Modern Romance May 2026 Books #5-8

Prologue

The Marchesi apartment, Parioli district, Rome

‘I FORGET, it’s two sugars, isn’t it?’ Ettore Marchesi glanced at his lawyer, Carlo Biondi. He could have asked Mariana to stay and serve the coffee, but sometimes he liked to pretend that he was someone else. Someone other than the heir to the largest private estate in Italy.

There were other, older families. There were wealthier ones. Largely because his father and the rest of his freeloading relations preferred to tap into the Marchesi wealth to cover their expenses rather than work for a living.

Even his younger sister, Sofia, was happy to spend the family money.

She had moved out of the Castiglione Fiana ten months ago, citing her need for freedom and independence, and was currently moving around the globe on the pretext of finding herself.

But apparently freedom and independence didn’t prevent her from using her title when it suited her to do so.

And of course, his father, Edoardo, the current Duke of Marchesi, was still paying her bills.

His father.

Ettore rubbed the back of his neck, pushing against the knot of tension that had been there since Edoardo had been rushed into hospital two days ago.

Carlo cleared his throat. ‘So how is he?’

Ettore met his gaze. Carlo was not just the Marchesi’s’ avvocato, he was one of the few people Ettore trusted with delicate family matters. Which was fortunate because his family were experts at creating chaos and drama.

‘Mariana found him on the floor. She said he was barely breathing. But when I saw him earlier, he was playing briscola with the nurses.’

The old man was due to be discharged today. He would then have to wait until the doctor agreed that he was fit to fly back to Puglia.

The tension in Ettore’s spine felt as if he were being racked. Edoardo wasn’t even supposed to be in Rome. But Ettore’s father was as incorrigible as he was stubborn. Being told that he couldn’t do something simply intensified his desire to do so.

It was the story of Edoardo’s life. Only this time his body had protested. He had collapsed, thankfully at the Marchesi apartment, and been taken to hospital. Bed rest and medication had stabilised his condition, but he was an eighty-six-year-old man, and his heart was failing.

‘Have you called the family?’

Ettore shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t let me. And it’s probably for the best. I don’t need them roaring up in their supercars.’

‘Will anything be leaked?’ Carlo said softly.

Ettore shook his head again. ‘I’ve dealt with the hospital before. They’ve always been very discreet.’

‘That’s good. We don’t want any silly stories about the family curse doing the rounds.’

They did not.

Throughout history, many great dynasties had been rumoured to have a curse on them. The Kennedys. The Grimaldis. In Italy it was the Marchesi family who had been troubled by unhappy marriages and untimely deaths across the generations.

His thumb moved to the now near invisible scar on his left wrist. There was another on his right shin and others on his stomach and back. Mementos of the bike crash that had killed Edo.

Despite their differences, he had loved his brother and still missed him. Sometimes he even missed his mother. Although she had made no secret of her preference for Edo. His father had been no less partisan in favouring Sofia, but he had never blamed him for the accident.

It was Edo’s death that had elevated Ettore to the status of heir apparent. But he had been reluctantly managing his errant family since his grandfather died nearly twelve years ago.

Circling back to his original question, he lifted up the delicate porcelain sugar bowl.

‘Not for me, sadly.’ Carlo grimaced. ‘I’m pre-diabetic and Carolina and Silvia are being very strict. One I could resist, but…’ Carlo Biondi sighed, his face settling into an expression of resignation at the powerlessness of a man confronted by the combined willpower of his wife and daughter.

‘And they’re right. I know they are. Just because we want something doesn’t mean we should allow ourselves to indulge our desires.’

Their eyes met briefly.

There was no need for either man to remark on the fact that indulging his desires was something Edoardo Marchesi did so often, it could have been the family’s motto.

It wasn’t.

The Marchesi motto was, somewhat laughably, Guisto e Fidele. Fair and faithful.

A commendable aim and no doubt, in the fragmented geopolitical landscape of what would one day become Italy, the first Duca Marchesi had been eagerly and honestly pledging his allegiance to his prince.

Perhaps he was also faithful to his wife.

