncharacteristically fashionable new dress, she scurried down the hall, staying close to the wall. As she pivoted around the sharp corner, she hit him, her face connecting with the broad expanse of his chest.

‘I am so sorry…’ She had to crane her neck to look at his face and the apology died on her lips a split second before her face heated crimson.

Chapter Two

Pietro had been having a bad day. Or rather it was not so much that the day was any worse than any other, but that he had awoken feeling restless and that restlessness refused to go away no matter how much he tried to divert it with purpose.

The restlessness, as he called the odd mood which crept up on him without warning, had always plagued him since he was a young man. A sense of something not quite right, something missing, a peculiar feeling of dissatisfaction with his life. It predated his marriage and had bothered him throughout its short and turbulent duration. In his youth, he put it down to ambition and over-exuberance and had always assumed it would disappear with age. Except with each passing year, and despite his success and his significantly increased fortune, it seemed to plague him more now than it ever had. His usual method of distracting it with work, and if that failed to assuage it with a brief fling with a willing woman, no longer seemed to alleviate it for quite as long as it used to and he often found his mood soured because he was so very bored with it all. Although he could never quite pinpoint exactly what it was he was dissatisfied with because he had no earthly idea exactly what it was he wanted.

To make matters worse, despite actively looking, suitable distractions outside his punishing work schedule had been thin on the ground lately. The stalwarts he could always rely on held little appeal and he hadn’t met a new woman in months who had seemed worth the effort.

Apart from one…

One whom he would have enjoyed thoroughly seducing just before Christmas. The troubled, proper, pretty one who had strangely intrigued him at Lady Fentree’s festive gathering in England. The one who had just apparently walked straight into him.

‘Hello…’

Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders, silky and wavy against her pale English skin as one of those creamy shoulders was exposed bare above the shawl she clutched tightly. Feline green eyes blinked up at him, the mouth he had thoroughly enjoyed kissing all those months before a startled O. And she was blushing. At her age. How…interesting.

All in all, the woman who had strangely intrigued him during that chilly English winter, because she wasn’t his usual type at all, suddenly looked very much his type in his home town now. A petite, gloriously curvaceous, tousled and thoroughly intriguing armful of woman who looked wonderfully scandalised to have collided with him again. Her eyes were on his mouth and he realised in that second she was remembering their heated kiss in the carriage just as he was. It was a memory which he had often revisited since, which was not like him either as he was not one to reminisce. What was the point? The past usually only served to depress him and he enjoyed the here and now.

But she had surprised him that night. He still couldn’t think of a reason why he had been initially drawn to her at the interminable house party he had been dragged to. But once they were alone in that dark carriage, thick fresh snowflakes falling outside under the moonlit sky and crunching beneath the wheels on that much-too-short journey, he had remembered clearly why he had kissed her.

Because in that moment, he had wanted to. It was that simple. And she had surprised him by kissing him back with barely contained passion and, for a few short minutes, the carriage, the snow and the entire world had disappeared the second his lips had touched hers.

Pietro could not remember the last time such a thing had happened because his head was always full of other things. His business, his wealthy clients. Brokering discreet deals with the many financially challenged aristocrats who needed to liquidate some of their assets, then creating enough excitement and intrigue about those paintings and sculptures so they not only found a welcoming new home, but he was paid a fortune for rehoming them. At least one of these things was always at the back of his mind at all times and usually more to the forefront than the recesses, yet in that carriage, on that short road between one house and another, it had only been him and her.

It had been a truly unforgettable kiss. One which, if he were honest with himself, had caught him off guard and left him decidedly off kilter. Enough to leave the area quickly in case he was tempted to do it again. Such an unexpected and unforeseen reaction was far too complicated to indulge further and Pietro avoided complications like the plague.

‘What are you doing here!’

‘I live here.’

‘You do?’ Her voice came out in a delightfully outraged squeak as she simultaneously realised her shawl wasn’t entirely covering her modesty and wrestled with it ineffectually.

He nodded, his mouth curving into a smile for the first time that day. ‘Which begs the obvious question, cara…what are you doing here?’

‘I am here with my late husband’s cousin…with Lady Alexandra…we’ve come to stay with Carlotta…’

‘Ah…’ Instinct told him this was no accident. It had the stamp of his sister all over it. She despaired of his quarter-century of bachelorhood, declaring it unnatural—especially as he had been widowed so young. ‘And she put you in this room?’ Conveniently located right next to his in the family wing. Much too coincidental to be coincidence.

