“Show me the book,” she said.
Sobering, Ellen pushed it slowly across the table. “I’d like to read it together with Thomas,” she said, for the first time sounding a bit shy. “But it’s not English.”
“Yes, you said so.” Rose looked at the title. “‘I Sonetti Lussuriosi di Pietro Aretino,’” she read aloud. “It’s Italian.”
“Ah. I was wondering.” Ellen scooted closer. “What does it mean?”
“It’s authored by a man named Pietro Aretino, and it’s called The Licentious Sonnets,” Rose translated with some relish. This sounded good, maybe as good as Aristotle’s Master-piece. She flipped open the book—and stared.
There, above the first sonnet, was an engraving of two people.
Naked people. On a bed.
She leaned forward to study it closer, wishing for more than the flickering torchlight. The man and woman were embracing, both lying on their sides, their legs entwined. Most of the woman’s body was artfully hidden behind the man, but the man’s bare bottom was there for the world to see in all its well-muscled glory.
So this was how people made love! Gemini. This was even better than the Master-piece. Much more instructive—the pictures made all the difference.
A small smile flirted on Ellen’s mouth as she gazed at the picture, too. “He’s a fine specimen of a man, isn’t he?” she asked conspiratorially.
Rose wouldn’t know—she didn’t have anything to compare him with. But Ellen obviously did…
Suddenly, instead of feeling like the older, wiser woman of twenty-one compared to Ellen’s eighteen, Rose felt about five years old.
Ellen wanted this book translated. Ellen wanted to read it with her love.
No, her lover.
“No wonder you laughed when I counseled you to kiss Thomas!”
Ellen didn’t even blush. “We’re in love,” she said in an impassioned tone, as though that explained everything.
And maybe it did.
“What does the sonnet say?” Ellen asked.
“‘Fottiamci anima mia, fottiamci presto; Poi che tutti per fotter nati siamo.’ Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love.” She looked up. “That’s nice, don’t you think?”
Ellen looked disappointed. “I thought it would be…you know, more racy, to match the pictures.”
“The picture isn’t all that racy.” Now that she’d recovered from the shock of seeing naked people on the page, Rose decided the engraving was rather pleasing. “It’s tasteful enough, all considered.” She turned the page. “Oh…”
Not quite so tasteful, the woman was now on her back, half reclined against the headboard, while the man knelt between her spread knees, his body meeting hers in exactly the right place.
“Oh,” she said again.
“Look at the next one.” Ellen reached to flip the page.
“Oh!” Rose tilted her head, then turned the book sideways. There seemed to be so many arms and legs, she really couldn’t tell what was going on.
Could people actually do that? She’d never imagined—
“And the one after that.”
In Posizione Quattro, Position Four, the woman and man were both seated, facing each other, she on the edge of a bed and he on a chair pulled close. Gazing at the picture, Rose felt a wave of heat ripple through her. The woman’s legs were spread wide. The man was touching her there. And the woman was touching his…yard, Aristotle’s Master-piece had called it.
Rose hadn’t heard the term yard before reading the Master-piece, but she guessed Ellen would already know that word—and probably more. Although Rose considered herself educated, she now realized the Master-piece had only explained how everything worked in clinical terms. The actual process of making love had remained somewhat of a mystery.
Until now.
A strange ache spread low in her middle as she tried to imagine herself as the woman in the engravings. The only problem was she couldn’t envision doing any of those things with anyone she’d ever met…except Kit.
That odd ache intensified, and she shut the book.
After taking a moment to collect herself, she drew a shaky breath. “Where did you get this?” she asked Ellen.
“I found it in Thomas’s shop.”
“Someone pawned this book?”
“People pawn everything. Jewels and pottery and pistols and swords…it’s like a treasure trove, I’m telling you. My favorite place in the world. You should pay a visit, Rose. The shop is right on the High Street.”
Rose had never thought she’d like a pawnshop—they were seedy places, from what she’d heard. Disreputable, along with their owners. “Does Thomas have other foreign books?”
“Not like this one.” Ellen laughed. “But yes, I’ve noticed other books that aren’t in English. This book was part of a whole library someone pawned; I don’t think Thomas ever looked through the titles to see what he had. He seemed surprised when I showed it to him.”
“I’ll bet he did.” Rose couldn’t imagine sharing this book with a man. Or rather, she could, but only one certain man—and she didn’t want to think about that.
“Can you translate the rest of the first poem?” Ellen asked.
Rose slowly reopened the book, grateful that the words, at least, didn’t seem disturbing. She would read those and try not to look at the pictures.
“Let us make love, my beloved, quickly, for we were made to make love. And if you adore my…yard…”
Ellen nodded. She did know that word.
“…then I will love your…your…seat of womanly pleasure. Good God.” Rose felt her cheeks heat; in fact, she couldn’t remember blushing so much in her whole life as she’d done since coming to court. “This isn’t sounding at all sonnetlike, is it? I’ve never before attempted to translate a sonnet.”
“It’s fine,” Ellen assured her. “I am sure Thomas will enjoy hearing this.” Her eyes glittered with anticipation. “I’ll never remember it, though. Let me try to find quill and paper so I can write it all down.”
Rose wasn’t at all certain she felt up to translating these sonnets aloud in a courtyard in the middle of Windsor Castle. Especially with Kit somewhere on the other side of that wall. For all she knew, he could be heading here to fetch nails or a beam any minute.
She’d never considered herself a prude, but a lady had her limits.
“Never mind,” she said when Ellen stood. “I shall take
