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was dreaming, that deprivation made him see things, he took
one careful step forward. The woman headed toward Marissa.
He recognized her walk, the sway of her hips, the set of her
shoulders. Bella. His blood hummed in recognition. The widow
forgotten, his mind raced ahead to find an excuse to get Bella
alone with him as soon as possible, preferably behind a
locked door.
Marissa spotted him approaching and waved him over.
Bless you, Marissa. Would Bella recognize him straight off? He
could not wait to see her eyes.
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"Dante, my dear," Marissa said as he rounded her side, "I
doubt I need to introduce you to your neighbor, Signora
Alberenghi."
Her eyes her eyes were blue, blue as the sea he loved
narrowed at him in disgust. All the color drained from her
face.
"You!" he gasped. Understanding came to him like a punch
in the gut.
"Now you see?" It was the widow's voice, not Bella's velvet
whisper. Part of him noticed Marissa slipping away. The rest
of him reeled, trying to absorb what stood in front of him.
She did not give him much time.
"Why do you recognize me tonight? Did you need these,"
she clapped her hands over her breasts, "to spur your
memory?"
The widow's crucifix swung between those lovely breasts,
confusing him, fascinating him. Dante ripped his eyes away,
and said, "No, Bella."
"Do not 'Bella' me, Signore Valaresso."
He spread his hands. "How was I to know?"
"How could you not know?" Her eyes gleamed with tears.
"I'm just grateful that I found out the truth about you ...
before..." Choking back a sob, she spun around and ran from
him. He caught her arm, but she shook it free and he dared
not be any more forceful with her for every person in the
room already gaped at them. Marissa intercepted her, offered
her a handkerchief and escorted her away.
Dante straightened his coat and cast a threatening glance
around the room. Conversation resumed loud, unnatural
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conversation. Dante felt surrounded, like a beast on display. A
very astute servant brought him a glass of wine and he
downed it in one swallow. Marissa would calm Bella down and
then he would go to her and apologize, let her whip him,
whatever she wanted, and all would be well, somehow.
A shocked chant ran through his mind. Bella is the widow.
The widow is Bella. How was it possible? What did it mean?
As stunned as he was, he could barely scratch two thoughts
together. One by one, some basic conclusions drifted forward.
Bella was a member of his own class. Bella was a widow, and
therefore marriageable. Dante coughed and gestured for
another glass of wine. There was more. Bella had lied to him
about everything. The pieces fell together. Oh, how she had
lied!
Marissa reappeared, smiling opaquely at the other guests.
Low and urgent, Dante asked, "May I go to her?"
Shooting him the sharpest look she'd ever given him, she
asked, "What are you playing at, Dante?"
"Nothing! Just let me go to her."
"You can't," Marissa said. "She has gone home, and
certainly will not see you again tonight."
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Chapter Eight
Dante called for his gondola to pursue her home, but the
Grand Canal was clogged with boats. Unable to stand still and
do nothing while his man shouted at the other gondoliers and
made creeping progress, he demanded to be put ashore in
defiance of all common sense, for the streets were worse.
Lent was only twenty-seven hours away. The streets were
packed with people, all drunk as wheelbarrows and enjoying
every conceivable sin and indulgence they could before that
cold dawning. Ordinarily Dante would be one of them. That
night he felt as if he was fighting through the halls of hell.
"Get out of my way!" he shouted into the din, shoving his
way through the seething crowd. He needed to see her again,
for until he did, he could not make himself believe it was true.
It was like a nightmare or a bad joke. The lace at his wrists
caught everything imaginable, from sword hilts to sedan
chairs. His hat fell off and was lost underfoot. Someone, or
something, grabbed the skirts of his coat, restraining him. He
didn't even turn to look, he just slipped out of it and kept
moving. For good measure, he threw off his wig, which he
hated anyway.
Once home, he took the stairs two steps at a time,
bounding straight to the Alberenghis' door. He tried the
handle first. It was locked. Resisting the urge to pound and
shout, he knocked politely. A long wait followed and then a
little chambermaid opened the door a crack.
"I'm sorry, but the Signora..."
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With his open palm, he shoved the door open and strode
in, ignoring the maid's scream, proceeding directly to the
salon where he had first met the widow Alberenghi. There she
was, just home herself by the looks of it, consoling with her
regal lady's maid. Flaming bright, she walked straight up to
him, finger pointing to the door. "Out! Get out of my house!"
Pointing just as emphatically to the floor, he roared, "This
is my house!"
A burly footman holding a baton stepped into his line of
vision and said, "Signore, my lady has asked you to leave."
Dante turned his head and saw that the footman was
backed up by a she-cook armed with a cleaver and two maids
with candlesticks. He looked back at Bella the widow, the
witch who folded her arms and raised her chin at him
provokingly.
Leaping to her side, he drew his dress sword and pointed it
at her champions, moving it in a slow arc before their faces.
"I have not come to hurt your lady or any of you." As he
spoke, he secured Bella's arm so she could not escape. "Shall
we go somewhere more private to talk, cara?" he asked,
keeping his eyes particularly on the mustachioed cook with
the cleaver. The woman had certainly killed before.
Bella pulled against his grip. "I have nothing to say to
you."
"But I have plenty to say to you." All of the skin prickled
on the back of Dante's neck. It was a sensation that had
saved him many times before. Glancing over his shoulder, he
saw her maid creeping up on him, vase in hand. "My dear,
please put that down and come around front with the others."
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To emphasize his words, he pulled Bella to his chest and held
her there. Her woman did as she was told.
"This has gone too far, Signora Alberenghi," he said into
her ear. "Call them off and talk to me." Under his forearm, he
felt a slight softening of her spine, a sign of resignation. As
evidence of good faith, he let her go.
"Thank you all." She smiled tremulously at her staff. "The
Signore and I will speak alone now."
A pair of doors stood at Dante's back. In the apartment
below, they led to the study. He assumed the same would be
true here. Taking her arm, he propelled her through the
doors, ignoring the dragging of her heels.
Her chambermaids trotted in behind them with candelabra
to light the room and left immediately, closing the doors as
they went.
"What is this place?" he asked, turning in a slow circle.
The change in environment was so abrupt, so unexpected,
that for a moment it distracted him from his anger. He saw a
sturdy easel with a painting resting on it. The painting was
draped with a cloth. Other paintings, unframed, hung on the
walls alongside sketches and finished drawings. The only chair
in the room sat in front of the easel. A small work table
holding a palette and a jar of brushes sat next to the chair.
Another table, a massive one, stood against the far wall. The
table looked as if it belonged to an alchemist, because it was
lined with delicate scales, beakers and vials, mortars and
pestles, and mysterious jars full of colored powder and
glistening oils.
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The entire scene made no sense to him. He stood in an
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