Until You (24 page)

“You flatter me again, Maestro Loredano,” Rosamund murmured, and her lashes brushed against her cheeks but once before she looked up at him again and smiled a brilliant smile. “I shall look forward to visiting your studio, but I am not yet certain if I will allow you to paint me. Are you a very famous painter in Venice?”

He laughed at what he considered her naivety. “Only my friends Il Giorgione and Titian surpass me, although it is said my portraits are better than theirs,” the artist bragged. “If I paint you, Madonna, your beauty will be everlasting even if you grow old and haggish.”

“I suppose you mean to reassure me.” Rosamund pretended to consider. “But first I must see just what it is an artist does to obtain a portrait.”

“Come, my love,” the earl said. “The dancing will soon begin.
Grazia,
Maestro Loredano. I shall inform you when we are coming.” He took Rosamund’s arm and moved them away, back into the crush of the duke’s guests. “Must you flirt with him?” he demanded of her.

“Yes,” she answered him. “If I am to keep him intrigued long enough for you to learn if it is he you are to treat with, I must flirt with him. He is not, I can see, a man who would take rejection lightly. It would offend his sense of who he is, my lord, and so I flirt with him, and he is flattered enough to want to continue what he thinks is his pursuit of me along the road to eventual seduction. It means naught to me. He is a popinjay of the sort I cannot really abide. I met many like him at my king and your king’s court. Surely you are not jealous, Patrick? You have no need to be. You must certainly know that! When our eyes first met, my love, I knew I had not really lived, or loved, until you. I would hardly throw all of our happiness away over that Venetian braggart.”

He stopped, drawing her into an alcove of the hall. His hand cupped her face tenderly. “I am not a young man, Rosamund, and I fear you will one day realize it. I had the same feelings when we first met, but sometimes I am afraid I will lose you too soon when the truth is that I do not want to lose you at all. I know one day we must part, but if we were to part because you loved another man, I do not think I could bear it, though I would, for your happiness is all that matters to me now.”

Her eyes shone with bright tears. “If my girls were older, Patrick, I should leave Friarsgate for you, which is something I never thought I would say, for I love Friarsgate with every fiber of my being. If I knew for certain that it was safe from my uncle Henry and his kin, if Philippa, my eldest, were old enough to manage without me, then, my love there should be no question of our ever parting. But none of this is so, nor is it likely to be very soon, and so we shall eventually part—you to return to your Glenkirk and I to go back to Friarsgate. However, until then we shall be together, and we shall love each other for a lifetime of being apart.” She stood on her tiptoes then and kissed him sweetly.

“I am too old to have my heart broken,” he told her.

“I will not break it, my lord,” she promised him.

“You must remarry one day, Rosamund,” he told her.

“Why?” she asked. “Friarsgate has its heiresses, and I shall want none after you, Patrick Leslie.”

“A woman needs a man to protect her and to love her,” he replied.

“You love me and will even from the distance that will one day separate us. And as for me, I am perfectly capable of defending what is mine. I always have.”

He shook his head. “You are an amazing woman,” he told her.

“So it has been said of me before,” she teased him, and now he laughed again, which had been her intent.

They could hear music now, and they stepped from the alcove to watch the dancing, for Rosamund was not ready yet to join the merriment. The duke’s musicians played well. His guests all seemed to be beautiful, and the clothing was colorful and magnificent. While her gown was far more daring in design than one she would have worn in England or in Scotland, Rosamund could now understand the difference in style. Even in the summer, the climate at home was not as delicious as was San Lorenzo in late February. She had never known such warm weather, and she was not certain she could live year-round in such a climate. But for now it seemed just right to her.

They finally joined in the dancing, and together they entered the figure, twirling and intertwining with the other dancers. At one point Rosamund found herself dancing with the duke’s heir, Rudolpho.

“He still hates me,” her partner told her.

“You cannot expect him to forgive you,” Rosamund answered. “It was you who gave Janet Leslie the blackamoor who betrayed her.”

“But I never anticipated such treachery from the creature,” Rudolpho di San Lorenzo protested.

“You could not have anticipated it,” Rosamund agreed, “but it happened nonetheless, and it cost Lord Leslie his beloved daughter. You cannot expect him to forgive you for that. Until this winter he has never ventured from his home. Had we not met at King James’ court he would not even be here now.”

“Why is he here?” came the question.

“Because we did not wish to share our passion with all the gossips at King James’ court. Our love, like most loves, will not last forever, but in the meantime is not San Lorenzo a wonderful place in which we may share it?” She smiled as he passed her on to her next partner, the English ambassador.

“Where have we met before, madame, for I never forget a face,” Lord Howard said.

“We have never before tonight been introduced, my lord,” Rosamund answered him honestly, and her look was direct.

“But you are English,” he said. “I am sure of it!”

“I am,” she agreed.

“Then what are you doing with a Scots earl?” he demanded of her.

Rosamund laughed almost derisively. “Come now, my lord. You have surely evaluated the nature of my relationship with Lord Leslie. Must I spell it out for you? I am his mistress. There is nothing sinister in it.”

“But how did you meet?” he persisted.

“Really, my lord!” Rosamund protested. “I find your curiosity most unseemly and quite indelicate.” And at that moment he was forced to hand her off to another partner, the duke himself.

“You are enjoying yourself,
cara
?” Sebastian di San Lorenzo murmured, his eyes going to her breasts, which swelled over the neckline of her gown.

