Until You

mornings after the duke’s fete, they rode their horses to the villa where the Venetian artist was now residing. Rosamund left the earl and entered the artist’s villa, where she was met by a servingman.

“Tell the maestro that Lady Rosamund Bolton is here to visit his studio as agreed,” she said.

The servant bowed and hurried off. He returned a few moments later, bowing and saying, “If the Madonna would follow me, I shall take her to the maestro.” He led her into a large light-filled room where Paolo Loredano was even now painting a landscape of the scene outside his windows. He was wearing dark breeches and hose, and when he turned to greet her, she saw that his linen shirt was open, revealing his chest. He was, she had to admit to herself, very virile in appearance.

“Madonna!” He greeted her effusively, throwing down his paintbrush to take her two hands up in his and kiss them. “You have come at last!”

“Good morning, maestro,” she replied, pulling her hands free. “So this is an artist’s studio. How can it be so cluttered, and you here barely a week?” Rosamund laughed as she looked around.

“I know exactly where everything is,” he assured her. “Carlo, biscotti and vino at once!” Then, grasping a single hand, he led her to a large high-backed chair. “Sit down, Madonna! I shall begin my sketch now.”

Rosamund retrieved her hand a second time. “But I have not said I should pose for you, maestro. Tell me, has the baroness been here yet?”

He laughed. “Are you jealous, Madonna?” he taunted her.

“Nay, maestro, for I have no need. I was merely curious,” Rosamund said.

“You will break my heart, Madonna! I sense it. I am very intuitive,” he cried dramatically.

Now it was Rosamund who laughed. “I do believe that you are a complete fraud, maestro,” she teased him.

“Have you come to torture me, Madonna?” he asked her.

“I have come to see your studio and to see if I should enjoy posing for you,” she told him.

“And what have you decided?” he queried her. “Ah, here is Carlo again. Put the tray down and get out,” he instructed his servant in their native tongue. “How can I proceed with my seduction if you are lingering about?”

“Sм, maestro,” Carlo answered his master with a toothy grin, and he departed the studio.

“What did you say to him?” Rosamund inquired. “I am just learning your tongue.”

“I told him to leave us so I could make love to you,” Paolo Loredano said boldly, and drawing Rosamund up from her chair, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately even while his hand was plunging into her bodice to fondle her breast.

“Maestro!” she shrieked, yanking his hand from her gown. “You are far too bold, and if you think to have a commission from the Earl of Glenkirk, you must behave!”

“I must have you!” he groaned, lunging at her again.

Rosamund dodged his advance and slapped his face as hard as she could. “How dare you behave in such a dishonorable manner, maestro!”

“Your lips are like the sweetest honey, and your skin is silken to my touch. How can you deny me? How can you deny yourself? I am considered an incomparable lover, Madonna. And your earl is hardly a young man.” He rubbed his cheek.

“Nay, he is not a young man, but neither is he an old one. And as for his skills in bed sport, he is vigorous, tender, and passionate,” Rosamund said. “Now, pour us some of that lovely San Lorenzan wine, maestro. I will forgive your breach of good manners, and you will promise me it will not happen again.”

“I cannot,” he said, handing her a goblet of wine. “But I will hold my passions in check for now, Madonna.” He offered her a biscuit.

“Are all artists mad?” she asked him, nibbling at the biscuit and sipping her wine.

“Only the great ones,” he assured her with a grin.

“I like the landscape you are doing of the harbor,” she said, getting up and going over to the large canvas upon which he was working. “You have caught it exactly, and I can almost smell the sea looking at it.” She eyed him warily as he set down his goblet.

“I have something to show you, Madonna,” he told her, and he drew forth from a table several sketches and handed them to her.

She took them and began to peruse them, her eyes widening with surprise and shock. She stared at him questioningly.

Paolo Loredano grinned audaciously at her, and taking her by the hand, led her out onto his terrace. “I have,” he said, “a most excellent view from here. I saw you bathing the afternoon that I arrived in Arcobaleno. I have sketched you several times since, Madonna. You have a beautiful body, which is why I would portray you as the goddess of love. Your breasts, in particular, are very fine.”

“I thought you found the baroness’ bosom most excellent,” Rosamund answered him. She was shocked by the charcoal sketches of her nudity that he had so accurately captured. She felt it a terrible invasion of her privacy.

“The baroness’ bosom is quite excellent for a woman of her years, but yours!” He kissed his fingertips enthusiastically. “Magnifico!” he said.

“My lord Leslie will not be pleased, maestro,” Rosamund responded.

In reply, he handed her another small sheaf of sketches. They were of Patrick and also of the two of them together.

Rosamund gasped audibly. “You are much too bold, maestro. You had no right to trespass upon those moments privy to only us. My lord will not be happy by what you have done, I fear.”

“But he will manage somehow to overcome his aversion to my behavior, for he must treat with me, as I represent Venice.”

“I do not understand you, maestro,” Rosamund said, but she did. Patrick had been correct. This artist spoke for the doge. Still, she put on a face of confusion.

He reached out and ran a single finger down her cheek to her jaw. “Mayhap you do not. I know if I were your lover I should discuss naught with you but the ways in which we might please each other. But I do not like seeing you distressed, Madonna.” The artist handed her the group of sketches. “Keep them as a memento of your visit to San Lorenzo, or destroy them if they embarrass you.”

“I could not destroy your work, maestro. It would be a sacrilege, for your art is wonderful. I shall, however, keep them well hidden from my impressionable daughters,” she told him.

“You have bambini?” he exclaimed. “Aye, your body has that lushness, yet it has not been spoiled by your birthings. How many?”

“Three,” Rosamund answered him.

“Are they Lord Leslie’s?” he questioned her.

“They are the children of my late husband,” Rosamund answered him, smiling. “Do you have children, maestro?”

“At least fifteen that I know of,” he said casually. “Sometimes the ladies are not certain, or they are angry at me and do not want me to know, or in some cases they do not want their husbands to know. I have ten sons, but none of them shows a talent for painting, to my sorrow. I have one daughter, however, who could one day be famous, were it not for her sex. A woman in Venice may become a shopkeeper, a courtesan, a nun, or a wife, but never an artist.”

“How unfortunate, particularly if your daughter is talented, and you obviously think she is,” Rosamund responded.

There was a discreet knock upon the door to the studio, and it opened to reveal the artist’s servant, Carlo. “Maestro,” he said. “The lord Leslie is here now to see you.”

“Send him in!” the artist said.

“You will want to speak with Lord Leslie alone,” Rosamund said quietly, gathering up the sheaf of sketches. “I will leave you.”

“So you do know,” he said with an amused smile.

“I know nothing, maestro. You must remember that I am English and Patrick Leslie is a Scot. It is better this way.” She moved gracefully past him, smiling as her lover entered the room. “I will await you outside, my lord,” she told him, and was gone.