“I believe that God smiles on the wife who gives her husband a happy marriage bed,” I said. I leaned over him, my hair falling around both of us, and kissed him.
“Then God shall smile upon you more than any woman, I should think,” he said. “You are delicious, Simonetta.” He grinned at me. “And I trust that my wife is happy in her marriage bed as well?” he asked, wrapping his arms around me so that I lay partially atop his bare chest.
“I am,” I said. I giggled foolishly; I could not help it. “Perhaps…”
He eyed me. “Yes?”
“Perhaps we might make each other happy again soon?” I reached between his legs and hesitantly caressed him.
“You have cast a spell on me, wife,” he said. He rolled me over onto my back in one motion, causing me to squeal with delight.
*
Once my illness was behind us, we spent an idyllic honeymoon period together. My parents took their leave of us once I was well again, and returned to Genoa. I had thought I would miss them terribly, yet I had other things to distract me. For a week, neither of us left the palazzo if we did not have to; we dined alone, retired early, and lingered in bed long into the morning. I began to learn that the joys of the marriage bed extended beyond that first wonderful night we had spent together, and I was eager to discover them all, as well as find new ways that I might please my husband. Sometimes, after we had made love, I would reach for the book of poetry Lorenzo had given us—which I had taken to keeping on our bedside table, in lieu of a Bible—and read my favorite verses aloud, Marco’s head leaning contentedly against my shoulder. Every so often, he would ask me to go back and repeat a line that had particularly struck him, and we would say it over and over together until we both had it memorized.
Married life, so far, was suiting me quite well.
One morning I lingered in bed after Marco had risen. I knew my deliberate laziness could not last much longer, but the Florentine summer dragged on so hot and oppressive, and I was finding I much preferred to remain in bed wearing nothing at all.
Yet soon Marco came back in, still only partially dressed. “A messenger has come,” he said, showing me a bit of parchment. “One of the servants brought this up. We are invited to dine at the Medici palazzo tomorrow evening.”
“Oh, how lovely,” I said. “It will be nice to see our friends again.” I giggled. “They will think us quite rude indeed, to have ignored them for so long.”
“We are newlyweds, wife,” Marco said, his eyes devouring me. “It is to be expected that we ignore the world for a time.”
“I am sure they shall forgive us, then.”
*
The following day, I bathed in preparation for dinner that evening. Chiara dressed me and pinned up my hair, ensuring that I looked my best. Yet I was much more relaxed this time; I had already been judged by the Medici and their circle and not been found wanting, and I thought of them—especially Clarice—as my friends.
Marco and I arrived at the Medici palazzo at the appointed time, and were shown to the garden again.
“Ah, there are the newlyweds!” Lorenzo cried. “I am surprised we managed to rouse you from your lovers’ nest! I knew that nothing short of a direct invitation would suffice to return you to your friends’ company again.” He came to greet us, clapping Marco on the back, and kissing my hand. “But who can blame you, Marco, to stay shut away from the world with such a bride,” he said, though his eyes were on me. “You look as beautiful as ever, Madonna Simonetta—more so, even. I daresay that marriage agrees with you.”
I did my best not to blush. “I believe that it does, my good signore.”
“Do not tell my brother that,” Lorenzo said in a stage whisper. “He has been most eager to see you pale and wasting, that he might steal you from your ungrateful husband.”
“Alas!” Giuliano said, coming to greet us. “I shall never forgive my friend Marco for treating you so well!” He swept me a deep bow. “You break my heart again by being so happy in your marriage, mia bella Simonetta.”
I laughed. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Signor Giuliano, for you are a most devoted chevalier,” I said. My newfound happiness with my life and my husband had given me a confidence I did not have before, a confidence that I could play this game. “But my lord and husband is a most worthy man, I find, and so you have a long, hard road before you, indeed, if you seek to steal me away from him.”
The assembled company laughed, and I knew from the quick look of approval from Marco that I had done well, and was playing the game just as it was supposed to be played.
“You perhaps remember my friend Tomaso Soderini?” Lorenzo said, indicating a slightly portly man who looked to be in his thirties, who bowed to me with his hand over his heart. “He was a guest at your wedding, and is another great lover of the arts.”
I smiled at the man. “You’ll have to forgive me, signore. My wedding was a most overwhelming day.”
“No apologies needed, Madonna Vespucci,” he said, taking my hand and kissing it. “I am merely delighted to renew our acquaintance.”
Lorenzo nodded at the artist to whom Signor Soderini had been speaking. “And Signor Botticelli, of course.”
I straightened immediately at the sight of the handsome blond painter. “Of course. A true pleasure to see you again, signore.”
The painter bowed and kissed my hand, but before I could indulge in discourse with him as I longed to, Lorenzo had steered me away again.
“Some dear friends of mine whom you perhaps do not know—may I present Niccolo Ardenghelli and his wife, the lovely Lucrezia Donati Ardenghelli. Amici, this is Signora Simonetta Vespucci, of whom you have heard me speak, and her husband, Marco.”
“Why, Lucrezia Donati,” Marco said. “Excuse me, Signora Ardenghelli. It has been some time since I have seen you!”
“It has, indeed,” murmured the dark-haired beauty in a low, throaty voice, extending her hand for Marco to kiss. “Both of us married and respectable now, I see.”
My stomach curdled as I watched Marco converse animatedly with this Lucrezia and her husband. Who was this woman, with her flashing dark eyes and seductive voice, to speak in so familiar a manner to my husband?
“Lucrezia has been a friend of my brother’s and mine since we were children,” Lorenzo explained for my benefit, as Marco continued speaking to the pair. “As such Marco has known her for some time as well.”
“Indeed,” was all I could manage to say. I glared at this Lucrezia. She was beautiful, that much was certain. Did Marco prefer her darkness to my pale skin and blond hair? Did he think she was beautiful? As beautiful as me?
Suddenly I realized what this feeling must be. Jealousy. I was jealous. Long had I been the target of such an emotion, but never before had I experienced it myself.
It was dreadful.