The study was markedly different from the formal drawing room. All dark wood and worn leather, with maps pinned to the walls and ledgers stacked on every available surface. Lucia felt her shoulders relax incrementally. This was territory she understood.
Alessandro cleared space on the massive oak desk while Giorgio retrieved a leather portfolio. "The Verona estate produces primarily olives and wine," Alessandro began, unrolling a detailed map. "Three hundred hectares, roughly half under cultivation."
Lucia leaned over the map, tracing the property boundaries with one finger. "The southern section appears unused. Why?"
"Drainage issues," Giorgio said. "The previous count attempted terracing thirty years ago, but the retaining walls failed after two seasons. It's been sitting fallow since."
"Have you considered a different approach? French drains rather than terracing?" Lucia pulled the map closer, studying the topography. "If the water table is high, you'd need to redirect groundwater before any crop system would hold."
Alessandro exchanged a glance with his uncle. "The cost—"
"Would be recouped in five years if you planted appropriately. The soil composition there—" she tapped the map, "—suggests it would support hazelnuts. Growing market in Milano. Better profit margin than olives, though higher initial investment."
"You determined the soil composition from a map?" Giorgio's tone was skeptical but intrigued.
"From the vegetation patterns marked here." Lucia indicated the notations along the property edge. "Wild chestnuts cluster in well-drained acidic soil. If they're thriving naturally along this ridge, the southern section likely shares similar characteristics once the water issue is resolved."
Silence. Lucia glanced up to find both men staring at her.
"What?"
"Nothing," Alessandro said, though his expression suggested otherwise. "Continue."
She returned to the map, warmth creeping up her neck. Perhaps she'd been too forward. This was his estate, after all, not yet hers. "I apologize. I'm overstepping—"
"You're not." Alessandro moved to stand beside her, his sleeve brushing hers as he examined the section she'd indicated. "I've been focused on the existing operations. I hadn't considered expansion there."
"It's a risk," Giorgio admitted. "But not an unreasonable one. The question is timing. Alessandro's in Naples most of the year. Estate improvements require oversight."
"Which is precisely why we're marrying," Lucia said. "I assume that was part of your reasoning?" She directed the question to Alessandro, who had the grace to look slightly caught out.
"Partially," he conceded. "Though I expected competent management, not agricultural innovation."
"Competence without innovation is just maintaining decline more slowly." Lucia straightened, meeting his gaze directly. Her hair had been pinned so tightly this morning that she could feel the beginning of a headache forming, but she ignored it. "If you want someone to simply maintain current yields while you conduct business elsewhere, hire a better steward. If you want the estate to actually improve, you need someone willing to challenge assumptions."
Giorgio laughed quietly. "Alessandro, she's going to be absolutely insufferable. I approve completely."
"Your approval wasn't technically required, Uncle, but thank you." Alessandro rolled up the map and selected another. "The olive groves. We've been using traditional pressing methods, but several Naples producers are experimenting with modified presses that increase yield per ton. I've been considering the investment."
They spent the next hour deep in discussions of olive cultivation, wine production, and the relative merits of various grain rotations. Lucia found herself relaxing further, her responses becoming less guarded. Here, finally, was someone who didn't view her knowledge as unfeminine peculiarity, but as relevant expertise.
Alessandro, she discovered, had a sharp mind for systems and efficiency. Giorgio provided historical context and cautionary tales. Together, they formed a balance. Vision tempered by experience, enthusiasm checked by precedent.
"The tenant agreements," Lucia said eventually, examining the contracts Giorgio had produced. "These are standard for the region, but they're not generous. You could improve loyalty significantly with minimal cost adjustments."
"Such as?" Alessandro leaned against the desk, arms crossed. In the lamplight, his light brown hair looked almost gold where the sun had bleached it lighter. She wondered absently how much time he spent outdoors in Naples, then caught herself. His hair color was hardly relevant to estate management.
"Maintenance responsibilities," she said, returning her attention to the contracts. "Currently, tenants are responsible for all building repairs. Shift major structural repairs to the estate. It costs you perhaps five percent more annually, but reduces turnover dramatically. Good tenants are worth the investment."
"My father always said tenants should maintain their own properties," Giorgio said slowly. "Builds character."
"Your father died with a sixty percent turnover rate." Lucia softened the observation with a slight smile. "My family reduced turnover to fifteen percent by shouldering structural costs. Tenants stay longer, invest more in soil improvement, take better care of what they view as a partnership rather than a burden."
Alessandro was quiet for a moment, studying her with an intensity that made her want to check her hair for escaping strands. "You've thought extensively about this."
"I've had three years managing an estate and very little else to occupy my time. One develops theories." She set down the contracts. "Though obviously, these are your properties. I'm merely offering observations."