‘Do you know Carlotta? Silly question…of course you know Carlotta if you live in her house…’

‘Actually, this is my house.’

‘It is?’ She didn’t look very happy about this news, her dark eyebrows drawing together to create a charming wrinkle between them. ‘Lady Alexandra led me to believe this is her friend’s house. Carlotta’s house.’

‘Carlotta moved in here after her husband died three years ago. To bother me. Something she does very well. My little sister has always liked to meddle.’ And matchmake. Although she was usually more subtle about it.

‘Your sister?’

‘They never told you?’

‘No…neither she nor my dear cousin thought to tell me that my host was her brother… Or that we had met.’ Her eyes flicked to his lips again before she caught herself and forced them to hold his gaze. He bothered her. The knowledge warmed him until he reminded himself he should probably be more wary than warmed. Mrs Fairclough was a widow. He was a widower. Carlotta and Alexandra had conspired to put her in the room next door to him, thrust directly in the path of temptation, when there were another twenty serviceable bedchambers in the palazzo well away from his.

‘Clearly they both like to meddle, as I suspect you have been brought here on purpose, Mrs Fairclough.’ It didn’t take a genius to work out what was going on. Alexandra must have reported back straight after Christmas, eager to tell his sister he had shown an interest in a woman and Carlotta being Carlotta, she had assumed it meant more than it did and had thought to encourage it. ‘To matchmake, perhaps?’ Unless the woman before him was in league with them. She wouldn’t be the first to assume he was in need of a wife and, as he had instigated their kiss, she might well assume she could be the one to tempt him to abandon his bachelor ways…

‘Well, if they did, I can assure you it has nothing to do with me! I would have put them straight and told them I wasn’t the least bit interested in such nonsense.’

A vehement and convincing denial which needed testing. In his experience, nobody manipulated better than a woman, especially a woman with a mission. ‘Yet here you are… Right next door to my bedchamber…’ His eyes appreciatively travelled the length of her, settling on the bare toes poking beneath the hem of her dress and back up again to the blush which now stained her delicate collarbone, swanlike neck and the alabaster cheeks his fingers suddenly ached to touch—despite all his rampant suspicions. ‘Looking decidedly interesting.’

‘I was about to get into the bath.’ In her embarrassment, her teeth worried her plump bottom lip, drawing his eyes there as she clutched at her shawl like a shield. ‘Your servants brought me the wrong trunk by mistake. Mine must be with Lady Alexandra.’ As if noticing her bare toes for the first time, she twisted her feet awkwardly to hide them under the copious material of her skirt. ‘I was fetching my soap.’

‘I can fetch it for you—and perhaps help to scrub your back?’

His outrageous flirting had the most wonderful effect. Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds and she threw back her shoulders like an offended queen. Something which did wonders for her full bosom beneath the thin shawl. ‘No, thank you.’

‘If you change your mind…’

‘I won’t!’ She spun on her bare heel and marched back to her bedchamber, slamming the door loudly, and he found himself frowning as he heard her turn the key decisively in the lock.

A woman determined to seduce a man would have flirted back, not shut him out. She would have parried and simpered and used all her feminine wiles to lure him into her trap. Mrs Fairclough had been offended and angry. Much too keen to get out of his way. Exactly like a woman who was as surprised and horrified to see him as he was her.

Pietro winced at his own crassness.

What was the matter with him to be so unforgivably rude? He was prone to cynicism and who could blame him? But thanks to the restlessness which continually ate away at him, he was in danger of becoming too cynical and jaded. And perhaps too vain and arrogant in his appeal, if he was assuming she had purposely been patrolling the hallway in a state of partial undress simply to meet him and seduce him—when there was no possible way she could have known he would come back when he had. In fact, he had told his sister he would not be home that night as he had a longstanding meeting with an old friend in Napoli he could not possibly cancel.

The old friend had really been one of his stalwarts, the American widow Mrs Ida Wayfair, whose house was but a stone’s throw from here. But like the paintings he bought and sold, he kept his affairs ruthlessly discreet. In public he was widely known as a charmer—but was careful nobody knew which of the women’s beds he actually visited.

