‘At one time the family occupied this part of the house, but when Uncle Paolo became something of an invalid and couldn’t manage the stairs, the living quarters were moved to the ground floor.
‘Which in some ways is a pity, as the living-room on this floor, though more formal, is quite beautiful…’ He paused, then laughed. ‘But, having said that, the modernized living area proved to be a great deal more comfortable and practical for all concerned, especially Paolo.’
‘Your uncle isn’t…?’
‘Still alive? No, he died about eighteen months before Aunt Fran.’
Glancing at his watch, he went on, ‘We’d best get moving. You’ll see this part tomorrow when you take a look at the paintings.’
Turning, he led the way through an archway opposite, where, from an oak landing, another flight of stairs ran down to a spacious wood-panelled hall.
As they descended the stairs, he explained, ‘When the ground floor was being modernized, this somewhat more convenient staircase was put in.’
Crossing the hall, he opened a pair of large ornately carved doors. ‘The family accommodation is through here…As you can see, it’s been arranged so that the main rooms overlook, and some have wheelchair access to, the courtyard and garden.’
The family accommodation consisted of two adjoining en suite bedrooms, a businesslike study, a dining-room, a morning room and a wood-panelled living-room with long windows and French windows.
Beautifully proportioned and furnished with a comfortable-looking natural leather suite and glowing antiques, the living room was pleasant and spacious.
A rose-patterned carpet, bookcases, family photographs and a cosy fireplace with a sheepskin rug in front of the flower-filled hearth gave it a homely, lived-in feel.
Seeing her eyes fixed on the fireplace, Stephen remarked with a smile, ‘Though we have central heating, as far as I’m concerned, in the winter a log fire is a must.’
‘Just at the moment I find it hard to believe it can ever get cold here.’
‘That’s understandable. But I assure you it can get very damp and chilly when the sea fogs roll in…Now, through here is your suite…’
He led the way across the room to where a communicating door opened into another spacious and attractive sitting-room, with a thick pile carpet, comfortable armchairs and a polished writing desk.
Opposite a large stone fireplace, French windows, partially screened by hanging vines, gave on to the flagged courtyard.
Through an archway was an en suite bedroom dominated by a handsome four-poster with a dark blue canopy. In one corner there was a ornate black and gold lacquered chest and in the other a matching oriental screen.
Glancing around, Sophia saw that her luggage had been brought in and placed on a rack.
Following her gaze, Stephen suggested, ‘If you’d like to change and freshen up before we go out?’
‘Yes, I would, please.’
‘Will fifteen minutes be enough?’
‘Plenty, thank you.’
As soon as the door had closed behind him, she opened her case and found fresh knickers, a silky shift in a silvery olive green, strappy sandals and a matching bag.
Then, laying them out neatly on the bed, alongside her night things, she took her sponge bag and hurried into the peach-tiled bathroom to shower.
Happiness and excitement flooding through her, she thought how lucky she was. Instead of staying in an impersonal hotel, she was in a lovely suite here in the Palazzo, right next door to Stephen.
After a moment that thought, coupled with the memory of his kiss, sounded a warning bell.
She had no defences against him, and she knew it.
Though wasn’t it rather arrogant of her to presume she would need any?
Even if he wasn’t already having an affair with the Marquise, it was clear that, husband or no husband, she would be more than willing. So why should he have designs on her?
Unless he happened to be a Casanova who felt the need to try to seduce every nubile woman who crossed his path. And, if he was, he wasn’t the man for her.
But suppose he wasn’t a Casanova? Suppose he was just a normal red-blooded man who happened to find her attractive?
Though knowing full well that he was wealthy and their lifestyles were entirely different, because he was like the man in her portrait and fate had seemed to throw them together, she had come to Venice with hopes of at least trying to ‘fight for him’. But, now she had seen his family background, the futility of her hopes was only too apparent.
She was right out of his class. Any idea that he might come to love her and want them to be together always was nothing but a pipedream.