“Very much so, my lord,” Rosamund agreed, and she laughed as he twirled her about in the elegant figure of the dance. “King James’ court is most delightful, but your little court is not just delightful, but also charming. Perhaps I find it so because of the warm weather. I have never known such soft air, my lord duke.”

“Your beauty graces my court even more,” the duke said.

“You flatter me, my lord,” Rosamund responded to the compliment.

“Beautiful women are meant to be praised,” he told her.

“Perhaps I should have come to San Lorenzo sooner,” Rosamund answered him, and she gave him a smile as she was passed along to her next partner, the Earl of Glenkirk. “I have never known men to chatter so much in the dance,” she said as the music finally ceased and they moved from the floor to accept goblets of sweet iced wine.

“Were you praised for your loveliness?” he asked her.

“The duke’s heir yet feels guilt over what happened to your daughter, and he realizes you dislike him. For some reason it distresses him. The English ambassador is certain he has met me, but I was honestly able to tell him we had never been introduced. But I am certain now he has seen me before. It is only a matter of time before he will recall where. The duke, however, ogled my bosom and told me I was beautiful and should be praised,” Rosamund reported to her lover with a mischievous smile.

He laughed at her recitation. “Then, you are enjoying yourself here,” he said.

“I am,” she admitted to him. “I have been to England’s court and to Scotland’s court, but I have never had such a good time as I am having here in San Lorenzo. Why is that, Patrick? Is it the weather, or the delightful informality that persists? It is like a wonderful fete one would give in their own home, and not at all stuffy.”

“It is because we are in love,” he told her. “Everything is perfect when two people are in love.” Then he looked into her eyes and was lost for a long moment.

“Must we remain?” she asked him softly.

“Nay. I think we may sneak out and return to the villa,” he said.

“Leave the carriage for MacDuff. The streets are well lit, and the moon is full. We can walk back, for it is not really that far,” she suggested.

“Agreed,” he told her. The streets of Arcobaleno were safe, and he knew it. They moved discreetly from the duke’s hall, through the marble foyer, and outside. They waved the ambassador’s driver away. “We’ll walk,” the earl called to him, and the man nodded, smiling.

Hand in hand they traveled back down the perfectly raked driveway and out through the gates of the palace onto the street beyond. It was late, but here and there a window cast a friendly glow, and the street torches lit their way. They entered the main square of Arcobaleno, and Patrick stopped a moment, staring at the great cathedral that fronted one side of the square.

“Memories?” she asked softly.

“Aye,” he admitted. Then he shook his head. “I didn’t want her betrothed so young,” he said. “I didn’t want her married young. I feared an unfortunate end for her, as I had had with her mother and with my wife. But Janet would not have it. My daughter wanted to be betrothed and wed to Sebastian’s son. The betrothal ceremony was in the cathedral. I can still see my daughter, all garbed in white and gold, standing atop the cathedral steps with Rudi after all the papers had been signed. Together they made a most spectacularly beautiful couple, and how the people cheered them.”

“Oh, my dearest love,” Rosamund attempted to comfort him. “I am so sorry!”

“Coming here has brought it all back to me so strongly,” he said. “If only I knew what happened to her. That she was all right. That she was alive. My son continues to seek her out. We know she was sold in the great slave market in Candia to one of the Ottoman sultan’s representatives. Sebastian sent one of his own cousins to try to buy her back even as he began entertaining an offer of marriage from Toulouse for his son. Under the circumstances, a marriage between my daughter and the duke’s son could not possibly have taken place. All I wanted was my daughter safely returned. But she was lost to us, and I could not forgive either the duke or his son for what happened. The duke had to consider his family’s good name, but not once did that spineless offspring of his come to my daughter’s defense. I had not realized how strongly I felt about it all these years later.”

“And you would not have,” Rosamund said, leading him across the square and into the hilly street that led up to the Scots ambassador’s villa, “except that you came back, Patrick. The past is past, my love. As painful as this is for you, you owe your king a duty in this matter. Do what you must do, and we shall leave.”

“But when we leave it but brings us closer to parting,” he groaned.

“Come home with me to Friarsgate,” she said. “Your son is capable of looking after Glenkirk. Stay with me, Patrick. You will like Friarsgate. The hills tumble down into my lake. The meadows are filled with my sheep and cattle. It is a peaceful place, and I would give you some peace, my love. You lost your own dear daughter, but I have three little girls. They would love you, Patrick. You do not have to leave your beloved Glenkirk forever. You can go back, and mayhap I will go with you one day. But when you have done what you must for Scotland, come home to Friarsgate with me.”

They had reached the top of the hill where the embassy was situated. He stopped, and she saw he was seriously considering her words. “I could come with you,” he said softly. “But would we wed, Rosamund?”

“Nay,” she told him. “Our love for each other is not dependent upon marriage. I suspect it would upset your son and daughter-in-law greatly. There is no need to do that. It is easier if everyone believes you are just visiting me, or I, you.”

“I should like to come back to Friarsgate with you,” he said slowly and thoughtfully. “There is no need for me to be at Glenkirk all the time.”

“I do not feel the time is propitious for us to be parted,” Rosamund told him.

“Nor do I,” he admitted.

“Then it is settled between us, Patrick. You will come home to Friarsgate with me after you have seen the king and made your report to him.”

“It is settled,” he agreed as they entered the villa.

 

For the next few days they played publicly and privately at being lovers, and nothing more. And then, several 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.”