But how could he complain about the burden of his name when every now and then it opened doors to homes and estates that were kept firmly shut to less exalted sons of the city? Today he had spent the day with an impoverished old Venetian family who were reluctantly selling off some of their family treasures and trusted Marco to do the job for them both lucratively and discreetly. Neither would prove to be difficult; he had a long list of potential buyers who would pay more than market value for first refusal on the beautifully carved furniture, Renaissance paintings and elaborate silverware.
A negotiation like this took time and he had been all too aware that while he was sitting drinking coffee with the Grigionis and dancing ever so politely around his commission, Sophie had arrived to an empty house with nobody to welcome her but Marta, who was a most excellent woman but not the most gregarious of people-and the chances were very high that she would run into his mother before he could warn Sophie just what he was bringing her into.
Several times over the last few days he had been on the verge of cancelling Sophie's visit. His mother had been so focussed on finding him a suitable Venetian bride he'd hoped Sophie's presence would throw her long enough to give him some space-but he'd underestimated her desire to see him wed. His father's death seemed to have intensified her hopes, and nationality no longer seemed to matter. His mother's eyes had lit up at the news he had invited a date to the party and she hadn't stopped asking him questions about his English 'friend'.
At least with Sophie by his side she wouldn't be able to introduce him to any eligible female guests with that specifically intense focus she usually employed. No, it was probably a good thing he hadn't cancelled. Sophie was here for just a couple of nights, not long enough for his mother to get too attached to her but long enough to throw her off the scent for the rest of his visit. Bringing a diversion was an excellent idea; he didn't know why he hadn't considered it earlier.
The clock had finished striking six when Marco strolled into the salon, adjusting his cuffs as he did so. Sophie was already there talking to his mother and his sister, Bianca, looking a little paler than he remembered but stunning in a pale pink beaded dress, which hung straight down to mid-thigh from two simple knotted straps. Her long blonde hair was knotted up with tendrils curling around her face, her only jewellery a pair of striking gold hoop earrings, which trembled as she moved. His blood began to pulse hot at the sight of her exposed neck. Inviting her had been an excellent idea for several reasons.
'Sophie,' he said, striding over to her and kissing her on both cheeks in welcome. 'Welcome. Did you have any trouble finding us?'
'No, no, even I would find it hard to get lost when a boat delivers me straight to the door.' Bianca and his mother laughed, but Marco's eyes narrowed. There was a tartness in her voice he hadn't heard before, the blue eyes icy and cold. Was she cross because he hadn't met her at the airport? He hoped not. Maybe a decoy was going to be as much trouble as a real girlfriend.
'Mamma, Bianca, please excuse us, I would like to make my apologies to Sophie properly for not being here when she arrived,' he said, smoothly drawing Sophie's arm through his. The pre-party drinks were being held in the reception salon, the largest sitting room on the first floor. Like most of the public rooms it overlooked the Grand Canal. Marco walked Sophie over to the furthest window, away from prying ears. 'I hope Gianni found you all right. I'm sorry I was detained.'
'No, that's fine.' But she was still staring out at the canal, her face set. 'I just wish you'd warned me, that's all.'
'I didn't realise until yesterday...'
'No! Not about being met, for goodness' sake! About this...' She looked around and he realised with a stab of compunction that her lips were quivering. 'Marco, every woman here is in a full-on ballgown. They look like they are going to a coronation, not a family party. And me? I'm wearing a little party dress I made myself. I look so underdressed.'
'You look beautiful.' And she did. Although she was right, all the other women were in floor-length, brightly coloured silk and chiffon gowns.
'And this house! Family party, you said. You forgot to mention that the family is the Borgias! I've never been anywhere like this. My bedroom is like a five-star hotel.'
'You don't like it?' Marco was struggling to understand the point she was making. So the family home was big and the party formal? Women usually loved the palazzo, and they loved knowing he was the future owner-owner, he supposed, not that he had any intention of setting up home here even more.
'Like it?' She made a queer noise, part gasp, part sob, part laughter. 'It's not the kind of place you like, is it? It's magnificent, beautiful, incredible, but it's not the kind of place I know as home. I don't fit in here, Marco. Not in this house, not with this kind of wealth. Your mother is wearing a diamond tiara that's probably worth more than my parents' house.' She shook her head. 'Oh, God, listen to me. I sound like the worst kind of inverted snob. I just didn't expect any of this. I'm more than a little thrown.'
Marco had never heard this kind of reaction before. True, most women who walked into the palazzo knew exactly who he was, briefed by their mammas just as he was by his. But even the wealthiest and most well-bred visitor got a covetous look in their eye when they realised the whole of the building still belonged to the family and therefore, by extension, to Marco. This kind of appalled shock was new, but it was also a relief, like a long sip of cold water after a lifetime of rich, creamy milk.
And she did have a point. He'd brought her here for his own selfish reasons; it hadn't occurred to him to warn her just what a Santoro party entailed.
'Just be yourself, Sophie. I promise you, everyone will love you-and they will adore your dress. I'm sorry, it didn't occur to me that this would all be a little overwhelming, but I promise to make it up to you. Tomorrow I'll show you Venice, not a tiara in sight. What do you say?'
She didn't answer for a long moment, indecision clear on her face. Then she turned to him, eyes big with a vulnerable expression in them that struck him hard. 'Are you sure I look all right? I'm not letting you down?'
'Not at all,' he assured her. 'In fact I predict next year most of the younger women will be glad to break with tradition and wear shorter dresses. Come, let's go and mingle and I will tell you three scandalous secrets about every person we meet. I promise you won't be intimidated by a single one by the end of the evening.'
CHAPTER FIVE
ALTHOUGH MARCO WAS true to his word and did indeed tell Sophie such scandalous secrets about every person she met-she refused to believe they could be true; surely that regal lady over there wasn't an international jewel thief?-she was still a little intimidated. Intimidated by the glitter and the air of self-possession displayed by every well-dressed guest, by the rapid flow of Italian all around and the familiarity with which each guest greeted each other. She felt too English, too parochial, too poor, too self-conscious, and although Marco was a charming and attentive host Sophie couldn't help thinking longingly of the city outside the old palazzo, ready to be explored and discovered.
But when Marco took her arm in his, when he leaned in close to whisper yet another outrageous lie, when he caught her eyes, laughter lurking in his, as his mother not so discreetly quizzed Sophie on her future plans and whether those plans involved marriage and babies, then she was pulled away from the room, away from her insecurities and into a world where all she saw was the tilt of his mouth, the warmth of his smile and the promise in his dark eyes. Anticipation flooded through her at the knowledge that when the clock struck twelve her night would only just be beginning... At least she hoped it would; she hadn't splashed out on a gorgeous new nightie in the New Year sales for nothing. The bits of silk held together with lace would hardly keep her warm after all.
She was aware of Marco's eyes on her and heat flooded through her as their gazes snagged and held, the rest of the room falling away. No, the other women in the room could do their best to attract his attention-and many of them were-but Sophie knew she wouldn't be sleeping alone that night.
After drinks and appetisers and a formal, beautifully presented meal for fifty, the party moved into an even grander and bigger room. Here yet more guests joined them, the numbers swelling into the hundreds as a band played at one end and immaculately dressed waiters circled with trays of drinks. Marco's mother had 'borrowed' him to greet an elderly relative and Sophie hovered by the window, unsure where to go or who to speak to-if she could make herself understood, that was. It was all too reminiscent of standing at the back of one of Harry's gigs, not quite knowing what to say or whether she was welcome in any of the close-knit, self-possessed groups.