Harry grinned, explaining, ‘Castle versus village—the annual derby. Village always thrashes us. You, however, are going to be our secret weapon!’
‘Happy to be of use,’ replied Nic dryly.
His hand tightened on Fran’s and she squeezed it back, throwing him a covert smile. He’d come through with flying colours, just as he had with her parents. Much to his astonished surprise.
Instead of the disdain and open disapproval he’d expected, the Marchese had shaken Nic vigorously by the hand, immediately asking his advice on how to transform an unused palazzo he happened to own into a luxury hotel.
As for Fran’s young brother, Tonio—he’d declared it ‘seriously cool’ to have a brother-in-law with a police mugshot on file, and he couldn’t wait to tell his cousin Harry. Fran’s sister, Adrietta, had promptly informed him, with her prettiest smile, that she was determined to have her forthcoming honeymoon at the Falcone Seychelles, because she’d looked it up on the Internet and it was ‘positively divine’.
As for her mother, Lady Emma, La Marchesa had simply exclaimed, ‘Thank heavens Francesca’s agreed to marry someone at last!’ and warned Nic not to let her daughter jilt him, as was her habit with men she was engaged to.
‘No, dearest Mama,’ Fran had said sweetly, dropping a kiss on her mother’s cheek. ‘I won’t be doing that. Because, you see, I love Nic and he loves me.’
Then, taking a breath, she’d explained the reason for her rush to the altar ahead of Adrietta.
Her surprise at her mother’s reaction had equalled Nic’s at her father’s reaction to his becoming his son-in-law. A shriek of excitement had sounded from the Marchesa, accompanied by renewed vigorous pumping of Nic’s hand by her father at the news that he and the Marchesa were to become grandparents.
With shock, Nic had realised that his presence in the di Ristori family was actually going to be welcomed.
It was a welcome that was being extended now by her maternal relatives too.
Fran’s aunt, the Marchioness, had stepped forward. ‘Come along, everyone! I am not,’ she said decidedly, ‘going to freeze here any longer if you are starting on about rugby! The drawing room is much warmer, and it’s time to toast the happy couple!’
With quiet but practised management of her irascible father-in-law, she shepherded them through to where vintage champagne was awaiting them, installing the Duke in a vast winged chair by the fireside.
As Nic and Fran started to thaw they turned to each other.
‘Told you Gramps would like you!’ she whispered. ‘Despite his manner, he likes people who aren’t cowed by him. And I do so hope,’ she said, ‘that you will like them all too—all my family.’
He could see the emotion in her eyes and she made a little face.
‘They really can’t help being aristocrats, you know.’ There was a mix of humour and wariness in her voice.
‘I will do my best to ignore their unfortunate origins,’ Nic promised her solemnly, for he would promise her the world now—and fetch it for her too.
For a moment Fran’s expression wavered, then she landed a soft fist on his chest and laughed.
Emboldened, she added, ‘Now all you have to do,’ she gave a wry laugh ‘—apart from trying not to refer to Cesare as “the illustrious Conte” in that sardonic tone you always use about him—is make peace with Vito Viscari.’
This time his face darkened, his eyes hardening automatically.
But Fran held her ground. ‘Nic, you can’t go on feuding for ever. Vito isn’t responsible for his having inherited the Viscari hotels, nor for his mother-in-law buying your half back, and nor was he responsible when his uncle handed him the management job you were after, way back when. Speaking of which...’ she took a breath ‘...I’ve been putting my head together with Carla and Eloise—yes, I have, so don’t make that face at me.’
Nic’s expression was wary. ‘And what have the three of you cooked up?’ he enquired.
He had a feeling he was being outmanoeuvred, but for some strange reason—probably to do with the fact that he’d have laid down his life for the woman speaking to him, so much did he love her—he let her continue. Which she did.
‘Well,’ she said, encouraged, ‘it’s this...’
Her eyes gleamed with the same enthusiasm he was so familiar with when she talked about her beloved cosmology.
‘We think the two of you—you and Vito—should start an international programme of apprenticeships for disadvantaged young people, just as you once were, Nic, and train them in all aspects of the hotel trade. Not just things like cheffing and housekeeping, but management and finance as well. Almost like a global university for the hospitality industry.’
Nic’s eyes narrowed in consideration. ‘The Falcone Foundation...’ he mused. He liked the sound of it. Liked the concept.
‘Well, I suppose it really ought to be the Viscari-Falcone Foundation,’ Fran put in.
‘You mean the Falcone-Viscari Foundation,’ Nic corrected her.