The Rich Shall Inherit (38 page)

“The fairy-tale villa will be yours?” Poppy repeated breathlessly. She thought he must have forgotten he was still holding her hand, and embarrassed, she let it lie there in his warm fingers.

He nodded. “My father and mother died when I was seven years old. Uncle Umberto brought me up at the Villa d’Oro, and at our two palazzi, here in Venice.”

“You have
two
palaces?” she gasped.

He shrugged modestly. “One is the Rinardi palazzo, the other came to the family by marriage. Sadly, it has been allowed to crumble into disrepair. It costs so much to maintain these old buildings; the winter floods always take their toll and the ancient pilings, the very foundations on which they’ve stood for centuries, are rotting away. I’m afraid it takes all the family money,” he added apologetically.

“But for such a good purpose,” Poppy replied earnestly. “I can’t imagine anything more wonderful than living in a palace with a front door onto the Grand Canal, and your own private gondola moored to one of those beautiful striped poles. Felipe, you must live in one of the wonders of the world!”

He squeezed her hand delightedly. “Then why don’t you come and see the wonders of the Palazzo Rinardi from the inside, as well as from the Grand Canal,” he suggested. “It’s been there since the fifteenth century and I promise you, it has a magic all its own.”

Poppy’s small silver dish of
granita
melted into a chocolate puddle as she continued to gaze at him, entranced. “Fifteenth century,” she breathed.
“Nothing
in California is that old!”

Felipe put up his hand to brush a strand of hair from her eyes. “Tell me about yourself, and about your home in California. I can’t imagine what it must be like there.”

A little tremor of pleasure shot through her veins as his fingers
touched her face. And California seemed so far away, as she told him about the sparkling white ranch house with its flower-burdened courtyard, its tinkling Mexican-tiled fountain, the lavish stables and her wonderful Arabian mare, Rhanee, whom she missed dreadfully; she told him about the vast acres of the Rancho Santa Vittoria and the cattle roundups and the lambing. She told him about their house on De la Vina Street and the hayrides and beach picnics. And she told him about Rosalia and Nik.
“My parents”
she said proudly, because by then, in her story they really were.

“And then there’s Angel,” she added.
“My sister.”

“Your younger sister?” Felipe asked lazily.

“No, oh, no. We are both eighteen,” she replied without thinking.

“Both?” he said surprised. “Then you are twins?”

Poppy blushed uncomfortably, caught out in a lie that she’d almost believed. “I … yes …” she lied miserably. “Angel is the elder … by just a little.”

“And?” queried Felipe, raising his brows.

She eyed him nervously. “And … what?”

“And … who else is there?”

Of course—how could she ever have forgotten him! “There’s Greg,” she added quickly, “my brother.”

“You can’t know how much I envy you,” Felipe sighed wistfully. “When my parents were drowned in a boating accident in the Adriatic, I went to live with Uncle Umberto. You can’t imagine how lonely I was, Poppy. My uncle is a bachelor and he spent more time in Paris and London than he did with a small boy in the depths of the countryside.”

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, her blue eyes brimming with sympathy as she imagined the beautiful little boy, alone in his opulent country villa. She was so caught up in his life that she’d completely forgotten her own intolerable childhood.

Felipe shrugged, managing a brave smile. “But that’s in the past. And today, I am here in Florian’s with the most wonderful girl I’ve ever met in my life.”

Poppy stared down at the chocolate puddle
of granita
in the silver dish, not knowing how to reply. “You must know so many girls …” she murmured, blushing.

“Indeed I do. But not one like you, Poppy.” Embarrassed, she made no reply, and calling for Carlo, Felipe pressed a tip into his palm, dismissing the bill.

Taking Poppy’s arm he guided her across the Piazza to the Riva degli Schiavoni and she sighed with both the pleasure of his touch and relief at the whisper of breeze that lifted her hair from her warm brow, as they strolled together beside the Canale di San Marco.

Clutching her wide-brimmed straw hat, she looked out over the lagoon, at the islands of Giudecca and San Giorgio floating like a mirage on the horizon. There was a timelessness about Venice, shimmering and dreamlike in the summer heat, that sent a shiver down her spine. “There’s an ancient magic about this place,” she whispered, entranced. “Venice is like a lover who wraps his arms around you and promises never to let you go. Even though you must go away, you know you will always return—” She stopped suddenly, horrified by what she’d just said, not knowing where the words had come from, and hardly daring to look at him.