Ida had an insatiable physical appetite, a liberal attitude in the bedroom and the same strict views on any sort of serious, emotional and permanent attachment as he had. She was also very discreet—something he liked her a great deal for. Except the thought of slipping between Ida’s well-used sheets again hadn’t been enough to tempt him from feeling sorry for himself this evening, and he had cancelled. Then taken his frustration at his own dissatisfaction and bad mood out on Carlotta’s unexpected guest because the sight of her had unnerved him.

Again.

She hadn’t deserved that.

He would apologise to her later for being crass and for offending her delicate sensibilities with his outrageous and indelicate flirting. He never usually behaved so clumsily—especially if he found the lady as attractive as he did in this case. Usually, Pietro prided himself on being a charming flirt, who enjoyed the subtle art of seducing as much as the ultimate seduction itself.

He wasn’t entirely sure what had just come over him, but knew he had to make amends. She was a guest in his house and of his sister’s. He shouldn’t be shamelessly flirting with her for exactly those two reasons. Firstly, it was a point of principal to never dally with any friends of the family, because it was much too close to home for comfort. And secondly, he never ever dallied at home because it was much too personal. He might use the house as a way to seduce them, but he would never seduce them in it. The only person who had ever slept in his bed here in the palazzo was him and that was the way he intended to keep things.

He could leave a strange bed at exactly the time of his choosing, which was always before the lady beside him woke up. Cosy breakfasts gave ladies ideas—even ladies like Ida—and daylight brought a truth to the proceedings which Pietro would rather not experience. He liked to keep his emotions detached from his desires and to do that required distance. For both those reasons, Mrs Fairclough and her potent kisses were strictly out of bounds henceforth. He had no place flirting with her because she was already much too close for comfort.

Although Mrs Fairclough had looked like a woman who needed a bit of flirting in her life. That was probably what had drawn him to her last winter. That and her lovely green eyes which had called to him. She had seemed burdened then, worried, and he had taken it upon himself to make her feel better. He still had no idea why he had needed to do that. He wasn’t completely heartless, it was true, but he was no Good Samaritan either. Yet her quiet sadness had lured him to her and once he was with her, he had fallen completely under her spell. Then fate had placed them in the same carriage unchaperoned and he had kissed her because…well…he still wasn’t entirely sure how to explain that. Other than it had felt entirely right at the time. She had responded with more passion than her prim, no-nonsense attire had suggested she would. More passion than either of them had expected. Certainly enough to keep her fresh in his mind these past four months. The little oasis of excitement in the barren desert of dissatisfaction he seemed doomed to wallow in.

Chapter Three

Lilian had to give herself a stiff talking to before plucking up the courage to go down to dinner, and that was after the stiff talking to she gave Alexandra. Typically, her cousin brushed it aside as an oversight, claiming she hadn’t remembered introducing the Duca to Lilian at Lady Fentree’s party. Without confessing to her they had shared a heated kiss in a carriage all alone, and that kiss now rendered her situation very awkward, to say the least, it was difficult for Lilian to convey exactly how miffed she was about being kept in the dark about the situation.

She was even more miffed at his behaviour earlier, because his shallow, unsubtle flirting had soured a memory which she had stupidly treasured since. In that carriage, she had felt special, interesting and appealing in a way she hadn’t in years. Or so she had thought after three large glasses of wine and some of the worst weeks of her life. His clumsy attempt at seduction on the landing this evening had made her realise he hadn’t thought her particularly special or interesting at all. Merely convenient, needy and pathetically malleable and that galled. Because she had been all of those things that fateful night in that carriage.

But as a guest in his house, she would have to remain polite even if she was annoyed at him for making her feel cheap and convenient. Besides, she would not allow the despicable actions of one overly charming Lothario to spoil her great Italian adventure. Better to face it head on, learn from it and consign it to the past like the foolish mistake it was. At some point this evening, she would talk to him and politely explain it had not been his charm which had led to her kissing him back, but the alcohol and that she had realised it had been a huge mistake from the outset. One she had absolutely no intention of repeating. Then, the air cleared, she would keep herself occupied with Rome and all the delights it offered and avoid her now-distasteful host wherever possible.

Lilian took a deep breath, then sailed into the drawing room, or salotto as Alexandra had called it when they had arrived, with what she hoped resembled more confidence than she was feeling. Carlotta rushed towards her smiling, so she was able to ignore the arrogant Duke leaning against the fireplace directly across from the door. Or at least her eyes could. Her body apparently had a mind of its own. Her skin felt decidedly odd, her nerves a bit bouncy and her stupid pulse a tad too fast.