"Stop doing that," Alessandro said.
"Doing what?"
"Qualifying every suggestion as though you're afraid I'll be offended by competence." He moved closer, and she caught the scent of bergamot and something else—ink, perhaps, or the particular mustiness of old paper. "We agreed to a partnership. That means you get an actual voice, not just the appearance of one."
Lucia met his gaze steadily, searching for signs of insincerity. She'd heard similar promises before, one of those was her father's business associates claiming to value her input, then dismissing it the moment it contradicted their preferences. But Alessandro's expression was serious, even slightly impatient, as though her self-deprecation was wasting his time.
"Very well," she said. "The tenant agreements should be renegotiated. The olive press investment is sound but should wait until after harvest—cash flow timing. And you should dismiss your current estate steward."
Giorgio straightened. "Carlo? He's been with the family for—"
"Twelve years, yes. He's also skimming approximately eight percent off the top through vendor relationships and inflated maintenance costs." Lucia retrieved her notebook from her reticule, flipped to a marked page. "I compared your expense reports against regional averages. Your costs are consistently higher across every category except labor. That suggests either catastrophically bad luck or systematic theft. I'm inclined toward the latter."
The silence was profound.
"You analyzed our expense reports," Alessandro said finally. "When, exactly?"
"You sent them with the estate maps three days ago. Did you expect me not to read them?"
"I expected you to... glance at them?" He sounded somewhere between impressed and appalled. "Most people would glance."
"Most people aren't marrying you to manage your estate." Lucia closed her notebook. "If you'd prefer I not identify embezzlement before the wedding, I can feign ignorance. But it seems wasteful."
Giorgio had retrieved the expense reports and was now paging through them with growing anger. "Madonna. She's right. Look at these maintenance costs—we replaced the same section of fence three times in two years."
"Because Carlo's brother owns the fencing company," Lucia supplied. "I checked."
Alessandro sat down rather abruptly. "Is there anything you didn't investigate?"
"Your dog's medical history. Though I assume the digestive issues you mentioned are being properly managed?" She paused. "That wasn't a euphemism for some other problem, was it? Because if there are estate issues being described as canine ailments, I should know."
He laughed, startled and genuine. "No. My dog genuinely has digestive problems. His name is Dante, he's fourteen, and he's lost most of his teeth."
"Appropriate name for an elderly, flatulent creature." Lucia permitted herself a small smile. "Though I assume he's friendlier than his namesake."
"Marginally. He dislikes most people but is inexplicably fond of chickens." Alessandro shook his head, still looking somewhat dazed. "Uncle Giorgio, can you begin the process of dismissing Carlo? Quietly, if possible. I don't want him destroying records before we can document everything."
"I'll handle it." Giorgio gathered the contracts and reports. "And I'll start interviewing replacement candidates. Unless you'd prefer to wait until after the wedding, when Lucia can interview them herself?"
"That would be preferable," Lucia said. "I'd like to meet anyone who'll be reporting to me. Assess their character directly."
"Naturally." Giorgio paused at the door. "Alessandro, I'm beginning to understand why you agreed to this arrangement so quickly. She's terrifying."
"I believe the word you're looking for is 'competent,'" Lucia said mildly.
"Those aren't mutually exclusive." Giorgio's smile was approving. "Welcome to the family, Signorina Conti. You're going to fit in disturbingly well."
After he left, Lucia became suddenly aware that she was alone with Alessandro in a closed study, which was probably technically improper, though given they'd already discussed conception logistics, propriety seemed somewhat beside the point.
"I should return to my sister," she said. "Before she assumes you've murdered me and hidden my body in the wine cellar."
"We don't have a wine cellar. We have a wine warehouse near the docks." Alessandro stood, but didn't move toward the door. "Lucia, may I ask you something?"
"You're about to anyway."
His mouth quirked. "Fair. Why did you really choose me? And please don't cite the research. That explains methodology, not motivation."
Lucia considered deflecting, then remembered his earlier instruction. No qualifications. "You answered the advertisement without mockery," she said quietly. "Most men would have found it amusing—the spinster so desperate she'd advertise for a husband like a position available. You responded as though it were a legitimate business proposal. That suggested you might actually see me as something other than a failed marriage prospect."
Alessandro was quiet for a long moment. "I see you as someone who identified a problem and solved it efficiently. Which is more than most people manage."
"That's a very diplomatic way of saying I'm unmarriageable through conventional channels."
"That's a very accurate way of saying you're too intelligent to waste time on conventional channels." He moved closer, and she noticed again the silver threading through his light brown hair at the temples. Too young for grey, so it must be from sun exposure, the same bleaching effect that lightened the rest. "Most people drift through life accepting whatever circumstances they're given. You built an alternative. That's not desperation. That's audacity."