If he wanted anything at all, it would just be a fling, a casual affair, and, with the Marquise clearly available, even that was unlikely.
In any case, affairs weren’t her style. As far as she was concerned, sex and love went hand in hand and called for the commitment of marriage.
That being so, she must try to give up all thoughts of romance, stay calm and unmoved and concentrate solely on the job she had come here to do.
But, as someone had once said, hope sprang eternal, and there was no way she could prevent herself from hoping that fate intended them to be together.
Showered and dried, she cleaned her teeth, brushed her long dark hair and, leaving it to curl loosely around her shoulders, pulled on her clothes and applied a light touch of make-up.
Finding her jewellery box, she took out the pearl drop earrings her father had bought her for her twenty-first birthday and was just fastening them to her neat lobes when she heard Stephen’s knock.
Putting the box back in the top of her case, she picked up her bag and hurried to open the door.
At the sight of him her mouth went dry.
He was freshly shaven and his thick fair hair, still a little damp from the shower, was trying to curl. Wearing a well-cut dinner jacket and a black-bow tie, he looked dangerously handsome and virile.
‘All set?’
She nodded.
He ran an appreciative eye over her slender figure and, smiling down at her, said, ‘You look delightful. I like your hair loose…’
As he spoke he took a silky strand and twined it around his finger, holding her captive for a moment while he watched her face.
When she started to blush, he let it spring loose and asked, ‘Now, shall I call a water-taxi or would you prefer to walk?’
Collecting herself, she answered, ‘I’d much prefer to walk.’
His approving glance confirming she’d made the right choice, he said, ‘Then let’s go,’ and led her across the living-room and through long, elegant French windows into the courtyard.
It was a lovely evening, clear and calm, a thin sickle moon hanging in the east, the western sky mottled with pink and gold and the palest of duck-egg blues. With the setting of the sun the fierce heat had died, leaving the air soft and balmy.
A wing of the building ran down either side of the paved courtyard, and in the centre was an old stone well covered by a heavy metal grille.
There were an abundance of green creepers and bright tubs of flowers, and a table and chairs and some comfortable-looking loungers were grouped beneath a trellis-work of vines.
Sophia thought how pleasant it must be to sit out here in the heat of the day.
Beyond the courtyard, enclosed by a high stone wall, the garden was green and lush, shaded by trees and fragrant with flowering shrubs and plants. From a sunken area overhung with ferns, mossy paths led off to secret arbours and hidden fountains splashed and played.
As they strolled along a tree-bordered path beneath a lacy green canopy of leaves, he took her hand and tucked it companionably through his arm.
The feel of his muscular arm through the thin material of his jacket sent her heart racing like a mad thing, making nonsense of her decision to stay calm and unmoved.
Her heart rate had just slowed to somewhere near normal when, to the left, she
noticed the remains of two ivy-entwined marble columns rising from the cover of some glossy-leaved ground plants.
As, fascinated, she paused to look closer, Stephen explained, ‘Ca’ Fortuna was built on the site of a Byzantine palace, and these pillars were part of the original portal…’
‘That’s wonderful!’ she exclaimed.
‘If you’re interested, some time I’ll show you the remains of the mosaic flooring that’s been preserved inside the walls of the east wing.’
‘Oh, yes, please. If I hadn’t chosen to take art, I would have liked to have studied archaeology.’ Sophia’s eyes lit up.
Stephen smiled down at her, pleased by her enthusiasm. ‘Then we have a lot in common. Had I been free to follow my own inclinations, I would have studied human history and prehistory with a view to becoming an archaeologist.
‘As it was, I was expected to do my filial duty and take over the business empire that my father and grandfather had built up, so I took psychology, statistics and economics…’ As his voice trailed off his expression became guarded.
Until then Sophie had thought of Stephen as being lucky. But now, perhaps for the first time, she realized that family wealth could bring its own burden of restrictions and responsibilities.
