Lilian And The Irresistible Duke. Virginia Heath

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 happiness. ‘Your children are all grown and married, it is your turn to have fun now. Everyone deserves the occasional adventure and I am so very glad you are enjoying yours. I have decided I need to do more things I enjoy.’ Like spending time with a certain delightful English woman who was doing wonders for his restlessness.

      ‘I have discovered a new zest for life simply by allowing myself to enjoy the little things here in Rome. You should take a leaf out of my book and do the same. Take pleasure in the little things without feeling guilty for it. You love the details…take the time to discover them. It does wonders for your mood. I have been in a ridiculously good mood since I first stepped ashore and realised I needed this holiday. And it is addictive. Each new day, each new little thing to enjoy makes me happier. So far, I have not found a single thing I dislike about this city.’

      ‘Give it time, cara…you will. The heat in the summer, for instance, can be unbearable and brings out the worst in people. The roads outside the city are dreadful, making every journey a trial. Then there is the politics here…’ He rolled his eyes dramatically and she laughed at the horrified face he pulled. ‘It drains all the joy from your soul.’

      ‘Politics everywhere is draining.’

      ‘Indeed it is—but the Italian temperament suits it least of all, I think. So instead of sensible debate, reasoned arguments and compromise, all they do is shout over one another and gesticulate.’ He waved his cupped hand in the air in demonstration. ‘This becomes our main form of communication.’

      ‘I’ve seen them do that on the streets…’ She mimicked him, looking not the least bit Italian as she waved her hand in the air, because it was too reserved. Too English. ‘What does it mean?’

      ‘That basically the person gesticulating is angry.’ He stared at his hand in disgust, then threw up the other in a shrug. ‘Which only serves to make those around us angry as well.’

      ‘At least you Italians let it out. I think I should love to wave my arms about and throw a tantrum sometimes. In my country we are taught to keep anger inside. I am not sure that is a better solution than yours as it festers and only serves to make us more angry. We silently seethe and speak in over-polite clipped tones when we are offended. Like this…’ She sat straighter, still like a statue, and looked down her nose at him like a duchess. ‘Really. I see. If you must.’

      ‘No, thank you.’

      She nodded enthusiastically at his attempt to mimic her accent. ‘Exactly. That is exactly what a furious English person would say.’

      ‘It is exactly what you said to me when I offered to scrub your back.’ He nudged her playfully beside СКАЧАТЬ