‘Lilian…you look beautiful. Those colours really suit you.’ She had argued against a dress as bold and as fashionable as this one, assuming the vibrant printed coral stripes on the cream brocade, complete with the sweeping ruffled neckline and short sleeves, was too young for her. It had been Lottie who had convinced her to get it, pointing out that older women than she had worn gowns far bolder at Millie and Cassius’s society wedding celebration—and looked lovely in them. Lilian had relented, but never actually intended wearing it, but for some reason tonight she had needed to feel bold and lovely, so had donned it on a whim. It was too late to regret it now, despite the rakish Duca’s obvious expression of appreciation as he sauntered towards her and her recklessly bouncing nerve endings.

‘Indeed she does.’ He bowed politely and kissed her hand. She withdrew it quickly in case he had a mind to linger again, but felt her pulse quicken anyway. The accent, combined with his undeniably rugged, handsome features, sublime spicy smell and impressive height called to the passionate female within her despite all her common sense. ‘Welcome to my home, Mrs Fairclough. My sister tells me you have had no time at all today to explore the palazzo. I should be delighted to take you on a little tour of the ground floor now.’

Seeing her hesitation, Carlotta got the wrong end of the stick. ‘You might as well. Dinner is not for another thirty minutes at least and I am still awaiting Alexandra. Be sure to show her the fresco in the gran salone, Pietro. Lilian is a huge lover of art. Something you both have in common, no?’ Or perhaps she had completely the right end of the stick and was matchmaking as Pietro had suspected. Yet either way, she had been pushed into a corner. Refusing would be impolite and would cast an atmosphere over the entire holiday.

He offered his arm and she took it, pasting what she hoped was a polite and indifferent smile on her face. At least this unwelcome time alone with him would give her the opportunity to clarify his misapprehensions about their kiss and her presence in his house. She might well be at a metaphorical crossroads, but not one of the paths ahead of her included a man!

He led her out of the cosy family room and along a long hallway filled with gilt panelling and a marble floor. As soon as they turned a corner he stopped dead and sighed.

‘I cannot move another step until I have apologised for my disgraceful behaviour earlier. I have no defence of it, other than you caught me off guard after a taxing day and I wrongly assumed that you were complicit in my sister’s incessant matchmaking. I realise that is no excuse for my ungentlemanly behaviour and I apologise unreservedly for insulting you. It was not my finest hour and I was certainly not behaving as myself. I beg of you to forgive me.’

Entirely disarmed, because he had completely taken the outraged wind out of her sails, all Lilian could do was accept his pretty apology in the manner it was given. ‘You are forgiven. Because I also suspect Alexandra had a hand in it. She likes to meddle, too, and seems to have made me a bit of a project, as you can see.’ She gestured to the bold gown and then regretted it when his eyes swept her body again at the invitation. There was something about the way he did it which played havoc with her insides. ‘I really had no clue there was any connection between you and the Contessa until tonight.’

‘I realised that the moment you rightly slammed your door in my face at my gross impertinence.’ His voice was like melted chocolate and his accent made normally curt English words like ‘impertinence’ sound positively sinful. Or at least the goose pimples on the back of her neck found it sinful. And the least said about his intense dark eyes the better. The way they looked at her, boldly locked with hers… Gracious, he was lovely! And she had plainly taken leave of her senses to be thinking such nonsense after just one pretty apology and a foolhardy kiss in a carriage.

‘It would appear we are equally reluctant to be toyed with, both the innocent victims of two scheming women. I am only relieved we discovered their machinations in time before it created any irreversible awkwardness between us. I would hate to be the reason you did not enjoy your visit to Rome.’

‘Forewarned is forearmed, as we say in my country. I am glad we cleared the air.’ However, there was no point in shying away from the difficult bit of the conversation. The bit which would thoroughly clear the air. ‘I feel I also owe you an apology for what occurred at Christmas.’ She hoped ignoring the blush which threatened to bloom might make it subside, but the ugly heat crept up her neck regardless. ‘December was a particularly trying time for me and, fortified with more wine than I am used to, I might have given you the wrong impression. What I mean is…er…the…er…kiss…was a mistake.’

