room myself.”
Crispin laughed. “Not without a map and a lodestone, I warrant. But it is just down this way.”
He took her arm and led her off. After winding through five corridors and down four staircases—“Does this house never end?” Bianca demanded—they arrived in a fair-sized room with enormous windows on two sides. In the middle, seated on couches, were her Aunt Anatra and her cousins Angelo and Analinda. Her aunt Anatra had once been the belle of the Venetian patriciate, or so Bianca had been told, but the only signs of her former beauty now were her children. Angelo, with his curling fair hair and large, innocent eyes, looked every bit the chivalric hero. His younger sister shared his features but in a softer, more feminine way; her recent entry into Venetian society had been very promising, at least if measured by the number of love sonnets she received as anonymous gifts. (“More than three dozen,” she had confided to Bianca the previous week. “Even more than Catarina Nonte!”) From Analinda’s perspective, Bianca’s betrothal to the wealthy and aristocratic count with all the handsome cousins was a gift from heaven. But she seemed to be the only member of her family who thought so.
The air in the room crackled with tension, despite Francesco and Roberto’s best efforts to entertain Anatra. As Bianca and Crispin entered the room, her chaperons looked up with clear signs of relief. Crispin greeted the Grifalconi family, extending his hand to Angelo with whom he shared several clubs and many women, and casting an appreciative eye at Analinda before begging off, saying that business called. Bianca smiled warmly at her cousins and curtsied to her aunt.
“ Piacere , Aunt Anatra. What a delightful surprise.”
“Not nearly as surprising as your betrothal,” her aunt replied in dry tones. “You do like to make trouble for a body, don’t you.”
“That is what you have always told me,” Bianca replied in the same dry tones, standing straight before her aunt with all hint of a smile gone. Since the death of her father the previous year, Bianca had taken a house with her brother on Campo San Paolo. But social custom said it was unseemly for a single woman to live alone, so any time her brother went away on his secretive business, which of late seemed all the time, Bianca had been forced into residence with her aunt and uncle at their old palazzo in Cannaregio. Aunt Anatra had made no secret of her contempt for Bianca’s father and would have liked to transfer the bulk of it onto his eccentric daughter. When she realized that in his frugal mode of life her brother had not only maintained but even augmented his fortune, however, she had tried to think better of him, or rather, of his heirs. Indeed, she had tried to think well enough of Bianca to marry her to her only son, the precious Angelo. But the spoiled chit had refused, again and again. And now she was betrothed to a count. All that money leaving the family. The thought made Anatra sick with rage.
“Strange that you never mentioned your attachment to d’Aosto before,” Bianca’s aunt mused aloud. “Stranger that he took you without a dowry.”
Bianca was unsure what her aunt was alluding to, but felt confident it was not meant kindly. “I do have a vast personal fortune, remember,” she coolly retaliated. “And being rich as Midas himself, it probably does not matter much to him at all.”
Bianca watched gleefully as Aunt Anatra opened and closed her mouth, like a fish caught in a net. Angelo took his mother’s hand to comfort her, at the same time flashing a beatific smile at Bianca. He had heard the news of his cousin’s betrothal and removal from the house only that morning, upon returning from three days of debauched passion. He had sauntered into his family palazzo, the heady scent of his new lover’s musk still in his nose and his cock limp from overwork, hoping to catch sight of his cousin Bianca. It was an experiment,
Crispin laughed. “Not without a map and a lodestone, I warrant. But it is just down this way.”
He took her arm and led her off. After winding through five corridors and down four staircases—“Does this house never end?” Bianca demanded—they arrived in a fair-sized room with enormous windows on two sides. In the middle, seated on couches, were her Aunt Anatra and her cousins Angelo and Analinda. Her aunt Anatra had once been the belle of the Venetian patriciate, or so Bianca had been told, but the only signs of her former beauty now were her children. Angelo, with his curling fair hair and large, innocent eyes, looked every bit the chivalric hero. His younger sister shared his features but in a softer, more feminine way; her recent entry into Venetian society had been very promising, at least if measured by the number of love sonnets she received as anonymous gifts. (“More than three dozen,” she had confided to Bianca the previous week. “Even more than Catarina Nonte!”) From Analinda’s perspective, Bianca’s betrothal to the wealthy and aristocratic count with all the handsome cousins was a gift from heaven. But she seemed to be the only member of her family who thought so.
The air in the room crackled with tension, despite Francesco and Roberto’s best efforts to entertain Anatra. As Bianca and Crispin entered the room, her chaperons looked up with clear signs of relief. Crispin greeted the Grifalconi family, extending his hand to Angelo with whom he shared several clubs and many women, and casting an appreciative eye at Analinda before begging off, saying that business called. Bianca smiled warmly at her cousins and curtsied to her aunt.
“ Piacere , Aunt Anatra. What a delightful surprise.”
“Not nearly as surprising as your betrothal,” her aunt replied in dry tones. “You do like to make trouble for a body, don’t you.”
“That is what you have always told me,” Bianca replied in the same dry tones, standing straight before her aunt with all hint of a smile gone. Since the death of her father the previous year, Bianca had taken a house with her brother on Campo San Paolo. But social custom said it was unseemly for a single woman to live alone, so any time her brother went away on his secretive business, which of late seemed all the time, Bianca had been forced into residence with her aunt and uncle at their old palazzo in Cannaregio. Aunt Anatra had made no secret of her contempt for Bianca’s father and would have liked to transfer the bulk of it onto his eccentric daughter. When she realized that in his frugal mode of life her brother had not only maintained but even augmented his fortune, however, she had tried to think better of him, or rather, of his heirs. Indeed, she had tried to think well enough of Bianca to marry her to her only son, the precious Angelo. But the spoiled chit had refused, again and again. And now she was betrothed to a count. All that money leaving the family. The thought made Anatra sick with rage.
“Strange that you never mentioned your attachment to d’Aosto before,” Bianca’s aunt mused aloud. “Stranger that he took you without a dowry.”
Bianca was unsure what her aunt was alluding to, but felt confident it was not meant kindly. “I do have a vast personal fortune, remember,” she coolly retaliated. “And being rich as Midas himself, it probably does not matter much to him at all.”
Bianca watched gleefully as Aunt Anatra opened and closed her mouth, like a fish caught in a net. Angelo took his mother’s hand to comfort her, at the same time flashing a beatific smile at Bianca. He had heard the news of his cousin’s betrothal and removal from the house only that morning, upon returning from three days of debauched passion. He had sauntered into his family palazzo, the heady scent of his new lover’s musk still in his nose and his cock limp from overwork, hoping to catch sight of his cousin Bianca. It was an experiment,
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