Belladonna

“Aren’t we?” She could hardly breathe. He was so close. She could see silver threading through his blue eyes. Impulsively, she reached out with one hand to brush his hair away from his face.

Falco grabbed her without warning. He spun her around him so that her body was pressed up against the wall. Cass’s heart leapt into her throat. She knew she should protest, should turn away.

But she didn’t.

She surrendered. To Falco. To what she wanted more than anything. His mouth teased her, tasting her tongue and lips. She pulled him closer, her nails digging into the fabric of his tunic. He pinned her hands above her head as his mouth found the spot where her jaw met her throat. She exhaled hard. Her body threatened to slide right down the wall, but she didn’t push him away. She couldn’t. She angled her head to expose more of her neck. She felt his warm mouth, his soft tongue tracing circles on her skin.

“Come with me to my quarters,” he murmured.

Cass’s eyes snapped back open. No raised eyebrow, no lopsided smirk. He was serious.

“I can’t. I—”

“You can,” he insisted. “You want to. No one has to know, Cass.” His breath was hot against her lips. And her face. Her whole body was burning, like lightning was sizzling beneath her skin.

And then there was a burst of loud applause from outside the room.

Cass slipped out from between Falco and the wall, her heart thudding like the hooves of a runaway horse. “What was that?” she asked, not caring in the slightest.

She had come too close. Too close to giving in, to letting go. No one has to know. She had actually been considering it. Images tumbled through her head. Falco carrying her to his bed. Her fingers ripping his doublet from his chest. His hands tugging at the laces of her bodice. The two of them lying together, skin to skin.

“Cass.” He took a step toward her again. She dodged him, turned and escaped into the hallway, fanning her cheeks with one gloved hand. She didn’t want him to see the look on her face. She didn’t turn to look and see whether he had followed her.

Belladonna stood in the middle of the portego. “Esteemed guests. If you will all follow me into the dining room, the birthday feast can begin.”

So. A birthday celebration. No wonder so many people were in attendance. Bella had neglected to mention that little detail when she had invited Cass and Mada to return.

Falco materialized at Cass’s side. She didn’t have to turn her head; she could feel his heat next to her. “We’ll talk more later,” he murmured. “I’ll find you. I promise.” He melted into the crowd just before Madalena reappeared, giggling about a conversation she’d been having with a young duke.

In the dining room, the two girls found tiny placards with their names inked in swirling letters. They had been seated just a few chairs down from Belladonna herself. Midway through the feast, Signor Mafei interrupted the meal with a wrapped package that had just arrived via messenger.

Belladonna’s eyes lit up. “I suppose one never does outgrow a love of presents.” She turned to Cass abruptly. “How old do you think I am?”

Cass felt her face go bright red. She twisted and untwisted the napkin in her lap, wishing she could melt into the swirling colors of the Oriental rug beneath her feet. Because of the stories she’d been told, she knew Belladonna had to be at least thirty, but could she really say that without offending her? Cass decided to play it safe. “You don’t look but a few years older than I am,” she said. “Twenty perhaps?”

Belladonna smiled widely as some of the guests seated close enough to hear Cass tittered and winked at each other.

Cass felt more embarrassed than ever. It was as though everyone were laughing at a joke whose punch line she had misunderstood. Her stays were pressing down on her chest, and the high collar was squeezing her neck, trapping her breath deep in her throat. “Are you going to open it?” She gestured at the gift, hoping to divert the guests’ attention.

“Does everyone think I should?” Belladonna read the rolled parchment attached. “It’s from Don d’Agostino.”

The guests sitting closest to Belladonna all nodded their approval. Madalena leaned in to Cass and whispered something in her ear about how handsome Don d’Agostino was. “If I weren’t so mad for Marco . . . ,” she said, giggling, and Cass realized she was a little bit tipsy.

Belladonna set down her knife and fork and dabbed primly at her mouth with her napkin. She tugged at the brown paper wrapping, folding it back to reveal a sturdy crate. Lifting off the top, she tilted the opening toward the far end of the table so that everyone could see the contents. Cass had been in the middle of taking a drink of wine and nearly dropped a half-full glass of sweet burgundy in her lap. The entire crate was tightly packed with books, their spines a rainbow of vivid colors.

“Do you like to read, dear?” Belladonna asked Cass curiously. “You look as though I’ve uncovered a crate of gold.”

“I do,” Cass admitted. “My aunt has quite a collection, but yours outstrips it in every way.”

“What is your favorite?” Belladonna asked. The rest of the table had fallen quiet. Even among Belladonna’s learned friends, it was unusual for a young girl to be so interested in reading.

“I enjoy the writing of Michel de Montaigne,” Cass said carefully.

Belladonna’s dark eyes brightened. “He is a favorite of mine as well. ‘Age imprints more wrinkles in the mind than it does on the face.’”

“It does for you ladies, anyway,” the man sitting across from Cass said with a chuckle.

* * *

As the guests finished supper, the servants cleared plates and filled cups of coffee and tea. Cass seized the opportunity to have some coffee. She liked the earthy Spanish beverage that the pope had only just declared acceptable. Of course, Agnese abhorred it, as she did almost anything that was new or different.

A man dressed in white, whom Cass presumed was the cook, waddled into the room with a huge cake balanced precariously on a silver tray. The cake was several layers high, and decorated with what looked like real flower petals.

“Before we enjoy this lovely dessert,” Belladonna said, “there is one other gift I’d like to share with you.” She signaled one of the serving boys and spoke some low commands into his ear. He nodded and hurried from the room. Everyone waited expectantly, looking around with amused glances.

A minute later, Falco shuffled into the room with a large rectangle under his arm. Was it Cass’s imagination or did he look pale? The serving assistant came behind him carrying an easel, practically nudging Falco forward. Cass raised an eyebrow at him, but Falco refused to meet her gaze.

Belladonna tapped her fingers on the long table and the room went silent. “Close your eyes,” Belladonna commanded.

Everyone but Cass obeyed.

“You too, Signorina Cassandra,” Belladonna said drily. Cass, flushing, squeezed her eyes shut.

“This is the best sort of gift: one I commissioned for myself,” Belladonna said. Around Cass, the guests laughed politely.

“Ready? Open your eyes.”

Falco’s newest painting of Belladonna stood at the head of the table. It was a reworking of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. Instead of lovely Venus, it was Belladonna who stood mostly nude in the painting, her right breast and thigh covered by her dark swirling mane. Instead of a seashell, she was springing forth from the blooms of a rose.

The guests broke into applause. Cass found herself applauding along with them, although she felt dazed, as though her head had detached from her body. She couldn’t stop staring at Belladonna’s bare legs and uncovered left breast. I wonder how long she posed for that, Cass thought. Saved from a cruel death from boredom only by Falco’s witty conversation.

Falco stood next to the easel, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. Belladonna was praising his virtues—work ethic, attention to detail—to the rest of the dinner party guests.

The cook began distributing the cake, but Cass was no longer hungry. She knew she should be happy for Falco. After all, this was the whole reason he had left Venice, to make a name for himself. But she couldn’t help but think of what sorts of projects he’d be doing next, of more long hours in Belladonna’s bedroom. Perhaps next