‘And there I was, thinking it was my charm, the moonlight and the magic of the moment.’ He was smiling at her, his dark eyes dancing, as he clutched at his heart as if she had wounded him. ‘Have you no sympathy for my delicate male pride?’ Then his eyes seemed to darken further and his deep voice became positively naughty as it dropped an octave. ‘But mistake or no, it was a spectacular kiss, was it not? At least credit me with that, signora.’

She couldn’t help smiling in response. The combination of his mischievous dark eyes, seductive voice and his knowing expression conspired to bring out the worst in her. ‘It was pleasant enough, I suppose.’ Good grief! Was she flirting? After twenty-five years she’d assumed she had forgotten how.

‘Only pleasant? Oh, signora, that will not do and it is not wise to confide it. Such a lacklustre compliment might only spur me to do better, as a matter of honour. For both the noble house of Venturi and my wounded male pride… Unless that is what you want?’ He was most definitely flirting again, but more the way he had at Christmas. Witty, playful, thoroughly charming and disarming. Exactly as she so fondly remembered him. ‘In which case, I shall be forced to accept the gauntlet you have thrown down. We Venturis never shy away from a challenge.’

Inside her chest, her sighing heart was doing somersaults. ‘All right, then…it was quite lovely.’

‘Better—but still not spectacular…’

‘If I tell you it was spectacular, but still very much a mistake I have no intention of repeating, will you take me to see the fresco, Your Grace…is it correct to say Your Grace? My knowledge of your language is limited.’ To around ten words, give or take a cappuccino.

‘As, by your own admission, we have shared a spectacular if reckless and unwise kiss, and as you are my guest, you should call me Pietro. And, yes, I shall take you to see my fresco.’ He offered his arm again and she took it, trying not to feel the obvious muscle in his bicep or the gentle heat coming through his sleeve and warming her suddenly inquisitive palm. ‘Might I be so bold as to call you Lilian, now that we are doomed to be nothing beyond merely platonic friends?’

‘You may.’ Aside from the peculiar and girlish palpitations, bouncing nerves and wholly inappropriate goose pimples, this had all gone so much better than she had expected. ‘Thank you for arranging to have the correct trunk brought to my bedchamber.’

‘You needed your soap and it was the least I could do after my shameful behaviour when we collided. Are your accommodations to your satisfaction?’

‘They have exceeded them, your Gra—I mean, Pietro.’ How lovely that name felt on her tongue. ‘You have a wonderful house.’

‘It pleases me to hear that. When I inherited the palazzo, it was showing its age. I have made it my mission to bring it back to its former glory. I only recently had the east wing—the wing where your rooms are situated—renovated. Thankfully now, after twenty years of work, it is finally back to its former glory.’

‘Your noble ancestors would be proud of the job you have done.’ They reached a pair of ornate double doors and he paused before them, clearly in no hurry to move.

‘The fresco is my pride and joy, Lilian. My favourite part of this old house. However, before you see it, you must first allow me to bore you with some history to give it some context. My great-great-great-great-grandfather, Amedeo Venturi, inspired by the great Palazzo Barberini, right here in Rome, commissioned several artists to paint the ceiling of his new house. Except, he was too poor or too miserly to pay one of the established masters of the time and instead paid legions of struggling apprentices to do it instead. However, and I must confess we have no actual proof of this beyond the family legend, the finished ceiling apparently bears the brushwork of both the young Raphael and Michelangelo.’

‘Good gracious!’

‘Although which piece of the fresco is theirs, nobody can hazard a guess. Not even I, who considers himself a great expert on art, can say with any certainty. But it is a good story, no?’

‘A very good story.’

‘And I am prolonging the agony to shamelessly build your anticipation. It is a habit of mine. I like a little theatre.’

‘That is perfectly all right—I adore a bit of history.’

He grinned and threw the doors open with a flourish and her breath caught in her throat.

The vaulted ceiling was a patchwork of gilt panels surrounding one huge central fresco. She recognised the theme immediately from the enormous white wings of the unabashedly naked lovers of the tale—Cupid and Psyche. The largest painting showed their first meeting in a forest of blossom, framing the scene as if the viewer were peeking in. The heroine startled, her golden hair woven with flowers as she wanders into the clearing to find a lovestruck Cupid staring at her, a small bleeding scratch on his chiselled abdomen from where he had accidentally pierced himself with his own dart. The smaller pictures ringed it, telling the rest of the tale, of their marriage, their separations, Psyche’s series of impossible trials set by the gods to win back her immortal husband and then, finally, Cupid’s rescue of his sleeping lover by transforming her into an immortal, too, so they could live properly together as man and wife in his world above the clouds for all eternity.

