Page 59 of Tempted By the English Marquis
The cost of a daughter or a son’s happiness means nothing to you, just as long as it serves to build your empire. Whatever the cost, you are more than willing to let others pay.
“Now I know you will be in haste to secure this union, but all good things come to those who wait. Signore Magri and I have agreed that you should be wed by the middle of April at the latest.”
April. That was mere weeks away. It was becoming all too real. In less than one month from now she would be a married woman.
“And since I know you are probably eager to meet with your future husband, I am pleased to announce that Signore Magri has invited us to dine with him tomorrow night.”
Serafina sucked hard on her bottom lip. It was all she could do to stop from being physically ill.
I must speak to Gideon. He has to understand that there is no time left.
And if the English marquis was still uncertain as to what he wanted, then at least she would go to her fate with a clear mind. She would also go with a shattered heart. If her hope was to die, she would rather it happened tonight.
“In the meantime, you and your mother will begin to make preparations for both the betrothal and wedding ceremonies. I have given my approval for not one but two new gowns, including the one in which you are to be married.”
Not a request—a statement of fact. Any seamstress who valued her future career would push all other clients’ priorities out of the way if a daughter of the house of de Luca commanded new gowns to celebrate her impending nuptials.
She was certain that in her father’s mind, his daughter was already standing next to her intended, clad in her wedding gown, and all that remained to be done was the priest’s blessing.
I wonder if he will pull my future husband aside at the wedding banquet and ask to talk business?
“Serafina and I already have an appointment to see the dressmaker. I will speak to his excellency and ask about our daughter being allowed to wear one of the de Luca family tiaras.” Donna Francesca paused, clearing her throat. “I shall also speak with my uncle’s private secretary and see what days, if any, His Eminence has available to attend a wedding in April.”
The contessa took a step toward the door. With all the preparations for Serafina’s wedding on her plate, she no doubt had little time to tarry. Serafina went to follow, halting mid-turn as her mother spun round.
“Since the betrothal arrangements are as far advanced as you say, then it only makes sense that Serafina and I pay Signore Magri a call at his home. Our daughter is shortly to become the mistress of the house, so she should have a hand in overseeing the supper tomorrow evening. Don’t you agree?”
Her mother was up to something, but exactly what that was Serafina couldn’t quite discern. Apart from ruling over the guest list, Donna Francesca had rarely taken an interest in the preparations for social events at Palazzo Lazio. She had a well-paid retinue of servants to handle such trivial matters. Why should she be bothered about a simple supper at her daughter’s future home?
Enzo shrugged. “I shall leave those sorts of arrangements in your capable hands, Donna Francesca. Tomorrow evening, my only priority is that Serafina is suitably dressed and ready to meet her future husband.”
The words had barely left his lips before his wife seized Serafina by the arm and dragged her toward the door.
In a rare moment of solidarity, Serafina found herself in agreement with her father. She too couldn’t care less about the arrangements for the supper.
This is my life. I don’t care where people sit at the table or what they eat.
Her feet were moving, but she didn’t feel them. She was in shock. A state of disbelief that this was finally happening to her. That despite her private hopes she was soon to be the wife of Giovanni Magri.
Serafina had watched her older siblings marry. Attended all their weddings. Known that an arranged union was her destiny. But this was different. None of her brothers or sisters had been forced to marry someone three times their age.
Outside in the hallway, Donna Francesca stopped, pulling Serafina to a halt. She leaned in close, taking her daughter’s face in her hands. Serafina met her mother’s eyes through a sheen of tears.
“I know what you are thinking—that this is not what you had hoped for in your girlish dreams. But this is Rome, and you are a member of the de Luca family. Power means everything. Your future husband holds the key to your father’s success within the ruling council. I might have wished for a younger man for you, but I cannot go openly against your father’s decision. He has chosen wisely, and we must act accordingly.”
She couldn’t help herself. As the numbness of shock slipped away, panic quickly took its place, gripping her hard. Serafina blurted out, “But he’s so old. How can I marry him? He must be as old as my father.”
“Older,” replied her mother.
She would be spending her nights sharing her body with a man who was older . . . oh. A wave of nausea rose and swirled around in her stomach.
Donna Francesca took a hold of her arm and gave it a not-so-gentle squeeze. “You are a de Luca and we do not behave like simple children. This is an excellent political match. One which will help your family. You must see beyond your own needs. Duty is what counts.”
Serafina blinked back the rapidly forming tears. Her mother was right. This was the way of nobility. One didn’t marry for love. That was what uneducated peasants did. They allowed their emotions to dictate their decisions, whereas her people married for gain. For the advantage that clever unions could bring to them and their families.
But what about me? What do I get out of this?
Nothing.
