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.
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