But Ettore’s forebears were notorious philanderers and unreliable in thought and word and deed.

For a moment, both men sipped their coffee in silence and then Carlo Biondi cleared his throat. ‘But enough about my health. It’s your father’s I came to talk about.’

‘You know as much as I do, Carlo. He’s incredibly secretive about his medical history. He’s over the worst. Probably if he follows the doctor’s orders, he’ll outlast us all.’

Carlo smiled stiffly. ‘I know you want to believe that, Ettore, but we both know that your father is living on borrowed time.’

Some might say his interest repayments were long overdue, given his fondness for fine wine and beautiful, younger women.

‘Which is why,’ the lawyer continued seamlessly, ‘it’s time to discuss the will.’

‘Has something changed?’

‘No. The estate in its entirety passes to the oldest living heir.’ The avvocato met his gaze. ‘Since your brother’s death, that is you. But you will have to satisfy the Corti-Marchesi clause.’

Ettore blinked. ‘The Corti-Marchesi clause?’ The phrase was unfamiliar. Why, then, did it make a shiver of apprehension skim over his skin?

Carlo had finished his coffee.

‘The clause is unswervable. It is enshrined in family tradition, but more importantly in law since the fifth duke decided that the responsibility of the estate was better suited to a married man.’

Married?

‘The wording is archaic, but, in modern language, to inherit the estate, and its associated title, you must be married before the death of the current duke.’

‘That’s barbaric. No court would uphold such a clause.’

Carlo shrugged. ‘I can assure you it’s legally watertight. Challenging it in court would be a time-consuming, attention-drawing act that would fail, I’m sure.’

‘And if I’m not married?’

The question hovered in the suddenly taut air between the two men.

‘Then it will become necessary to share the clause with the rest of the family at the reading of the will.’

In other words, his right to inherit would be open to his uncle.

The thought appalled him. He loved his uncle, but Frederico was idle and irresponsible and fiscally incompetent. Surely this had to be a joke. But Carlo wasn’t smiling. In fact, he had never looked more serious.

‘Why have I never heard of this clause before?’

Carlo shrugged. ‘Because it’s never been an issue before. Previous heirs have always been married prior to the incumbent duke’s death. Like your father. From memory, I’m not sure I even discussed the clause with him.’

Was that why Edoardo hadn’t said anything to him? Or was it because, for his father, Ettore was a useful tool. But not the child he would have picked to be his heir.

‘Try not to overthink this, Ettore. You’re of the age when you could reasonably be considering marriage. You’re a good-looking young man from a good family. Finding a wife is hardly going to be a problem.’

Wife. His fingertips bit into the fine porcelain. Even just hearing the word made his entire body tense. As the least-favoured child in his family, he had trained himself not to rise, never to reveal emotion.

But that was before he met Dulcie.

With her soft, muddled blonde hair and those blue eyes that made him feel as though he were drowning and skydiving all at once. She was intoxicating. And he had been intoxicated. Which frankly was the only reasonable explanation for what he had done.

For a moment, he pictured the fierce light in her eyes as she’d chosen her brother over him. Then he pushed the image away.

What he needed was a wife. A wife who would be willing to stand by his side and share his life and all its accompanying privileges and burdens.

What he wanted was a wife who would put him first above all others.

In other words, not Dulcie Turner.

Which meant finding a wife would have to wait.

First off, he needed to get a divorce from Dulcie, the woman he had impulsively married just over two years ago.

And then separated from six weeks later.

It had been a spectacular, uncharacteristically reckless act of self-harm.

Fortunately, its brevity meant that no one in his family knew anything about it. Not even Carlo.

Far better if it stayed that way. He could get some anonymous lawyer to send her the paperwork, but wouldn’t it be better, safer, more satisfying to do it in person?

And now that he thought about it, he couldn’t quite understand why he hadn’t sought legal closure before. There was no possibility of a reunion. Dulcie’s rejection was so tangled up with his mother’s savage words after Edo’s death, he couldn’t go there.

Couldn’t prod that wound.

It would be far easier, far less painful to find a new wife, one who would do what Dulcie had so conspicuously failed to do.