The study smelled of old leather and older wine. Lucia Conti sat with her spine precisely two inches from the chair back, a habit born of years watching more graceful women from the periphery of ballrooms, and regarded the man across the desk with the same expression she might use to evaluate a horse.
Count Alessandro Ferretti returned her scrutiny with equal frankness.
He was precisely what she'd hoped for when she'd spent three weeks researching eligible lower nobility through a combination of society pages, gossip columns, and shameless interrogation of her sister's husband. Not devastatingly handsome—those types expected their wives to be equally decorative—but pleasant enough, with dark hair touched with premature silver at the temples and a lean face that suggested he spent more time thinking than preening. More importantly, he was wealthy from shipping interests rather than land alone, which meant he actually understood commerce. And most crucially, he'd been absent from society for the better part of five years, which meant he wouldn't know her as "that Conti girl who once hid behind a potted fern for an entire ball."
"You are aware," he said, setting down his glass, "that most women would find this conversation rather unromantic."
"Most women have the luxury of romance." Lucia folded her gloved hands. "I have the misfortune of being twenty-six, plain, and in possession of a diminishing dowry. Sentiment seems rather beside the point."
A ghost of amusement crossed his features. "Plain seems harsh."
"Accurate seems more appropriate." She wasn't fishing for compliments, God forbid. "I have a mirror, Count Ferretti. I'm also in possession of two perfectly functional eyes and a reasonable understanding of Venetian beauty standards. Shall we proceed, or would you prefer to waste time on pleasantries?"
His smile was involuntary, she noted with satisfaction. Good. A man who could be surprised was infinitely preferable to one who thought he knew everything.
"Your advertisement in the newspaper was remarkably specific," he said. "A business arrangement, you called it. No pretense of affection, but mutual respect and separate households after an heir is produced."
"You answered it," Lucia pointed out. "Which suggests either desperation or pragmatism. I'm hoping for the latter."
"Why me?" Alessandro leaned back in his chair. "You must have received other responses."
"Three." She'd been pleasantly surprised by that, actually. "One from a gentleman seventy-four years old seeking a nurse with inheritance rights. One from someone who couldn't spell 'arrangement' correctly and seemed to think the position included cooking. And one from a count whose estate is mortgaged to approximately three times its value."
"You investigated."
"Naturally. Did you think I'd enter a binding legal contract with a stranger without research?" Lucia withdrew a small notebook from her reticule. "You, Count Ferretti, are thirty-two years old. You inherited your title at twenty-five when your father died, and promptly left for Naples where you've built a successful shipping concern—mostly olive oil and wine, some textiles. Your estate in Verona is profitable but poorly managed since you spend nine months of the year absent. You employ twenty-three people directly and have never been sued, which suggests you pay your debts. You were briefly engaged six years ago to the daughter of a duke, which ended when she chose someone with a larger title."
Alessandro stared at her. "That's... thorough."
"That's the abbreviated version. I also know you take your coffee black, prefer Dante to Petrarch, and once punched a business associate who was cruel to a dog." She closed the notebook. "The last part was difficult to verify, but three separate sources mentioned it, so I'm inclined to believe it."
"Madonna." He looked genuinely unnerved now. "Remind me never to cross you."
"I'd prefer you simply remember that I'm not some desperate fool throwing herself at the first title that responds to an advertisement." Lucia met his gaze directly. "I chose you specifically, Count Ferretti. You're wealthy enough that my modest dowry won't matter. You're absent enough that I won't have to perform the role of adoring wife daily. You're relatively young, which improves the odds of producing an heir. And most importantly, you have a reputation for fairness in business dealings. I'm gambling that extends to personal arrangements as well."
Silence stretched between them. Beyond the window, a gondolier's song drifted up from the canal.
Finally, Alessandro leaned forward, and something changed in his expression. Calculation meeting calculation, and beneath it, a hint of what might have been respect. "You're terrifying."
"I'm practical."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive." He reached into his desk drawer, withdrew a document. "I had my solicitor draw up preliminary terms, but I suspect you'll want to review them with your own legal counsel."
"Already retained." She'd visited the solicitor before she'd even placed the advertisement. "What are your terms?"
"Three years in residence at the Verona estate, with visits to Naples twice annually. Separate bedrooms, separate finances after the marriage settlement, though household expenses would be my responsibility. If no child is born within five years, the marriage stands but both parties may maintain independent households."
"Three years for an heir, not five," Lucia interrupted. "I'm twenty-six, signore. Biology is unforgiving."
His eyebrow rose. "Direct."
"Would you prefer I simper and pretend ignorance about how children are conceived? I'm spinster, Count Ferretti, not a nun." She felt heat creep up her neck but kept her voice steady. "If we're doing this, let's be efficient about it."
"Efficient." He repeated the word as though tasting it, then made a notation on the document. "Three years then. And you'd want full autonomy over your inheritance regardless?"
"Obviously. I won't be discarded like an unproductive olive grove if my body doesn't cooperate."
"Discarded." Alessandro set down his pen, and for the first time, she heard an edge in his voice. "Is that what you think I am? Some mercenary calculating your breeding potential?"