“Ah, Poppy,” Felipe murmured, pressing her hand, “such love is
true
magic.”

Poppy met Felipe every afternoon, but still she refused to allow him to meet Angel and Aunt Melody. When she wasn’t with him she was torn by the web of deceit she was weaving, yet she wanted to keep him all to herself. For the first time in her life she had a person who was all her own, whom she shared with nobody.

Felipe took her to see the Palazzo Rinardi in all its fifteenth-century glory on the Grand Canal. A silent-footed servant opened the door, disappearing as quietly as he had come, leaving them alone in the lofty marble hall. They wandered hand in hand through the grand salons and Poppy gazed admiringly at the frescoes and the inlaid furniture made from precious woods. She ran a wondering finger across the cool marble surface of a statue unearthed from an ancient Roman villa, and stepped delicately across priceless silk rugs worn thin through centuries of use. Felipe told her that on festive occasions, such as a wedding, all the great Murano glass chandeliers were lit with thousands of candles and the palazzo was reflected in a million points of light in the Grand Canal … “like a diamond in the moonlight.”

Poppy lingered at the top of the sweeping marble staircase, staring at the portraits of long-dead Rinardis, searching their faces for a resemblance to Felipe, seeing his fair hair in one, his greenish eyes in another, thinking how wonderful it was to be
able to look at them and know exactly where you came from. She turned away with a pleased sigh.

“You are so beautiful, in that simple white dress,” Felipe said as she walked slowly down the stairs toward him. “With your cool skin and fiery hair you look as though you had stepped from a Titian painting.” His voice shook with emotion as he whispered,
“Poppy, you belong here, in Venice. Oh, my darling, I’m very much afraid I’ve fallen in love with you.”

Poppy’s eyes were starry as his arms encircled her. “Oh, yes, Felipe,” she sighed happily, “yes, I love you too.” And as Felipe kissed her she knew this must surely be true love, because she heard the eagle’s wings and her blood pounding as she soared to new heights of emotion.

Time was rushing by and their stolen innocent afternoons must soon come to an end. Poppy didn’t know how to tell Aunt Melody and Angel, but she just put it from her mind, praying that some miracle would happen to make it all right.

She had discovered a whole new world of sensuality and she wanted nothing more than to be in Felipe’s arms; she wanted the touch of his hands on her face, on her throat, the pull of his fingers in her hair as his lips claimed hers; and she’d found she wanted even more—her whole body craved his touch and she felt out of control. But though she felt him tremble with passion, Felipe never went any further than just kisses.

“You either seem on top of the world or down in the dumps these days,” Angel complained. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Poppy. And where
do
you go every afternoon anyway?”

“Oh, just exploring,” she said airily, “round and about Venice.

“You must know the city better than the natives by now.” Angel sighed. “Personally, I shall be glad to get back to Paris in the fall when all the parties begin. It’s so dull here—just old buildings, old paintings, old churches. And water! I
can’t wait to meet some attractive young men.”

There were only two afternoons left and Poppy was filled with despair. Only two afternoons of stolen kisses as they drifted along Venice’s silent afternoon waterways in a curtained gondola, with only the swish of the gondolier’s oar and the lap of tiny waves to disturb their privacy.

“Please meet me tonight, Poppy, I can’t bear to be without you even for an hour,” Felipe begged as they drifted back toward the San Marco Giardinetti landing stage.

But Poppy already told him it was impossible; they were to attend a reception and dinner at the apartment of the American consul that evening and she was already worried that Aunt Melody would have woken early to prepare herself for the party. Neither of them mentioned it, but they both knew as she hurried away across the Piazza that they had only one more afternoon together.

“It seems such a waste,” complained Angel, surveying herself in the mirror as Poppy buttoned her into Monsieur Worth’s fabulous sapphire gown. “I should be wearing this dress to some wonderful ball, not to dazzle some boring old diplomat.”

“Never mind, you look quite gorgeous in it,” Poppy replied, staring at her in admiration. “Oh, Angel, sometimes you are just
so beautiful
, it takes my breath away.”