‘Look at her wedding finger…’ His breath whispered over her shoulder as he pointed. ‘Look at the design of the ring he has placed on her finger.’ It took her a while to focus on the thin, painted gold band, but as she stared at it she could see it was actually two hands intertwined. ‘If you love a bit of history, then you will adore the symbolism. Although the story is an Ancient Greek myth, that ring is Roman. It was the custom to give a betrothal ring…a fede ring…two hands clasped in love and agreement. A promise.’

‘I would never have noticed it unless you had pointed it out.’

He shrugged. ‘I have an eye for detail and a mind which likes to store them.’

‘The devil is always in the detail.’

He smiled. ‘I love all those quaint English phrases.’

‘I love your fresco. It is stunning.’

‘It is. Old Amedeo might have been a skinflint, but he was a romantic soul at heart. This was his childhood sweetheart’s favourite story and, because he loved her to distraction but she would have none of him, he had this ceiling painted in her honour…as a token and permanent declaration of his love.’

Lilian spun a slow circle, taking it all in, more than a little overwhelmed by its sheer perfection. ‘Did it work?’

‘They married, had twelve children and lived to be very old together. So, yes. I believe it worked perfectly.’

‘Another good story.’ She found herself beaming at him. ‘In fact, a better one.’ One which spoke entirely to her romantic soul.

Chapter Four

For the fifth time in as many minutes, he glanced at the door, literally counting the seconds till she came through it. Just as he had last night and the night before. In fact, Pietro could not seem to stop thinking about her despite completely immersing himself in work and having as little to do with her as possible this past week.

That wasn’t completely true.

He had recklessly offered to be her guide at the Sistine Chapel because he wanted to see her face when she finally saw Michelangelo’s greatest masterpiece after her touching and poignant reaction to his fresco, selfishly delaying her planned visit there to fit around his business commitments. And while he had avoided her as much as he could throughout the days, he couldn’t resist seeking out her company at dinner, then talking and harmlessly flirting with her till bedtime. Like clockwork, his feet took him home with plenty of time to change and be seated in the salotto in time to watch her arrival. Something which was rapidly becoming the highlight of his day.

The Lilian who came to dinner was a very different woman from the one he had met in England at Christmas. Gone were the plain, sensible clothes, burdened demeanour and troubled eyes, replaced by a vivacious, glamourous and constantly smiling creature who laughed a great deal and whose emerald eyes sparkled with joy and intelligence. She was loving her visit to Rome and her enjoyment of it was infectious.

Each evening, he made a point of asking about her day and then listened intently as she recounted it with such exuberance and wonder, he felt as if he was seeing the place of his birth and his home for all his forty-eight years on the earth for the first time. For Lilian, everything was an adventure, from the spectacle of the Colosseum and the ghostly ruins of ancient Rome, to the everyday sights, sounds and smells of the street markets. In all cases, it was her reaction which he adored and he blamed the fresco entirely for his new obsession with her.

Pietro had lost count of the number of people he had shown it to. Its rumoured beauty was one of Rome’s most well-known secrets and, aside from all the business connections he regularly brought home to see it to help aid his negotiations with them, there were also curious dinner guests who always asked to see it.

But Lilian’s reaction had been special and different. When nearly everyone encouraged him to have experts study the brushwork to ascertain which parts were by the Great Masters the legend claimed, or commented on how much money that ceiling alone would bring for his house if he ever decided to sell it, she had been more interested in the story of his besotted great-great-great-great-grandparents. She saw the fresco as a declaration of deep and abiding love and was caught up in the romance of his ancestors rather than the value of the painting.

In fact, Lilian had a talent for seeing the intensely personal in everything. The gladiator’s feelings as he walked into the arena of the Colosseum rather than the architecture of the amphitheatre. Bracci’s human inspiration for Oceanus on the Fontana di Trevi. Even the men who carved the stones which built St Peter’s. How they must have felt to be part of the creation of something so significant. In humanising everything in the city he had taken for granted for most of his adult life, she brought a new dimension to it, a new appreciation which was filtering down into his own work. Something which had been sorely missing for a very long time.

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!

