Amanda McCabe - A Notorious Woman

Now he was even interrupting her jovial feast day.

But she had hesitated too long in answering his greetings. The people around her were beginning to stare in puzzlement, obviously wondering why she ignored such a very important man. Even the loud hum of laughter and talk had faded to a low buzz.

Julietta stared directly, boldly down at the count, who watched her with a narrow, patient smile on his finely drawn lips. Beside him, half hidden in the shadows of the felze, was his son, Balthazar, watching the proceedings with a scowl on his narrow, youthful face, arms crossed over his white velvet doublet. Balthazar was the heir to the Grattiano kingdom, Ermano’s only child, yet he always seemed to behave like an unhappy prince, filled with some half-hidden, seething anger. But he was a handsome youth, with fine, high cheekbones, mossy green eyes and dark, silken straight hair falling to his shoulders. There was something odd about him today, something familiar she had never sensed in him before…

“Good day, Count Ermano,” she called, giving a tiny curtsy of acknowledgement.

“Indeed, it is a good day, now that I have seen you, Signora Bassano,” he answered. His words and demeanour were all that was courtly and correct, yet a mocking note lurked in his voice, as it always did. He seemed to sense the disquiet he awakened in her, and revelled in it. “Forgive me for not calling in your shop sooner. I have been visiting my estates on the mainland.”

Ah, so that was it, Julietta thought wryly. And here she had thought her spell of repellence worked. Drat it all. “I trust all is well there.”

“Impeccably so, of course.” The count leaned over the side of the gondola, peering up at her with his bright emerald gaze. “ Signora, would you care to join us for the procession? There is more than enough space for you and your maid.”

Julietta’s chest constricted at the thought of being confined with the Grattianos on that suffocatingly luxurious craft, and she clutched at the pole until splinters pressed into her palm. For an instant, darkness pressed in on the edges of her sight, and she wasn’t sure if she was still standing by the canal or caught in a dream-vision. Surely that was no ordinary gondola, propelled by a mortal boatman, but a craft of Charon, waiting to ferry her to the Underworld.

She heard Bianca gasp, felt the maid clutch again at her sleeve. Those prosaic things brought her back to earth again, and her vision cleared. The count watched her closely, as if to compel her to agree. Such strange eyes he possessed…

“No, I thank you…” she began.

“Ah, Signora Bassano, you cannot refuse me.” The count laid one beringed hand over his heart. “We are a lonely vessel of men, as you see, and ask only to be graced by your lovely presence for a brief while. I can offer you a fine view of the ceremony.”

Before Julietta could answer—could refuse—a great cry went up around them, drowning out whatever Ermano said next. The Doge appeared in his great ceremonial barge called the Buccintoro, gliding into place at the head of the procession. Andrea Gritti, the Doge himself, was resplendent in a robe of cloth-of-gold and ermine, much like Count Ermano’s own colour scheme. As the Buccintoro moved out to the lagoon itself, the other vessels followed. Music grew louder around them, growing to a celebratory denouement; flowers rained down in a shower of colour and scent. And standing just behind the Doge was—No! It could not be.

She peered closer, clinging to the pole, and saw that it was, indeed, Marc Velazquez, clad in rich blue velvet, jewelled cap in hand as he stared out to sea. His thick, dark hair tangled in the breeze, making him look like a pirate even as he stood in the most exalted company. He seemed every inch the dashing hero.

And she had agreed to go to a ball with him tonight! Should she really do such a thing, when she worked so very hard to be as inconspicuous as possible?

You will be masked, her mind whispered insidiously. No one will know it is you. Just look at him. Can you really resist the chance to dance in his arms, just once?

That blighted internal voice! Always tempting her. Yet she did take another glance. He was laughing, his head thrown back in mirthful abandon, strong and dark, a part of the sea and the sun. And she found she could not resist.

Count Ermano and Balthazar also turned to watch the procession, and Julietta took that split-second chance to slip away. Soon—all too soon—she would have to face her unruly passion for Marc Velazquez. But not just yet.

The private sala of the Palazzo Grattiano was echoingly quiet after the jubilant crowds outside, the dim firelight flickering on the white marble floors dour after the flash and colour of the festival. Marc was glad of the quiet, though; he could finally think, finally drop the façade of Great Hero, if only for a moment. And he needed to think. Badly.

He was alone now, as Ermano Grattiano had been detained below with another of the Doge’s counsellors. Marc crossed the room to one of the tall windows looking down on the canal, his boots echoing on that cold, immaculate floor. Heavy, deep-green velvet curtains hung there, blocking out the dying light of day. He parted the fabric, drawing it back to let in a ray of orange-pink sun.

The sala was not very large, as the grand public rooms of the palazzo were. It was not meant for balls or suppers, but for private family meals, quiet conversation. But it was opulent, the walls covered in elaborate tapestries depicting scenes from the life of St Lucy, the furniture carved and gilded, upholstered in pale green brocade. The massive marble fireplace looked like nothing so much as a monumental tomb, supported by straining, Atlaslike figures, surmounted by carved saints and seraphim.

It had been a very long time since Marc had been in this room, longer than he cared to remember. Yet nothing had changed, not an ornament or a cushion, only a few different portraits on one of the walls. It was still the same cold hell.

Marc pushed the curtains back all the way, sending light rushing into the furthest, dimmest corners, and leaned against the marble sill, crossing his arms over his chest. Below him, the canal was thronged with boats full of pleasure-seekers, people masked and flush with laughter and wine and the promise of pleasures that would come with the night. Soon enough, he would be one of them. He would don his cloak and mask, seek out the lovely Julietta Bassano for an evening of music and dance and—well, whatever might come along.

Julietta Bassano. He had thought of her more than he would care to admit in these last days. Her image would appear in his mind when he least expected it, as he dined off gold plates in the company of great families, as he listened to music in grand salas —as he lay in his strange bed at night. He would picture her, tall, fair and dark as the night, serene as the Madonna surmounting this fireplace. Always so quiet, so elegant, always keeping her own counsel.

But the dreams of midnight—ah, they were very different. Only last night he had envisioned her there in his rented chamber, her black hair falling over her shoulders and down her slender back, her austere black-and-white gowns vanished, clad only in a chemise the colour and texture of moonbeams. She leaned over him amid the satin cushions, a tiny half smile on her rose-pink lips. Softly, slowly, her fingertips touched his throat, slid down over his shoulder and bare chest, leaving a ribbon of fire in its wake. She bent forward, her hair brushing silkily against his cheek, and she whispered strange foreign words into his ears.

He had known, even in the dream, that she told him rare and wondrous secrets, secrets that held the key to his deepest desires. Yet he could not concentrate on them, could not remember them. He only knew her touch, her magical touch, only longed to feel the honey of her lips on his, her breasts pressed to his naked chest…