Smiling serenely, Angel clipped a tiny diamond butterfly in her smooth blond hair. “Then the dress is even more of a waste; just think of the effect it might have on some handsome young Frenchman.” She glanced at Poppy in her molten gray velvet gown, her red hair sleeked into a gleaming topknot. “You look quite lovely yourself,” she told her, “like a cascade of mercury warmed by your burning red hair … in fact you’re positively
glowing
lately.
Exactly what
have you been up to on these hot afternoons while the rest of us are dozing in our beds? I refuse to believe you’ve been looking at yet more paintings and more statues. Come on now, Poppy, tell me!
You
look as if you’re just
bursting
with a secret.”

“Oh, Angel,” Poppy gasped, her eyes sparkling.
“I’m in love!”
She heaved a sigh of relief as the truth tumbled out at last; she was sure suddenly that if she told Angel
everything
—about her stupid lies, about pretending she was her real sister, and about Felipe and how much they loved each other—then magically everything would be all right. “He’s wonderful,” she bubbled happily, “I met him in Florian’s and we’ve seen each other every afternoon since and—”

“Are you two girls ready?” Aunt Melody swept into the room, resplendent in purple lace, five rows of large pearls clasped around her plump neck, and a confection of net and feathers perched atop her silver hair. “My goodness,” she exclaimed,
surveying them through her lorgnette, “I have to admit that Monsieur Worth is worth his money!” Her plump rouged cheeks quivered as she laughed helplessly at her own small joke …
“Worth
and
worth,”
she repeated, wiping her eyes. “Anyway, darlings, you both look wonderful. Come on now or we’ll be late!”

“Tell me everything later,” Angel whispered excitedly as she hurried them from the room.

The American consulate occupied the ground floor of a magnificent palazzo and the consul general’s apartment was on the
piano nobile
, the first floor with the grandest rooms. The ceilings of his gilded salons soared to lofty carved beams, ornamented three centuries ago in brilliant blues and purples and gold that were still unfaded by time and Venice’s damp. And beneath a dozen candlelit crystal chandeliers milled a throng of elegantly dressed guests, glittering with jewels.

“Thank God for Monsieur Worth,” whispered Angel, awed.
“Imagine
if we’d been wearing Miss Matthews’s frills and rosettes tonight!”

It was true, Poppy thought admiringly, each woman seemed more elegant than the last and they were simply dripping with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. The tiny row of seed pearls given to her and Angel on their seventeenth birthdays faded into oblivion beside the baubles on display.

The American consul, Osgood Barrington, was waiting to greet them at the top of the curving marble staircase. “So pleased you could come, Miss Abrego,” he said with a smile, “and I’m delighted to meet your charming nieces. I’m only sorry I was away and we didn’t manage to get together earlier, I could have introduced them to the young Venetian society. Still, never mind, perhaps they’ll come back again soon.”

Osgood Barrington was a friend of Felipe’s uncle and it had been an easy matter for Felipe to gain an invitation to the party. He was drinking a glass of champagne, but his eyes were on the staircase, waiting for Poppy to arrive. When he finally saw her, he realized she was no longer the breathless simple girl of those hot stolen afternoons; Poppy was a smoldering elegant vision in simple gray velvet that breathed Paris couture and money. His eyes dwelled on her creamy alabaster flesh, the thrust of her breasts, and the curve of her tiny waist beneath the dove’s velvet. And then he noticed her sister. If Poppy was a sensual dream, then her sister was a vision—pale and blond as a moonlit night,
petite and with a profile of such beauty, it made him gasp. Was it his imagination or did the whole room fall silent as they gazed at Angel?

He made his way toward them purposefully. “Osgood,” he said, smiling calmly, “won’t you introduce me to your charming guests?”

“Well, now, Miss Abrego,” beamed Osgood,
“this
is exactly what I meant. Here is Felipe Rinardi—the
Barone
Rinardi, I should say, and he’s just the sort of young person your girls should be meeting. Felipe knows
everyone
in Venice. Felipe, this is Miss Abrego, visiting from Santa Barbara, California,” Osgood said, “and her nieces, Miss Angel Konstant, and Miss Poppy Mallory.”

In the silence that followed, Poppy knew she would die; her heart was thudding so loudly she thought they would hear, and she shrank against an ormolu side table to steady herself, afraid she was going to faint.
Mallory … Mallory
… Poppy Mallory
… the hateful name rang over and over in her head.
Her lies were finally exposed and she stared at Felipe, desperately afraid of what he would say.