‘I doubt Lilian has any burning desire to meet Sofia any more than Sofia would want to meet her.’ Sofia liked titles and wealth, expensive things and shallow people, and for some reason he didn’t want the pair of them meeting. ‘If you do not mind accompanying me to my gallery briefly tomorrow, I would be delighted to be your escort at the Pantheon.’ It was an offer which he hadn’t intended to make until the words tumbled out of his mouth. Even after they had, he couldn’t decide if he regretted them.

‘What a splendid idea!’ His sister and her cousin exchanged a knowing look, which thankfully Lilian missed. ‘I doubt you would be particularly interested in the three of us gossiping about nonsense all afternoon and nobody would be a better guide than Pietro.’

‘My poor old feet would thank you,’ Alexandra said.

‘Well…if you do not mind, Pietro? Only I have been dying to see Raphael’s tomb.’

‘It would be my pleasure.’ Which he was surprised to realise it was—albeit a temptation he did not need. Nor did he appreciate the twin knowing expressions of the clearly matchmaking Carlotta and Alexandra. However, bizarrely, he did have an urge to show Lilian his gallery. And most specifically the four preliminary sketches he had been saving for exactly the right buyer for goodness knew how long.

She was already waiting for him by his carriage in the courtyard by the time he came downstairs. In deference to the beautiful spring morning, she wore no coat over her pretty, floral, long-sleeved dress and had chosen to carry her bonnet and crocheted shawl rather than put them on. Clearly looking out impatiently for him, she raised her hand in a cheery wave as he walked towards her and she wiggled her basket. ‘I’ve stolen a few pastries for the journey in case you are hungry.’ He had promised her breakfast in a charming café he knew, where they could sit outside on the cobbles and watch the busy streets she loved so much awaken, but had warned her the drive across the city could take nearly an hour. ‘Unless you don’t want any crumbs in your carriage, in which case I shall leave them behind.’

‘What are a few crumbs between friends?’ He took the basket, then her gloveless hand, indulging his urge to kiss it before he helped her into his carriage. ‘As it is early and quiet, I thought we would take the scenic route. The Tiber is always at its most beautiful first thing in the morning.’

They set off and followed the road which meandered through the old city. He had chosen the river route on purpose, not only to watch her joy as she saw it all with him as he told her all about his homeland, but to show her something he knew she would particularly enjoy. He kept his own counsel until they were practically on top of it and she was engrossed by the ruins on the opposite side of the carriage as it came to its prearranged stop. ‘Look to your left.’

‘At the island? Or the church?’

‘As lovely as they both are, they are not what I wanted to show you.’ He tilted her head to look beyond towards the fast-flowing river water and enjoyed the satisfaction of her gasp.

‘Is that a bridge?’ The ruined, shrub-covered white arches sitting disconnected in the centre of the river had always been his favourite bit of Rome. The ornate imperial carvings of water serpents adorning it were still as crisp now as they would have been when they first emerged beneath the talented stonemason’s chisel.

‘It was, once upon a time. In fact, it was a great bridge in its day, the most important bridge of the old city called the Pons Aemilius. It is a true feat of Roman engineering, connecting one half of the city with the other over the most treacherous stretch of the river.’ He pointed to the rapids buffering it, wondering, as he always did, how the old stones managed to withstand it and had done for two thousand years. ‘But nowadays we modern Romans call it the Ponte Rotto—because that is exactly what it is.’

‘Ponte Rotto?’

He loved how she spoke Italian words with her rounded English vowels, sounding so prim and proper when he knew she was not. ‘It means broken bridge in your language.’

‘I much prefer the way you say it.’ Her eyes were transfixed on the ruin, giving him the chance to study her face unhindered while he waited for the inevitable. Then he smiled when she said exactly what he knew she would say. ‘Imagine all those thousands of people who crossed it…the carts, the horses. Men, women, children, all going about their day.’ She closed her eyes briefly to picture it as she always did. ‘What were they like, do you suppose?’

‘Much like us, I assume. So wrapped up in the minutiae of their daily life that they forgot to marvel at the beauty around them. Or appreciate the sturdy bridge beneath their feet. But it was built to last, as you would expect from that great civilisation, and people walked across it for centuries until it was finally destroyed by a flood just three hundred years ago. Botticelli, Raphael, da Volterra and Michelangelo could feasibly all have walked over it at some point, too.’

