The artist shook his head regretfully. “I cannot,” he said with a sigh. “Alas, my lord, my cock more often than not overrules my head.”
Patrick chuckled. “I was the same in my youth,” he admitted. “But I love this woman as I have never loved another. Insult her, and you insult me.”
“I understand, my lord, and I promise to try to behave, but I cannot guarantee it. Besides, the ladies have a tendency, indeed a weakness, where I am concerned. It is often not my fault. They seduce me,” the artist said with an infectious grin.
“But Rosamund will not seduce you,” the earl replied. “That much I can guarantee you. And if you make an attempt on her honor, she will probably retaliate in a manner not to your liking.” The earl rose from his seat. “Now, let me see what you have done so far,” he said, walking over to where the easel was set up. He looked, his eyes widening. “You are amazing, maestro,” he complimented the artist. “Your skin tones are incredible! I can almost feel the softness of her beneath my fingertips.”
“What is it that you possess, my lord, that has drawn this woman to you?” the artist asked the earl frankly. He understood that but for Rosamund he and Patrick Leslie might be friends.
“I am as surprised by my good fortune as you are, maestro,” the earl answered honestly. “All I can tell you is that our eyes met, and we both knew.”
“Knew what?” Paolo Loredano was puzzled.
“Knew that we were meant to be together,” came the intriguing reply.
“Yet you do not marry,” the Venetian remarked.
“That is not meant to be. Our love, yes. But naught else. We have both understood that from the beginning,” the earl explained.
The artist nodded slowly, finally understanding.
“We are grateful for the time we are given, maestro. Surely you understand that nothing in our lives is permanent. Everything is in a continuous flux around us,” Patrick said quietly.
“But to have no hope!” the artist cried dramatically.
The Earl of Glenkirk laughed. “But we do have hope, maestro. We hope that each day of bliss we share together will lead to another. All things eventually come to an end. Most people refuse to accept that truth. Rosamund and I do. We may be together for years. We may not. When the time comes that we must be separated, we will part reluctantly, sadly, but we will be happy for what we have had together and for the memories we will both always carry with us no matter where our paths in life take us.”
The artist sighed gustily. “You are a braver and nobler man than I, my lord. I could not accept the knowledge so sanguinely as you have. But that said, be warned I shall continue my attempts to seduce the
“You will undoubtedly come to a bad end, maestro, killed by an outraged father or husband,” the earl chuckled. “I bid you good day, then.” And he ushered the artist from the terrace, through the dayroom, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard. “When will you begin my portrait?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” the artist answered him. “I shall paint the beautiful lady early, and you afterwards.” Then Paolo Loredano mounted the horse being held for him by a groom and rode off.
The earl turned to go back into the villa only to be met by Rosamund on her way out. “Where are you going?” he asked her, for a moment suspicious and jealous.
“We are going to see the bishop,” she replied. “I want Annie and Dermid wed quickly.” She turned to the groom. “Fetch our horses, Giovanni,” she told the man.
He felt foolish, but he kept his feelings to himself. “Aye, it is best we go together,” he agreed. She was so beautiful. Today she wore a wonderful pale green silk gown, embroidered with darker green and gold threads. Her beautiful hair was covered by a dainty lace veil that had been dyed to match her gown. Had there ever been a lovelier woman than Rosamund Bolton?
The animals were brought, and they mounted them, riding through the embassy gates and down the hill to the main square of Arcobaleno, then to the cathedral. The bells in the old church began to toll the noon hour, and after tethering their horses they entered the stone edifice where the bishop would be celebrating the noon mass known as sext. They joined the other congregants, kneeling on the velvet cushions provided for the gentry as they prayed. A choir of boys sang sweetly, their young voices piercing the quiet atmosphere of the cathedral heights. The air was fragrant with frankincense and myrrh as the priest assisting the bishop wafted the censer about. Tall pure white beeswax candles in ornate gold candlesticks decorated the altars, the delicate flames flickering in the afternoon light that streamed in through the stained-glass windows making multicolored patterns on the gray stone floors. Looking up at the windows about the cathedral Rosamund remembered the first time she had seen stained glass and her silent vow to one day have such glass at Friarsgate.
When the mass was over they approached the bishop, requesting a moment of his time. The elderly man was the same cleric who had performed Janet’s betrothal ceremony to the duke’s son years ago. He was quite frail now, and he looked at Patrick and said, “I should admonish you and the lady for your behavior, my lord, but I shall not. What is it I may do for you?”
“We would like you to waive the banns of marriage for our two servants, my lord bishop. It is best they marry soon,” the earl said.
“Is there a child involved?” the bishop asked.
“Not that we are aware of yet, my lord bishop, but it is best they are married quickly. The air of San Lorenzo seems to be conducive to romance,” Patrick responded.
The bishop chuckled. “I will waive the banns for them. Bring them to me tomorrow before sext, and I will marry them myself. Would that I might do the same for you and your lady, my lord.”
“Would that you could,” the earl replied.
The bishop turned and peered at Rosamund. “Have you run away from your husband, my child?” he inquired of her.
“I am widowed, my lord bishop,” she answered him quietly.
“Then there are other reasons that cannot be overcome,” the old man said, nodding. “Kneel before me, my children.” They knelt, and the elderly bishop blessed them, making the sign of the cross over them.
Rosamund began to weep softly, and Patrick felt tears pricking his own eyes.
The bishop smiled softly as he stood over them, then bid them rise. Thanking him, they left the cathedral, riding silently up the hill back to the ambassador’s villa.
“I will tell Annie,” Rosamund said as they mounted the stairs back to their apartment. “There are preparations to be made. Annie should have a fine gown for her wedding day. Pietro,” she called, and the majordomo was there.
“Madame?” he said.
“Send for Celestina. Annie is to wed Dermid tomorrow. The bishop is performing the ceremony in the cathedral. We need a gown for the bride,” Rosamund told him, and she smiled.
“At once, madame!” Pietro replied, and he hurried off to find a servant to send to his daughter’s shop.
“Annie! Annie, where are you?” Rosamund called, entering their apartments.
“Here, my lady,” the girl said, coming into the dayroom.
“Tomorrow is your wedding day, Annie of Friarsgate! The bishop has waived the banns and will marry you to Dermid himself!”
“In the cathedral?” Annie was wide-eyed.
“In the cathedral,” Rosamund replied, smiling. “I’ve sent for Celestina, for you must have a pretty dress.”
“Oh, my lady!” Annie burst into fulsome tears. “You are too good to me, and I was so naughty.” She lifted her apron to wipe at her eyes.
“I hardly have set you an example to follow, Annie, but follow it you did, and you should not have. Still, I know you and Dermid love each other or you should not have strayed from the path of virtue. Dry your eyes, lass. We have a few things to do before this is finished.”
“Oh, my lady!” Annie’s eyes were suddenly round with worry. “What if Dermid and I stop loving each other once we wed?”
