“Ah, that you should speak of heartbreak, when I must watch you marry my friend!” he exclaimed. “If only I had found you first!”
I glanced at Marco, to see what his reaction to this was, but he only laughed, prompting me to do the same. “Such a devoted chevalier!” I said, warming to this game of courtly love. “I shall remember your broken heart in my prayers, signore.”
He took my hand and kissed it, his lips lingering longer than was proper. I felt myself flush; and who could blame me, when Giuliano was so very handsome? “May the Lord take pity on me,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear, and there was something very different about his tone this time.
Fortunately, though, our carriage came around, and Giuliano released me. Marco helped me in before climbing in beside me, followed by Chiara, who had been summoned from the kitchens. Then, with a flick of the reins, we were away, and the grand Medici palazzo faded into the night behind us.
*
“How did I do?” I asked Marco, a bit breathlessly, as the carriage bore us home.
He smiled broadly. “You were marvelous, amore mio. Better than even I had imagined. They were all enchanted with you, and rightfully so.” He shook his head. “That Lorenzo de’ Medici and Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni should offer to host our wedding … I had never dreamed of such an honor.”
“Nor I,” I said. “Are they always so generous, these Medici?”
“With those they consider their friends, yes,” Marco answered. “And we are blessed that they should consider us so.” He smiled at me again, pride in every curve of his lips, his eyes. “You were wonderful, Simonetta,” he said again. “Truly.” Yet, as he sat back against the cushioned seat of the carriage, a subtle frown creased his forehead.
I thought to ignore it, but when his expression had not changed after a moment, I spoke. “What is it, Marco?” I asked softly. “You look as if something is amiss.”
He glanced up at me, and his expression cleared like clouds fleeing before the sun. “It is nothing,” he said. “Only…”
“Yes?” I prompted eagerly. If we were to be husband and wife, then we must learn to confide in each other. I hoped that soon Marco would do so without hesitation. Suddenly dread slid down the walls of my stomach; perhaps something about my conduct gave him pause? Perhaps I did something foolish, or inappropriate, and have embarrassed him. Perhaps he was even then trying to find the words to reprimand me, as he had every right to do as my future husband.
But when Marco spoke, his words were not what I had expected. “Lorenzo introduced you to that painter, I believe, si? What was his name? The blond one?”
“Sandro Botticelli,” I supplied.
“Yes,” he said, and that troubled look returned. “Perhaps I should not speak of it, but…” he glanced up at me. “I do not suppose that you noticed, but I should say that I did. He was staring at you for much of the meal, quite blatantly so. It was inappropriate and rude. I should have thought that anyone enjoying the patronage of the Medici family would know to behave better.”
“I am used to such attention from men,” I said, uncomfortable, as though I myself had done something wrong. I curled my fingers tightly around the book that sat in my lap, picking at the leather binding. “It may trouble you, and rightfully so, but I fear it will not cease.” I smiled. “Not until I am old and wrinkled and all my hair is gray, in any case.”
Marco smiled at this, and leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Even in your old age, you will still be the most beautiful of women,” he said. “But … no. This attention was something quite different, I think—quite different from even the attention paid you by Lorenzo and Giuliano.”
I wondered, fleetingly, if he had noticed the obvious appreciation with which both Medici brothers had regarded me, and how it made him feel. Perhaps he felt that, as his social betters, they had the right to look on his future wife in any way they chose, and there was nothing he could say to censure them.
The painter Botticelli was not Marco’s social superior—quite the reverse. Yet I knew precisely what he meant when he spoke of the painter’s gaze upon me, for I had felt the same way myself, upon noticing him observing me. His was a different sort of regard altogether; yet I could not confess to Marco that I had noticed. Nor could I confess that I had been deeply flattered, having fancied myself his next Judith in one of his paintings, perhaps. “Lorenzo had shown me some of his work, and so introduced me to the painter when he arrived,” I said. “He—Signor Botticelli, that is—said he wishes to paint me. Perhaps that was why he studied me so closely.”
“Oh, he does, does he?”
“Yes, I believe so,” I said.
“Hmph.” Marco sat back again and crossed his arms over his chest, like a petulant boy. “Even worse. That he should speak to you of such a thing before getting permission from me, your future husband.”
“I did not agree, nor make any promises as to my cooperation,” I hurriedly assured him. “Though I was indeed flattered by his suggestion that I am fit to sit for him.”
“Hmph,” Marco huffed again. “He will never have had such a subject as you, I should think.” But he had begun to smile a bit. “If you wish to have your portrait painted, you need only ask. Florence is full of artists who will be falling all over themselves to paint you.”
*
I did not agree, nor make any promises as to my cooperation, I had said to Marco. But, later that night, I remembered that strange intimate look that had passed between the painter and myself, that odd and unbidden moment of accord, and knew that my words had not been quite true.
9
The next afternoon—after I had already described every detail of the previous evening to my mother over breakfast—one of the servants came into the sitting room with a message. “A caller here for you, Madonna,” he said.
“Indeed?” my mother said. “Who could it be? I have yet to make any acquaintances in Florence—other than dear Marco’s parents, of course—”
“Not for you, Madonna Cattaneo,” the man said. He turned to me and inclined his head. “For Madonna Simonetta.”
“For me?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes. Clarice Orsini de’ Medici.”
“My word!” my mother tittered. “Such an illustrious guest! And you only made her acquaintance last night!”
“Indeed,” I said. “She did express her desire to call on me, though I had no idea it would be so soon.” I summoned my dignified, sophisticated persona again, and wrapped it about me like a heavy, fur-lined mantle. “Do show her in without delay.”
The man bowed his head again. “Very good, Madonna Simonetta.”
He disappeared, and reappeared again a few moments later, bowing as the slight figure of Clarice entered the room.
I rose from my chair, and my mother did the same. “Signora Medici,” I said, coming to meet her. “You honor me with your visit.”