‘Gracious.’ Another quaint English word he enjoyed the sound of coming from her mouth. ‘If only that bridge could talk…’

‘As a boy I used to come here and think much the same thing.’ He had forgotten that memory. Forgotten that he had once seen the world exactly like Lilian. ‘Yet I haven’t been here in years. Until you inspired me to remember it. Nor have I seen the Pantheon in for ever either. Clearly too caught up in the minutiae of my own life…’ He tapped the roof of the carriage and they slowly pulled away. ‘I wonder when I became so jaded by life I forgot to stop and look at the beauty?’

‘Life is like that. It drags you along with it and consumes you, until you forget everything except your daily struggles and the burdens they place upon you.’

‘When I met you last winter, you seemed burdened—and now you don’t. What is your secret?’

‘No secret—merely circumstances. Before Christmas my world seemed about to fall apart.’ Her eyes clouded at the memory. ‘I was worried about my son, who had disappeared from the face of the earth. I was worried about my husband’s Foundation and my home because we were running out of money, and I was worried that my eldest daughter was about to marry a man she patently did not love simply to give us all some financial security. It was a trying time.’

‘And now?’

She shrugged and shook her head. ‘And now, everything is miraculously fixed and forgotten. Time apparently does heal all. Things are miraculously so good, my children and the Foundation no longer need me, so I am here, having my first adventure in over twenty years and remembering what it felt like to be young and only responsible for myself for a change, rather than everyone and everything.’ Then she grinned, looking instantly younger. ‘Is it terrible that I have discovered I love it?’

‘Not terrible at all, cara.’ Although Pietro was envious of her newfound happiness. ‘Your children are all grown and married, it is your turn to have fun now. Everyone deserves the occasional adventure and I am so very glad you are enjoying yours. I have decided I need to do more things I enjoy.’ Like spending time with a certain delightful English woman who was doing wonders for his restlessness.

‘I have discovered a new zest for life simply by allowing myself to enjoy the little things here in Rome. You should take a leaf out of my book and do the same. Take pleasure in the little things without feeling guilty for it. You love the details…take the time to discover them. It does wonders for your mood. I have been in a ridiculously good mood since I first stepped ashore and realised I needed this holiday. And it is addictive. Each new day, each new little thing to enjoy makes me happier. So far, I have not found a single thing I dislike about this city.’

‘Give it time, cara…you will. The heat in the summer, for instance, can be unbearable and brings out the worst in people. The roads outside the city are dreadful, making every journey a trial. Then there is the politics here…’ He rolled his eyes dramatically and she laughed at the horrified face he pulled. ‘It drains all the joy from your soul.’

‘Politics everywhere is draining.’

‘Indeed it is—but the Italian temperament suits it least of all, I think. So instead of sensible debate, reasoned arguments and compromise, all they do is shout over one another and gesticulate.’ He waved his cupped hand in the air in demonstration. ‘This becomes our main form of communication.’

‘I’ve seen them do that on the streets…’ She mimicked him, looking not the least bit Italian as she waved her hand in the air, because it was too reserved. Too English. ‘What does it mean?’

‘That basically the person gesticulating is angry.’ He stared at his hand in disgust, then threw up the other in a shrug. ‘Which only serves to make those around us angry as well.’

‘At least you Italians let it out. I think I should love to wave my arms about and throw a tantrum sometimes. In my country we are taught to keep anger inside. I am not sure that is a better solution than yours as it festers and only serves to make us more angry. We silently seethe and speak in over-polite clipped tones when we are offended. Like this…’ She sat straighter, still like a statue, and looked down her nose at him like a duchess. ‘Really. I see. If you must.’

‘No, thank you.’

She nodded enthusiastically at his attempt to mimic her accent. ‘Exactly. That is exactly what a furious English person would say.’

‘It is exactly what you said to me when I offered to scrub your back.’ He nudged her playfully beside him, enjoying reminding her that their relationship had not always been platonic and seeing her overly polite but flustered expression each time he did. ‘You look particularly lovely when you silently seethe, Lilian. I enjoyed your seething immensely.’ Then he grinned wolfishly at her stunned face and the little spots of colour on her beautifully pale English cheeks which he very much wanted to touch, despite knowing, if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop. ‘Gracious, Lilian! Your advice works! Already my mood is brighter just thinking about how much I enjoyed that small pleasure—blessedly free of all the guilt at last.’

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