Chapter Four #3
‘We’ll need to think about the orchards, and the olive grove, not to mention the hectare of woodland—but all that can wait.
Next is to get started on the interior of the Palazzo.
Plumbing and electrics, and then décor. Over to you on that.
Also—’ he threw her a look as he took a bend at a speed that made Eleanora wince ‘—I’ve had an idea.
How about seeing if we can recover some of the artworks that got sold over the years? ’
Eleanora looked at him. ‘Buying them back would cost a fortune!’
He threw her a look. ‘Luckily, I happen to possess one!’
‘Yes, but—’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes?’
She squared her jaw. ‘If you buy back any of the original artworks of the Palazzo, Sanzio, they will be your personal possessions! Nothing to do with how we share the Palazzo.’
His eyes went back to the road ahead.
‘I still can’t believe you’re Tonia’s sister,’ he murmured. ‘She wanted everything she could get off me!’
Eleanora’s face set. ‘Well, in gaining her as your trophy wife you would have got far more than her blue blood.’
‘True—she was prepared to bestow on me the gift of her voluptuous body.’
She could hear the sardonic edge to his voice, but the mocking text she’d received from Tonia when they’d returned from Argentina burned in her head.
Did you enjoy your wedding night, little Ellie-Ellie? Was it scorching, like mine would have been with him? Or couldn’t he face you in the end? Do tell—
She knew it had been fuelled by Tonia’s spleen that the man she’d discarded had gone and married her despised sister instead, but its mockery still stung.
Suddenly, she felt a light pressure on her hand. ‘Eleanora, you are a much nicer person than your sister.’
It was kind to say that, his voice warm as he said it, but it could not draw the sting from Tonia’s cruelly true mockery.
But what point was there in dwelling on what she had known from the very first? That whatever the reasons—and they were good ones—for her and Sanzio marrying, there would never be what had drawn him to Tonia. What drew all men—
He lifted his hand away to return it to the wheel as he took another bend in the road. Her own felt cold suddenly.
* * *
Sanzio sat back, replete from a hearty dinner of yet another of Eleanora’s tasty offerings, this time lamb ragout with polenta.
He might enjoy the fine dining he could now easily afford, but home cooking certainly had its appeal.
It was not something he was used to. His mother, even before his father had debunked, had been depressive, with no heart for housekeeping, or even much for mothering, and he’d been raised on convenience foods requiring minimum effort.
He had not blamed his mother—her life had not been good, nor his father’s either—but it had spurred his determination to make something of himself in life.
And now he had. And he was enjoying it to the hilt. Satisfaction filled him. The restoration of the Palazzo was coming on well, and the days were passing productively and very pleasantly indeed.
His eyes went to Eleanora, mopping the last of the rich sauce with a hunk of bread.
Fresh baked every morning—that was another thing to appreciate about her.
But then there was a lot to appreciate about the woman he’d married, beyond her being nothing like her father and sister, her willingness to work hard, her unpretentiousness, the basic niceness of her nature.
As the days had passed, one thing had become very clear to him as they shared the task of saving the Palazzo her father had so shamefully neglected.
We get on well.
It was a simple statement—but it covered a lot.
It certainly covered this moment, sitting out here in the warm evening air to the ever-present chorus of cicadas, moths flitting about trying to get inside the glass sheltered candle-holder on the table.
Its light caught Eleanora’s face, throwing it into chiaroscuro, accentuating her fine bones, her dusky eyelashes, the delicate line of her lips.
That she seemed completely unaware of possessing…
Pleasurable anticipation filled him. Soon, it would be time to head for Rome. And then—
‘There’s peaches and cream for dessert,’ Eleanora said, gathering the dinner plates.
Sanzio pre-empted her. ‘My turn,’ he said, brooking no argument, and relieving her of the heavy stoneware plates. Good enough for the former servants to eat off, he strongly suspected.
A thought struck him. ‘We’ll need to buy some porcelain services,’ he remarked. ‘You’ll know what to get.’
‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll make a start looking online. Show you some suitable possibilities for you to choose from.’
‘For us both to choose from,’ he said firmly.
He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a bowl of sliced peaches marinaded in liqueur, and a jug of cream.
He got stuck in to dessert with the same enthusiasm as the ragout, his eyes reverting to studying the play of candlelight on the face of the woman he’d married.
The woman he had plans for. Definitely, definitely had plans for.
Once we get to Rome.