Lucia felt something unexpected lodge in her chest—not attraction, precisely, but a recognition of being understood in a way she'd rarely experienced. "That's a generous interpretation."
"It's an accurate one." Alessandro offered his arm. "Now, shall we rescue your sister from my stepmother before they come to blows over wedding arrangements? I believe I heard mention of 'appropriate floral displays' as we left."
"Dear God. Teodora has opinions about flowers."
"So does my stepmother. This may require diplomatic intervention."
They emerged from the study to find the drawing room in a state of polite warfare. Teodora and the Dowager Countess were smiling at each other with the warmth of opposing generals, while Bianca watched with poorly concealed delight.
"—simply saying that roses are traditional," the Dowager Countess was saying, her tone suggesting this was the final word on the matter.
"And I'm simply saying that tradition shouldn't supersede the bride's preferences," Teodora countered. "Though I suppose some families value appearances over the actual happiness of the people involved."
"Some families value maintaining standards rather than indulging every passing whim."
"Standards. How interesting that you call expensive mediocrity 'standards.'"
"Perhaps," Lucia said loudly, "we could discuss flowers after Alessandro and I have actually decided on a wedding date?"
Both women turned to stare at her.
"You haven't set a date?" The Dowager Countess looked scandalized. "But the arrangements—"
"Can be arranged once we have a date to arrange them for." Lucia kept her voice pleasant but firm. "I suggest three weeks. That allows time for the contracts to be finalized and gives us a reasonable window to organize something appropriate without descending into chaos."
"Three weeks!" Teodora looked alarmed. "Lucia, that's barely enough time for a dress—"
"Then I'll wear something I already own." Lucia glanced at Alessandro. "Unless you have objections to an abbreviated timeline?"
"None whatsoever." He looked relieved. "Three weeks gives me time to conclude business in Venice before we depart for Verona."
"But the invitations—"
"Will be simple and direct." Lucia was tired suddenly, the early headache from her pinned hair having blossomed into genuine discomfort. "This is a marriage, not a theatrical production. I'd prefer to begin it efficiently rather than exhaust ourselves on pageantry."
The Dowager Countess's expression suggested Lucia had just proposed conducting the ceremony in a barn. Teodora looked torn between relief and social anxiety. Bianca looked absolutely delighted.
"Three weeks," Alessandro confirmed, and the firmness in his voice made it clear the decision was final. "Signorina Conti is correct. Elaborate productions serve no one's interests except the florists."
"And dressmakers," Bianca added helpfully. "Don't forget the dressmakers. They'll be devastated by your efficiency."
"They'll survive," Lucia said dryly. "I have faith in their resilience."
As they departed (Teodora still muttering about insufficient preparation time), Alessandro walked them to their carriage. Before Lucia could climb in, he caught her hand.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For today. For all of it."
"I identified embezzlement and insulted your stepmother's taste in flowers. That doesn't typically warrant gratitude."
"You took my family seriously. The estate, the problems, the potential." His grip was warm, his expression sincere. "That's rarer than you might think."
Lucia looked at their joined hands, then up at his face. In the fading afternoon light, his eyes were the color of aged whiskey, amber-brown shot through with lighter flecks. Attractive eyes, objectively speaking.
She firmly dismissed the observation.
"Three weeks," she said instead. "Try not to be murdered by your stepmother before then."
"Same to you and your sister."
"My sister would never murder me. She'd merely make pointed comments about my choices until I perished from guilt." Lucia withdrew her hand, suddenly aware of Teodora watching from inside the carriage with poorly disguised interest. "Until the wedding, Count Ferretti."
"Until then, Signorina Conti."
As the carriage pulled away, Lucia caught one last glimpse of Alessandro standing in the street, hands in his pockets, watching them leave. Then Teodora closed the curtain with theatrical decisiveness.
"Well," her sister said. "That was enlightening."
"If you have criticism, deliver it quickly. This headache has plans for my evening."
"No criticism. Merely observation." Teodora settled back against the cushions, her expression unreadable. "You like him."
"I respect his business acumen and appreciate his willingness to view our arrangement as a genuine partnership. That's not the same as liking someone."
"Keep telling yourself that." But Teodora was smiling. "Though I'll admit—he's better than I expected. Those eyes—"
"Are a perfectly ordinary brown."
"Lucia. They're amber."
"Brown with better lighting."
"You're hopeless."
Lucia closed her eyes, letting the headache pulse behind her eyelids. "I'm marrying him in three weeks, Dora. Whether I like him seems rather beside the point."
But she remembered the warmth of his hand, the sincerity in his face, the way he'd looked at her spreadsheet analysis like she'd revealed something extraordinary rather than merely obvious.
Three weeks.
She could manage three weeks without developing any inconvenient emotions.
Probably.