“I remember you well, signore,” I said, smiling.
“Since meeting you, Signora Vespucci, Sandro has spoken of little else, not in my hearing, anyway,” Lorenzo said. “He wishes to paint you, as I believe he mentioned when you were introduced, and I confess I invited him in the hope that you might favor him with a commission. For what better inspiration could an artist have than this most beautiful of brides on her wedding day?”
“Indeed,” Marco said again. “Well, then we must follow your advice, Lorenzo, for if you recommend him, then he must be an artist of the utmost skill.” If anyone but me noted the lack of enthusiasm in Marco’s voice, no one remarked upon it. Still, I felt a thrill at his agreement that this talented man might paint me.
“I should be honored if such a distinguished gentleman as yourself found me so,” Botticelli said.
“So it is your art that brings you here, Signor Botticelli,” I said.
“Indeed. It is my art that brings me most places,” he said, and a hint of a smile appeared on his handsome face. “But I do want to take this opportunity to wish both of you much joy and happiness in your marriage.”
“We thank you, signore,” Marco said. “Now I pray you enjoy the feast, and we shall perhaps talk in more detail about your proposed portrait of Signora Vespucci at a later date.”
Thus dismissed, Botticelli bowed and left us to find his seat.
I turned to Marco, excited. “Will we truly have him paint me?” Botticelli’s painting of Judith lingered in my mind’s eye, and I felt that same surge of longing, of curiosity, to see how he might portray me. To see how he saw me, in ways that perhaps I had never seen myself.
Marco’s face relaxed into a smile. “When you look at me so, I think I will give you anything you ask for,” he said. “Yes, if you wish it, we can have this Signor Botticelli paint your portrait. It would no doubt please Lorenzo, as well.”
Having thus exchanged a word with all our guests, we were shown to our place of honor at the head table with our hosts. Servants brought in the first course of what would be many: some greens and the rather bland Tuscan bread.
I was engaged in conversation by Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni, who was seated on my left, and who had heard that I enjoyed reading. I spent the first two courses happily chatting about books with her, and came away with a mental list of new titles that I was eager to read—all of which, she assured me, could be found in the library at the Medici palazzo. She told me that she would be presenting a volume of her own verse to me and Marco as a wedding gift, one I told her I was most honored and excited to receive.
As the main course—a tender and flavorful beef—was served, Marco claimed my attention again. “Are you enjoying our wedding feast, wife?” he asked.
Wife. The word startled me, in a way I had not been startled even when Lorenzo had addressed me by my new surname. I was Marco’s wife, and he was my husband. “I am, husband,” I said, testing out the word. “Everything has been as wonderful as I could have wanted.”
He grinned at me, waving over a servant to refill my glass of Sangiovese. “Good,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed me quickly on the lips, as if he could not restrain himself. I blushed as some of the guests noticed and let out bawdy whoops and whistles.
“I could not resist,” he said, voice low, his head inclined toward mine. “And, as you are now my wife, I need not resist ever again.” He kissed me once more, then leaned back.
My entire body seemed warm, flushed; and I felt as though I were short of breath. To be so unequivocally, unabashedly adored—why, it felt like more than I deserved. As if sensing my thoughts, Marco took my hand beneath the table and squeezed it, then began gently caressing my fingers with his.
As the pastries and dessert wine were served, Lorenzo rose from his seat. “I would like to sincerely welcome all of you to our villa, and to say thank you for attending the marriage feast of two dear friends of mine and of the Medici family.” He indicated Marco and I, seated beside him, and the crowd applauded us. “It is an honor to host the nuptials of such a beautiful and happy young couple, who will no doubt do much to enhance this Florence of ours with their joy and intelligence. I wish them nothing but the most sublime wedded bliss.” The guests cheered again. “There shall be music commencing shortly,” he finished, “and if you have not yet personally extended your congratulations to the bride and groom, I pray you do so at once, as no doubt they will be retiring soon—and I am sure no one can blame the groom for wishing to take such a beautiful bride to bed without delay.”
Everyone laughed and cheered at his words, and I felt myself blushing again. We rose from our seats, and the guests followed us into the next room, where musicians were assembled and began playing. I danced first with Marco, of course, then with Lorenzo, then with Giuliano, who whispered in my ear that I must let him take me away before my husband could claim me as his own. I laughed through my discomfort at his words, teasing him that though his offer was most tempting, I must decline. Botticelli, too, caught my eye more than once, and I glowed, knowing he would paint me soon.
Marco and I were pulled into conversation with a few more guests, whose names I still could not recall even upon being told a second time. I began to feel weary: weary of everyone’s eyes upon me, of dancing, of standing, of being charming, of fearing what would happen once Marco and I were alone.
As the couple to whom we had been speaking wandered away, Marco turned to look down at me. “What do you say, my darling?” he asked. “Shall we retire?”
My heartbeat tripled. “As you wish, husband.”
He took my hand again and tucked it into his arm. He led me across the room to the doorway and, as our guests noticed our direction, they began applauding, whistling, and calling out bits of rather explicit advice. I tried to smile, tried to laugh, take joy in their merriment, and judging by Marco’s approving glance, I succeeded.
I caught Clarice’s eye as we left the room, and only just remembered that she and I had scarcely been able to speak since arriving at the villa. She gave me a big smile and nodded encouragingly.
We left the noisy, crowded room behind us and climbed the stairs to our suite of rooms on the third floor. Marco left me at the door to my dressing room before moving on to his. “I shall see you in a few minutes,” he said softly.
I nodded, suddenly almost too embarrassed to look at him, and stepped into my dressing room. Chiara immediately rose from her mending upon seeing me. “Madonna,” she said, curtseying briefly. She stepped toward me and began unpinning my hair. I sighed with relief as the heavy pins and strands of pearls were removed. With my hair loose, Chiara unlaced my gown and helped me step out of it and my underdress, carefully folding them to be put away. Now wearing only my shift, I shivered.