Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

This surprised me. My husband-to-be was supposedly a staunch piagnone, yet he had just presented me with a design of the latest Spanish fashion, fresh from the decadent Borgia papal court.

Sitting on my other side, Francesco laid a bundle of fabric swatches on the table. On the top of the pile lay a gleaming silvery damask and a gossamer red and yellow cangiante, “with, if you like, garnets and pearls for the headdress.”

None of the colors or gems suited me. “Ah!” he said. “She is reticent! This will never do, then.” And he folded the cloth and immediately set it aside.

This irritated his father. “It is not hers to choose.”

“Father,” Caterina said sharply. “Francesco is here to listen to everyone’s opinion.”

Giovanna spoke up. “Something fresh, like spring blossom, or the delicate flowers of early summer?” she said. “Pinks and whites. Velvets and satin, with seed pearls.”

“She has olive skin,” Caterina countered. “Pale pinks will make her look sallow.”

My father took my hand beneath the table and squeezed it. He behaved now toward Francesco with the same odd reserve he had shown Pico after my mother had died. “The design is lovely,” he said. “I know that Lisa likes it, too. Over the years, I have noticed that the colors that flatter her most are blues and greens and purples, the more vibrant, the better. And sapphires…” His voice faltered only a moment, then regained its strength. “Sapphires were her mother’s favorite, and hers. They suit her. And diamonds.”

“Thank you,” Francesco said. “Thank you, Ser Antonio. Then Lisa must have sapphires and diamonds. And deep, rich blues to go with them, with perhaps a touch of purple.”

“You need not please her,” Ser Massimo huffed, and would have said more, but his son silenced him with a finger.

“I need not, but I will,” Francesco replied firmly. “I had only hoped for a modest bride, with a fair enough face. But I had never dared hope to win one both modest and brilliantly beautiful. Any woman so lovely must feel lovely in her wedding dress. I owe her no less.”

I stared down at the table; perhaps others judged this response as demure.

“A pretty speech,” his sister Caterina said. Only in retrospect did I hear the faint sarcasm in her tone.

“You are so lucky, Lisa!” Giovanna Maria exclaimed, with a pointed look at her husband Lauro. “So lucky to have a man who flatters you so, who cares for your opinion.”

The event was agonizing, but at last it ended, and only my father and Francesco remained at the table, which held only the candelabrum and our goblets. The time to begin my deception was fast arriving. I raised my goblet to my lips, then set it down quickly when I noticed the trembling of my hand.

My father and Francesco were speaking quietly, leaning forward on either side of me, so that I was less of a barrier. Francesco had his sketch spread before him and was pointing to the gown’s skirt. “Not so heavy a fabric, I think now,” he said. The general consensus had been velvet for the skirt-but on reflection, Francesco decided the choice had been prompted by the fact that this particular December night was exceptionally cold. “June can be warm. Lisa, what do you think?”

My voice sounded astonishingly cool to my ears. “I think,” I said, “that my father is tired and should retire for the evening.”

“Lisa,” my father admonished mildly. “Ser Francesco is still discussing the gown. And he has a right to enjoy his wine.”

“I agree. He should continue to enjoy his wine. And you should retire.”

Francesco turned his face sharply toward me and lifted a black brow.

My father blinked and drew in a soft breath. For a moment he studied me intently. “I… am tired,” he said at last. The statement was altogether believable. He sat with his arms folded on the table, his elbows bracing him as he slumped forward beneath an invisible weight. The firelight caught the gold in his hair, but there was now silver there, too. His gaze guarded secrets; I knew one of them.

He stood up and put a hand on Francesco’s shoulder. “God be with you.” He uttered the words like a warning. Then he leaned down and kissed my cheek sadly.

I gripped the stem of my goblet and listened to his steps as he left the room, crossed the great hall, and ascended the stairs.

The sound had not yet faded when Francesco spoke. “I brought a gift for you.” His hand worked its way beneath the pile of fabrics and drew out a small square of red satin, tied with ribbon. “Would you like to see it?”

I nodded. I expected him to pass it to me, to let me open it, but instead he pulled the ribbon and drew out something bright from the shining satin.

Francesco’s eyes were shining, too, with a light intense and strange. He held my gift up to the glowing candles: an emerald pendant. The chain rested over the fingers of his upturned hand as the gem revolved slowly, the gold glittering. His eyes were tensed, his lips parted. “You were so eager to have your father leave. Was there a reason you wanted to be alone with me?”

“Perhaps there was.” I kept my voice soft; he might have thought it intentionally alluring, but had I spoken louder, it would have shook. I ventured a small smile to keep my lip from curling.

“Were you ever with him?” Francesco asked. His gaze pierced me. “Your father said you were there less than a day.”

I stared down at my goblet and shook my head. It was the first of many bold lies.

My answer pleased and excited him. “Look up at me,” he said; he dangled the jewel in front of me. “Do you want it?”

“What?”

“The necklace.” He leaned forward, his breath upon my face; his voice grew hard, flat, dangerous. “Tell me you want it.”

My mouth fell open. I stammered. “I… I want it.”

“What will you do for it?” The words lashed like a whip.

I submerged my anger and stared at him. I thought, I will get up and tell you to leave. I will call for the servants. I will tell you never to set foot in this house again. I thought, If I disappoint him, he will leave, and the world will know I carry Giuliano’s child. If I disappoint him, he will turn my father back over to the Signoria for questioning.

“Anything you wish,” I whispered.

“Say it louder. Like you mean it. Look me in the eye.”

I looked him in the eye. I repeated the words.

He rose quickly, went to the doors, and pulled them shut. In another few strides, he stood next to me and pulled my chair away from the table with a sharp movement. Then he moved in front of me and bent over to swing the necklace in front of me.

He was on fire, his chest heaving, his eyes bright and feral. “On your knees,” he said. “Beg for it.”

I burned with hate. I looked down at the floor and considered what I was willing to do to protect Giuliano’s child. Our child. What I was willing to do to protect my father. I slid from the chair onto my knees.

“Give it to me. Please.”

“So.” He was flushed, trembling, exhilarated. “This is your price, then. This is your price.” He tossed the necklace aside carelessly; it landed on the carpet in front of the hearth.

He yanked me to my feet. I expected him to kiss me, but he wanted nothing to do with my face. He set me upon the dining table and swept away the goblets. One fell and shattered on the stone floor.

He pushed me down against the hard oak; my legs hung down and the toes of my slippers brushed against the floor. Instinctively, I pressed my palms to my thighs, holding down my skirts, but he moved between my legs and pulled the fabric up with such force that my camicia, of fine French lawn, ripped with a stark sound.