“I do realize this is all new to you, but you should at least watch. Sucking cock is a skill even a virgin can acquire, and one that will greatly enhance your desirability as a courtesan, especially if you learn to do it well.”
“He’s right,” Vitturi said. “You claim to have the spirit of a courtesan, Mistress Leeds, but I’ve yet to see evidence of it.”
He wore the same coolly impassive expression that he always wore on those rare occasions when he addressed me directly. No, not always. He’d slipped that evening at supper, where he’d sat next to me at a long, damask-draped table in the castle’s cavernous great hall. We enjoyed a sumptuous banquet with Serge Pépin, Elic, Inigo, my fellow novices, and the gentlemen who had accompanied us there—with the exception ofthe Duke of Buckingham, who had chosen to sup in his rooms with only Jonas Knowles for company.
I was dismayed by the absence of the duke, who seemed no more inclined toward conviviality now that we’d arrived at our destination than he had during the long journey there, during which time he’d never so much as glanced in my direction. He still seemed determined to keep himself secluded in the best of the available accommodations—he had an entire tower to himself—attended to by the dozen or so retainers he’d brought with him. How was I to pursue my objective if I couldn’t get anywhere near the man?
Also missing at supper was Elle, much to my disappointment, for I felt more at ease when she was around. She had become a valued friend and chatmate—not that I could confide to her my true purpose in apprenticing myself to Signor Vitturi, of course, for which I felt some measure of guilt. My hope was that, when all of this was over and I had, God willing, saved my uncle from the executioner, I could reveal everything to Elle and she would understand and forgive me my subterfuge.
During supper, Vitturi ignored me almost completely until the lull between the small entrées and the roasts, when he turned to me and asked if I’d brought my book of madrigals. I retrieved the little red notebook from the hidden pocket of my gown and handed it to him. While everyone else feasted upon pork with lentils, stuffed partridges, and glazed leg of lamb, Don Domenico turned the pages of my book with seemingly utter absorption. He did not look up even when the roast course was removed and replaced with entremets of fragrant sour cherry clafouti, prune tarts, and an assortment of Auvergnat cheeses and fruit pastes.
“You wrote all of these? By yourself?”
I turned to find him looking at me, the book open to the last of the two dozen or so madrigals written there. “Of course, signore.”
My voice must have betrayed a hint of umbrage, because he said, “I don’t doubt you, I just…” He closed the book and ran his thumb over the tooled design on the cover. “Your word choices are at times unorthodox, but so apt, and I find your restrained lyricism remarkably powerful. ’Tis quite accomplished work for a person of so few years.”
So unforeseen was this praise that it took me a moment to find my tongue, and when I did, all I could do was stammer something about how most of my work was a good deal less impressive than these handpicked examples.
With a look that was both baleful and amused, he said, “Your inclination toward false modesty is not as endearing as you seem to think it is, Mistress Leeds.”
I groaned in mock exasperation. “I was brought up never to brag.”
“If someone points out how exceptional you are, ’tisn’t bragging to simply thank him.”
With a startled little smile—
exceptional?
—I said,
“Grazie
, signore.”
“Prego.”
He smiled into my eyes, the first time he had looked at me—
really
looked at me—since that all too fleeting moment of rapport on the day we’d met.
The moment seemed to stretch time itself. Once again, I felt a connection with him—with something inside him, something raw and
“He’s right,” Vitturi said. “You claim to have the spirit of a courtesan, Mistress Leeds, but I’ve yet to see evidence of it.”
He wore the same coolly impassive expression that he always wore on those rare occasions when he addressed me directly. No, not always. He’d slipped that evening at supper, where he’d sat next to me at a long, damask-draped table in the castle’s cavernous great hall. We enjoyed a sumptuous banquet with Serge Pépin, Elic, Inigo, my fellow novices, and the gentlemen who had accompanied us there—with the exception ofthe Duke of Buckingham, who had chosen to sup in his rooms with only Jonas Knowles for company.
I was dismayed by the absence of the duke, who seemed no more inclined toward conviviality now that we’d arrived at our destination than he had during the long journey there, during which time he’d never so much as glanced in my direction. He still seemed determined to keep himself secluded in the best of the available accommodations—he had an entire tower to himself—attended to by the dozen or so retainers he’d brought with him. How was I to pursue my objective if I couldn’t get anywhere near the man?
Also missing at supper was Elle, much to my disappointment, for I felt more at ease when she was around. She had become a valued friend and chatmate—not that I could confide to her my true purpose in apprenticing myself to Signor Vitturi, of course, for which I felt some measure of guilt. My hope was that, when all of this was over and I had, God willing, saved my uncle from the executioner, I could reveal everything to Elle and she would understand and forgive me my subterfuge.
During supper, Vitturi ignored me almost completely until the lull between the small entrées and the roasts, when he turned to me and asked if I’d brought my book of madrigals. I retrieved the little red notebook from the hidden pocket of my gown and handed it to him. While everyone else feasted upon pork with lentils, stuffed partridges, and glazed leg of lamb, Don Domenico turned the pages of my book with seemingly utter absorption. He did not look up even when the roast course was removed and replaced with entremets of fragrant sour cherry clafouti, prune tarts, and an assortment of Auvergnat cheeses and fruit pastes.
“You wrote all of these? By yourself?”
I turned to find him looking at me, the book open to the last of the two dozen or so madrigals written there. “Of course, signore.”
My voice must have betrayed a hint of umbrage, because he said, “I don’t doubt you, I just…” He closed the book and ran his thumb over the tooled design on the cover. “Your word choices are at times unorthodox, but so apt, and I find your restrained lyricism remarkably powerful. ’Tis quite accomplished work for a person of so few years.”
So unforeseen was this praise that it took me a moment to find my tongue, and when I did, all I could do was stammer something about how most of my work was a good deal less impressive than these handpicked examples.
With a look that was both baleful and amused, he said, “Your inclination toward false modesty is not as endearing as you seem to think it is, Mistress Leeds.”
I groaned in mock exasperation. “I was brought up never to brag.”
“If someone points out how exceptional you are, ’tisn’t bragging to simply thank him.”
With a startled little smile—
exceptional?
—I said,
“Grazie
, signore.”
“Prego.”
He smiled into my eyes, the first time he had looked at me—
really
looked at me—since that all too fleeting moment of rapport on the day we’d met.
The moment seemed to stretch time itself. Once again, I felt a connection with him—with something inside him, something raw and
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