Yet I began to feel afraid again. My mother had told me I must think only of my husband’s pleasure. But how would I know how to see to such a thing? I glanced at Clarice again. “But … what must I do? What if I cannot … make him happy?”
Clarice laughed, then quickly looked contrite. “I am sorry, Simonetta. I do not mean to laugh. But trust me, you need not do much of anything at all to ensure his pleasure. Especially not you, beautiful as you are.”
“What are two such lovely ladies whispering about so intently?” Lorenzo interrupted, and we glanced up to see both of our husbands—yes, I had a husband now—looking at us curiously.
Clarice laughed in her throat, a low, alluring sound I had not heard from her before. “Just the idle talk of married women,” she said, winking at me. “Nothing you illustrious men need concern yourselves with.”
“Indeed,” Lorenzo said, and I saw the look he and his wife exchanged. I knew their marriage was a political one, and I had not wanted to ask Clarice whether love had grown between them as well. In public they were fastidious and proper, as befit their station. Yet here was the first time I had seen a glimmer of something more.
We arrived at the villa before too long, and with my mind whirring I scarcely took in the picturesque setting, the charming buildings set against the lush Tuscan hills. Servants came out to greet us and to show Marco and me to the chamber that had been prepared for our wedding night. Our own servants followed us in from the cart where they had been riding, along with the light baggage we had brought with us: a few personal items and changes of clothes for our trip back to the city the following day. They brought these things into the chamber and then left us alone.
Marco turned to me, taking my hands in his. “Alone at last, as husband and wife.”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“It would not do to not appear at our own wedding feast, especially one that has been so generously provided for us by our friends,” he said, his voice low. He stepped closer and stroked my cheek, his fingers trailing down my neck. “But by God, Simonetta, I am tempted to consummate our marriage this very moment.”
My heart pounded faster, though from fear or excitement, I could not tell. “As you said, it would hardly be right,” I murmured, glancing up at him.
He groaned. “Do not look at me that way. My resolve is tested enough as it is.” Quickly, he leaned down and kissed me, gently but insistently, his tongue slipping into my mouth.
I gasped in surprise, but my mouth opened beneath his and I began, tentatively, to respond. Marco groaned against my mouth and pulled me tightly against him. As the kiss went on, he took my hand and placed it on the hardness beneath his hose.
Startled, I quickly drew back, only to regret it as I saw the shock and disappointment on Marco’s face. “I am sorry,” I said quickly. “I just—this is—should we not…”
Marco took a deep breath. “You are quite right. As I said, it would not do to be late to our wedding feast.…” he trailed off, regarding me in silence for a moment. “Do you fear me, Simonetta?”
“Fear you? No, of course not,” I assured him. “It is just that … I am not sure how … that is, I…” I trailed off, sounding a very fool even to my own ears. What did I even mean to say? I was not sure; I did not know how to explain to Marco, a man, all the ways in which a woman’s value was tied to what was between her legs, when I was only beginning to understand it myself. When I knew barely what was expected of me in the physical sense, and nothing beyond that.
Why was there no book that spoke of such things?
I felt my love for him grow a bit more when he smiled at me then. “I understand,” he said. “At least, I think I do.” He stepped closer to me again, this time kissing me chastely on the forehead. “As difficult as it is, I shall wait until tonight, so that our first bedding might be a proper one. And please, Simonetta,” he said, his expression growing serious, “do not be afraid of me, or of what will take place between us as husband and wife. I will be gentle, I promise. I want only to make you happy.”
Relieved, I smiled up at him and let him lead me from the room and down to the hall where the banquet was being laid out and our guests were assembling.
*
Downstairs, Marco and I greeted our guests, starting of course with our hosts, Lorenzo and Clarice, followed by Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni.
Giuliano came behind his mother. “Ah!” he said as he approached, his hands over his heart. “Your beauty, Signora Vespucci, serves only to accentuate that this is the unhappiest day of my life. Perish the thought that a man must see his lady love wed to another!”
I laughed, uncertain how else to react to such a speech—especially since Marco seemed amused, nothing more. I remember Clarice’s words when she had brought me Giuliano’s love note, that this was all a game in which I was both player and prize. “You are a most devoted cavalier, Signor Giuliano.”
He closed his eyes as though in ecstasy. “Such kind words from my goddess will sustain me better than all the food of this magnificent feast.”
Marco clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Away with you,” he said. “Go drown your sorrows in wine.”
“So I shall,” Giuliano said dramatically, “that I may fall into a drunken slumber and dream of my dear Simonetta’s lips.”
“He is almost too ridiculous, is he not?” I asked Marco, who only chuckled in reply as the next person in line stepped forward.
The overwhelming majority of the guests were not known to me, so I did my best to smile pleasantly at each person presented to me, accepting their compliments on my gown and hair, on my beauty and grace, with what I hoped was an easy and gracious charm.
“I shall never remember all of these people,” I murmured to Marco during a pause. “I barely remember everyone Lorenzo introduced me to when we dined with him!”
Marco smiled. “Do not worry your pretty head about that, darling. They are all so awed by you, and thrilled simply to have a word or two from you. They should all die of delight were you to remember their names as well, and it would never do for you to slay our wedding guests.”
I laughed at this, but Marco was only partially correct, I noticed. The men appeared quite thrilled to make my acquaintance, true, but the women—their wives—seemed, for the most part, cool and suspicious.
To my surprise, at the end of the long line of guests was Signor Botticelli.
“Ah,” Marco said, when he spotted him. I felt his body grow slightly tense beside me. “Signor … Botticelli, was it not?”
He bowed to the two of us. “Indeed, Signor Vespucci. An honor that you should remember me.”
It was just what he was required to say, but I was surprised by the lack of feeling and sincerity behind it. It was obvious enough to Marco as well, for he only nodded tightly in acknowledgment.
“Ah, Sandro,” Lorenzo de’ Medici said, turning back to us from where he had been talking with some friends. “Signor and Signora Vespucci, you remember Sandro Botticelli, do you not? He is here at my invitation.”
“Indeed,” Marco said, a barely discernible edge to his voice.