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