theatre.’
‘That is perfectly all right—I adore a bit of history.’
He grinned and threw the doors open with a flourish and her breath caught in her throat.
The vaulted ceiling was a patchwork of gilt panels surrounding one huge central fresco. She recognised the theme immediately from the enormous white wings of the unabashedly naked lovers of the tale—Cupid and Psyche. The largest painting showed their first meeting in a forest of blossom, framing the scene as if the viewer were peeking in. The heroine startled, her golden hair woven with flowers as she wanders into the clearing to find a lovestruck Cupid staring at her, a small bleeding scratch on his chiselled abdomen from where he had accidentally pierced himself with his own dart. The smaller pictures ringed it, telling the rest of the tale, of their marriage, their separations, Psyche’s series of impossible trials set by the gods to win back her immortal husband and then, finally, Cupid’s rescue of his sleeping lover by transforming her into an immortal, too, so they could live properly together as man and wife in his world above the clouds for all eternity.
‘Look at her wedding finger…’ His breath whispered over her shoulder as he pointed. ‘Look at the design of the ring he has placed on her finger.’ It took her a while to focus on the thin, painted gold band, but as she stared at it she could see it was actually two hands intertwined. ‘If you love a bit of history, then you will adore the symbolism. Although the story is an Ancient Greek myth, that ring is Roman. It was the custom to give a betrothal ring…a fede ring…two hands clasped in love and agreement. A promise.’
‘I would never have noticed it unless you had pointed it out.’
He shrugged. ‘I have an eye for detail and a mind which likes to store them.’
‘The devil is always in the detail.’
He smiled. ‘I love all those quaint English phrases.’
‘I love your fresco. It is stunning.’
‘It is. Old Amedeo might have been a skinflint, but he was a romantic soul at heart. This was his childhood sweetheart’s favourite story and, because he loved her to distraction but she would have none of him, he had this ceiling painted in her honour…as a token and permanent declaration of his love.’
Lilian spun a slow circle, taking it all in, more than a little overwhelmed by its sheer perfection. ‘Did it work?’
‘They married, had twelve children and lived to be very old together. So, yes. I believe it worked perfectly.’
‘Another good story.’ She found herself beaming at him. ‘In fact, a better one.’ One which spoke entirely to her romantic soul.
For the fifth time in as many minutes, he glanced at the door, literally counting the seconds till she came through it. Just as he had last night and the night before. In fact, Pietro could not seem to stop thinking about her despite completely immersing himself in work and having as little to do with her as possible this past week.
That wasn’t completely true.
He had recklessly offered to be her guide at the Sistine Chapel because he wanted to see her face when she finally saw Michelangelo’s greatest masterpiece after her touching and poignant reaction to his fresco, selfishly delaying her planned visit there to fit around his business commitments. And while he had avoided her as much as he could throughout the days, he couldn’t resist seeking out her company at dinner, then talking and harmlessly flirting with her till bedtime. Like clockwork, his feet took him home with plenty of time to change and be seated in the salotto in time to watch her arrival. Something which was rapidly becoming the highlight of his day.
The Lilian who came to dinner was a very different woman from the one he had met in England at Christmas. Gone were the plain, sensible clothes, burdened demeanour and troubled eyes, replaced by a vivacious, glamourous and constantly smiling creature who laughed a great deal and whose emerald eyes sparkled with joy and intelligence. She was loving her visit to Rome and her enjoyment of it was infectious.
Each evening, he made a point of asking about her day and then listened intently as she recounted it with such exuberance and wonder, he felt as if he was seeing the place of his birth and his home for all his forty-eight years on the earth for the first time. For Lilian, everything was an adventure, from the spectacle of the Colosseum and the ghostly ruins of ancient Rome, to the everyday sights, sounds and smells of the street markets. In all cases, it was her reaction which he adored and he blamed the fresco entirely for his new obsession with her.
Pietro had lost count of the number of people he had shown it to. Its rumoured beauty was one of Rome’s most well-known secrets and, aside from all the business connections he regularly brought home to see it to help aid his negotiations with them, there were also curious dinner guests who always asked to see it.
But Lilian’s reaction had been special and different. When nearly everyone encouraged him to have experts study the brushwork to ascertain which parts were by the Great Masters the legend claimed, or commented on how much money that ceiling alone would bring for his house if he ever decided to sell it, she had been more interested in the story of his besotted great-great-great-great-grandparents. She saw the fresco as a declaration of deep and abiding love and was caught up in the romance of his ancestors rather than the value of the painting.
In fact, Lilian had a talent for seeing the intensely personal in everything. The gladiator’s feelings as he walked into the arena of the Colosseum rather than the architecture of the amphitheatre. Bracci’s human inspiration for Oceanus on the Fontana di Trevi. Even the men who carved the stones which built St Peter’s. How they must have felt to be part of the creation of something so significant. In humanising everything in the city he had taken for granted for most of his adult life, she brought a new dimension to it, a new appreciation which was filtering down into his own work. Something which had been sorely missing for a very long time.
Today he had sold a painting by di Banco, a lesser artist of the Renaissance. Pietro had never much cared for his work because the brushwork and skill lacked the sophistication and subtlety of many of his significantly better contemporaries. He had picked up the small portrait, done in oils, for next to nothing a few years back from a conte who had been systematically stripping his villa of valuables. Uninspired by this one, Pietro had consigned the little portrait to storage where it lay forgotten until he sensed he had found a buyer. The Conte didn’t know who the ancestor was so had no emotional attachment to it.
The wealthy English merchant who had bought it only wanted the portrait to give credence to the expensive illusion he was creating—to convince others his money was old and his bloodline was noble, buying the nameless ancestors of others to hang in his new mansion built in the fashionably classical style. These sorts of transactions, although not exciting, were currently very lucrative. Anyone who wasn’t anyone, but desperately wanted to be someone now they had money, knew if they came to Pietro Venturi, he would be able to fill their walls with suitably aged and convincing fake ancestors to impress their visitors while being guaranteed of his silence. In fact, at least a hundred forgotten and unwanted portraits hung in the private gallery behind his main one on the Via del Corso. He had never cared if his clients walked away with a stunning Canaletto cityscape to hang above their fireplace or the cracked portrait of a nameless, forgotten old lady by an unknown artist of yore. All he cared about was making the sale.
Yet Pietro had pondered that crude portrait