"Aren't we both engaged in calculations?" Lucia didn't flinch. "Let's not pretend this is anything but an exchange. You need a competent wife to manage your properties while you conduct your shipping business. I need financial security and the respectability that marriage provides. This is commerce, Count Ferretti. We should at least respect each other enough to name it plainly."
"And you believe you're competent to manage the estate?"
The skepticism in his voice was familiar. She'd heard it from every male associate her father had ever employed. "I've been managing my family's estate since my father's illness three years ago. Income has increased by eighteen percent. I renegotiated contracts with three of our tenant farmers, implemented a new irrigation system for the olive groves, and dismissed a steward who'd been embezzling for six years." She smiled thinly. "I can read account books as well as poetry, Count Ferretti. Better, actually. Poetry tends toward imprecision."
"Yet you call yourself a wallflower."
"There's a difference between choosing not to participate in society and being incapable of managing it." Lucia kept her tone even. "I find most social events tedious—watching people peacock about while saying nothing of substance. But I can charm local nobility when contractually obligated. I simply prefer not to waste the effort otherwise."
Alessandro studied her for a long moment, and Lucia resisted the urge to fidget. This was the crux of it, whether he'd see her competence as an asset or a threat. Some men preferred decorative incompetence. But she'd gambled that a man who'd built his own fortune might actually appreciate capability.
"Can you?" he said finally. "Be charming, I mean. I should like to see that."
"Sign a marriage contract and you shall have ample opportunity."
His laugh surprised her—genuine and unguarded, transforming his entire face. "You're rather remarkable, you know."
"I'm rather practical."
"Same thing, in my experience." He stood, moved to the window overlooking the canal. "Though I should warn you, I'm not entirely civilized. I will expect you to occasionally attend the opera with me. And I have a dog. A large, poorly behaved dog that I'm unreasonably fond of."
"The one whose honor you defended with violence?"
"You really did research everything." He turned back to face her. "Yes. That dog. He's elderly now and has digestive issues."
"How romantic."
"I believe you specified no romance in your advertisement."
"I specified no pretense of affection," Lucia corrected. "I'm not a monster. I can tolerate a dog. Even a flatulent one."
"Then we understand each other." Alessandro crossed back to the desk, extended his hand. "Shall we be practical together, Signorina Conti?"
Lucia looked at his hand. This was it—the moment her life pivoted from slow decline toward something else. Not passion, certainly. Not love. But maybe something more durable. A partnership built on clear terms and mutual benefit, which was more than most marriages could claim.
She placed her hand in his. "Three years for an heir. Separate households afterward if either party wishes. Full partnership in estate management. And I want final approval on all household staff."
"Agreed." His grip was warm, firm. "Though I reserve the right to veto any potential steward who reminds me of my uncle Giulio."
"Characteristics?"
"Pompous. Treats numbers as suggestions rather than facts. Wears too much cologne."
"Easily avoided. I have similar feelings about housekeepers who over-starch linens."
"God, yes. I thought I was alone in that particular grievance."
Lucia felt something unexpected, not attraction precisely, but a kind of surprised recognition. "This might actually work."
"Don't sound so shocked. You're the one who orchestrated it." Alessandro released her hand but didn't step back. "Though I confess I'm curious, if you're this competent, why the newspaper advertisement? Surely your family could have arranged something."
"My sister tried. Apparently my tendency to correct potential suitors about their misunderstanding of crop rotation is considered 'off-putting.'" Lucia gathered her reticule. "The advertisement seemed more honest. Let the man know what he's getting into before anyone wastes time on courtship rituals."
"Efficient."
"You keep saying that like it surprises you."
"It does, rather. Most people aren't." He walked her toward the door, and she noticed he moved with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to authority. Good. Nothing worse than a man who needed constant reassurance. "When should I call on your family to formalize the arrangement?"
"Tuesday. Bring your solicitor. My brother-in-law will want to review the contracts, and my sister will want to assess your character." Lucia paused at the threshold. "Be warned—she'll try to determine if you have any secret vices or criminal tendencies."
"Do I?"
"According to my research, your only vice is an excessive fondness for Neapolitan pastries, and your only crime is mediocre taste in waistcoats." She glanced pointedly at his current attire. "Though that appears to have improved."
"This is my meeting-potential-wives waistcoat. I have lower standards for business meetings."
"How economical."
"I thought you'd approve." His smile was crooked, genuine. "Until Tuesday, then, Signorina Conti."
"Until Tuesday, Count Ferretti."
Lucia made it to her carriage before allowing herself a small, satisfied smile. Three weeks of research, five drafts of the advertisement, and one moderately terrifying interview, but she'd done it. In three months, she'd be the Countess Ferretti, with an estate to manage and a purpose beyond being pitied at family gatherings.
And if she was fortunate, she'd acquired something rarer than romance. A partner who wouldn't mistake competence for unfemininity, or practicality for coldness.
The gondolier's song followed her down the canal, and for once, Lucia didn't mind the sentimentality of it.