As though reading her mind, he added emphatically, ‘However, as I’m one of the fortunate people of this world, I have to be thankful.’
When they reached the far end of the garden, Stephen felt in his jacket pocket and producing a bunch of keys, selected one and opened a stout gate set in the high wall.
The gate gave on to a quiet campo dominated by an old church with big black studded doors. To the right, a narrow calle disappeared between tall buildings with grey-shuttered windows, and to the left, beyond the fondamenta, the canal ran past, spanned by an ornate metal bridge.
‘Now, before we decide exactly which way to go, have you any particular desires or wishes?’
She had no difficulty choosing. ‘I’d like to see the Piazza San Marco, if possible.’
‘Exactly what I had in mind. I thought, if you were agreeable, that we might start with an aperitif at Florians. Then a short distance away is the Rizanti, one of my favourite restaurants. It’s quiet and select and the food, especially the seafood, is out of this world.’
‘That sounds wonderful.’
Smiling at her enthusiasm, he took her hand once more and said, ‘Then our most interesting route will be across the bridge.’
As they approached the canal where, on their left, three shallow steps ran down to the water, he remarked, ‘This is the Rio Castagnio. When I was young I had many a scolding for sneaking out of the house to swim here…’
While, hand in hand, almost as if they were lovers, they wended their way south towards San Marco, he told her amusing stories of his early childhood.
As they walked, a blue velvet, star-embroidered cloak of dusk began to settle over the city. Lights started to appear everywhere, shining and sparkling like multicoloured jewels.
Venice by night was a magical place full of life and movement and colour and, while Stephen remained silent and watched her face, Sophia absorbed the sights and sounds and smells with the utmost delight.
Candlelit tables beneath colourful umbrellas, tubs of flowers and strings of lanterns, dark water and bright reflections broken up by ripples, oars splashing, an accordion playing, talk and laughter, a gondolier serenading his passengers and, mingling with the salt tang of the sea, the scent of food and wine, perfume and coffee, brandy and tobacco smoke.
When they reached the Piazza San Marco, its lamplit arcades were still teeming with people taking an evening stroll and its café tables were busy.
On the far side of the square an orchestra was playing Gershwin, and closer at hand she could hear the haunting strains of Ravel’s Bolero.
Having expected so much, Sophia had been afraid she might be disappointed. But, with its sheer scale and intriguing blend of Eastern and Western architecture, its famous Clock Tower and soaring Campanile, and the domes of St Mark’s Basilica forming an exotic backdrop, it was all she had imagined and more.
For several minutes she stood soaking up the atmosphere, silent and absorbed.
‘Well?’ Stephen asked at last.
Lifting shining eyes, she said, ‘It has to be one of the most beautiful squares in the world.’
‘It’s certainly one of the most intriguing,’ he agreed as he led her over to Florians and seated her at a vacant table. ‘Over the centuries it’s been the setting for bullfights and pig hunts, pageants and processions, carnivals and feast days, and of course it always has been, and still is, the heart and soul of the city—’
He broke off and asked, ‘What would you like?’ as a black-tied waiter appeared to take their order.
When she hesitated, he suggested, ‘A gin and tonic, perhaps? Or a Manhattan?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t really like spirits.’
‘Then what’s it to be?’
‘A glass of dry white wine, please.’
‘A glass of Verdicchio and a Campari soda.’
Their order given, the waiter glided away, to return quite quickly with their drinks on a round silver tray balanced on one raised palm.
Served in a tall narrow glass, the wine was clear and pale with a faint greenish cast.
‘Try it and see what you think,’ Stephen said. ‘I’ll order something else if you find it’s not to your taste.’
She obeyed and found it was crisp and cool, full of delicate flavour. ‘It’s lovely,’ she told him.
‘Sure?’
‘Quite sure. Try some.’ She offered him the glass.
Instead of accepting it, he leaned forward a little and left her to tilt it against his parted lips.
As he took a sip, their eyes met over the glass and once more soft wings fluttered in her stomach.
Her voice not quite steady, she asked, ‘Don’t you think it’s lovely?’
His eyes on her face, he agreed, ‘Lovely, indeed.’
There was no doubt as to his meaning and she found herself blushing as, flustered by his unwavering regard, she looked hastily away.
She heard his soft, satisfied laugh.
Clearly he found it amusing to tease her and she told herself vexedly that she would have to find some armour against him. Otherwise she would be in a perpetual state of turmoil.
Afraid to look at him until she had regained her composure, while she sipped her wine she listened to the music and, against a spectacular background that put her in mind of a lavish film set, watched the evening passaggiata.
All human life was there. Young couples strolling arm in arm, elderly couples holding hands, teenage lovers twined around each other, family parties of parents and older children chattering away like magpies, one or two well-dressed elderly men who had the air of Venetian patricians, and camera-slung tourists still wearing T-shirts and shorts.
Eventually, satisfied that she was mistress of herself once more, she remarked, ‘I don’t wonder you love Venice. It must be hard to leave it.’
‘Let’s say I’m glad to be back…Now, would you like another glass of wine or are you ready to eat?’
‘I’m ready to eat, if you are.’
He rose to his feet and pulled out her chair. ‘Then let’s go. Carlo will be expecting us.’
Chapter 5
They left the square through an archway under the Torre dell’Orologio and after a short distance turned down a calle which led to a small campo with a canal running down one side. Overlooking the canal was the terrace of the Rizanti, its candlelit tables crowded with people.
Once inside the restaurant they were greeted by a nice-looking man with dark crinkly hair, wearing impeccable evening clothes.
‘Stefano…It’s good to see you.’
‘And you, Carlo.’
The two men shook hands warmly.
Putting an arm around Sophia’s waist, Stephen went on, ‘Cara mia, I’d like to introduce
my old friend, Carlo Verdi…Carlo, this is Sophia Jordan, the special lady I told you about.’
Wondering at the way Stephen had phrased the introduction, Sophia smiled and murmured a polite, ‘How do you do?’
Bowled over by that smile, Carlo took her proffered hand and raised it to his lips. ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Signorina Jordan…If I may say so, you are even more beautiful than Stefano told me…’
The knowledge that Stephen thought her beautiful made Sophia colour with a mixture of pleasure and self-consciousness.
Turning to the other man, Carlo clapped him on the shoulder. ‘My felicitations. You’re a very lucky man to have found such a woman…Tonight the meal is on the house.
‘Now, I have a table here for you but, as it is a little crowded, I thought perhaps you and the signorina might prefer to eat in the courtyard?’
Stephen gave Sophia an interrogative glance.
The restaurant was made up of a series of delightful little salons, mirrored and frescoed and carpeted in crimson. They each held no more than two or three tables, most of which were already occupied by a well-dressed clientele.
Candlelight, and crimson velvet curtains held back by gold-tasselled cords, lent the salons a charming air of intimacy. But it was such a lovely evening…
‘Outside,’ she said decisively.
His little nod of approval suggested that once again her choice had pleased him.
‘If you like seafood…?’ Carlo addressed Sophia.
‘I love it.’
‘Excellent! Then when you can spare time from Stefano’s paintings you must come here often.’
Speaking to both of them now, he went on, ‘But for the moment may I recommend tonight’s special menu? I believe the chef has excelled himself.’
After an enquiring glance at Sophia, Stephen answered, ‘Then we’ll be happy to try it.’
‘I’m sure it will be wonderful,’ she said.
Carlo gave her a beaming smile and, beckoning the head waiter, issued some low-voiced instructions.
‘If you will follow me?’ The maître d’ led the way through a lantern-hung courtyard with a scattering of tables to a secluded, candlelit table set beneath a canopy of vines.
The Padova Perals Page 7