A Notorious Woman. Amanda McCabe

      And she had agreed to go to a ball with him tonight! Should she really do such a thing, when she worked so very hard to be as inconspicuous as possible?

      You will be masked, her mind whispered insidiously. No one will know it is you. Just look at him. Can you really resist the chance to dance in his arms, just once?

      That blighted internal voice! Always tempting her. Yet she did take another glance. He was laughing, his head thrown back in mirthful abandon, strong and dark, a part of the sea and the sun. And she found she could not resist.

      Count Ermano and Balthazar also turned to watch the procession, and Julietta took that split-second chance to slip away. Soon—all too soon—she would have to face her unruly passion for Marc Velazquez. But not just yet.

      The private sala of the Palazzo Grattiano was echoingly quiet after the jubilant crowds outside, the dim firelight flickering on the white marble floors dour after the flash and colour of the festival. Marc was glad of the quiet, though; he could finally think, finally drop the façade of Great Hero, if only for a moment. And he needed to think. Badly.

      He was alone now, as Ermano Grattiano had been detained below with another of the Doge’s counsellors. Marc crossed the room to one of the tall windows looking down on the canal, his boots echoing on that cold, immaculate floor. Heavy, deep-green velvet curtains hung there, blocking out the dying light of day. He parted the fabric, drawing it back to let in a ray of orange-pink sun.

      The sala was not very large, as the grand public rooms of the palazzo were. It was not meant for balls or suppers, but for private family meals, quiet conversation. But it was opulent, the walls covered in elaborate tapestries depicting scenes from the life of St Lucy, the furniture carved and gilded, upholstered in pale green brocade. The massive marble fireplace looked like nothing so much as a monumental tomb, supported by straining, Atlaslike figures, surmounted by carved saints and seraphim.

      It had been a very long time since Marc had been in this room, longer than he cared to remember. Yet nothing had changed, not an ornament or a cushion, only a few different portraits on one of the walls. It was still the same cold hell.

      Marc pushed the curtains back all the way, sending light rushing into the furthest, dimmest corners, and leaned against the marble sill, crossing his arms over his chest. Below him, the canal was thronged with boats full of pleasure-seekers, people masked and flush with laughter and wine and the promise of pleasures that would come with the night. Soon enough, he would be one of them. He would don his cloak and mask, seek out the lovely Julietta Bassano for an evening of music and dance and—well, whatever might come along.

      Julietta Bassano. He had thought of her more than he would care to admit in these last days. Her image would appear in his mind when he least expected it, as he dined off gold plates in the company of great families, as he listened to music in grand salas—as he lay in his strange bed at night. He would picture her, tall, fair and dark as the night, serene as the Madonna surmounting this fireplace. Always so quiet, so elegant, always keeping her own counsel.

      But the dreams of midnight—ah, they were very different. Only last night he had envisioned her there in his rented chamber, her black hair falling over her shoulders and down her slender back, her austere black-and-white gowns vanished, clad only in a chemise the colour and texture of moonbeams. She leaned over him amid the satin cushions, a tiny half smile on her rose-pink lips. Softly, slowly, her fingertips touched his throat, slid down over his shoulder and bare chest, leaving a ribbon of fire in its wake. She bent forward, her hair brushing silkily against his cheek, and she whispered strange foreign words into his ears.

      He had known, even in the dream, that she told him rare and wondrous secrets, secrets that held the key to his deepest desires. Yet he could not concentrate on them, could not remember them. He only knew her touch, her magical touch, only longed to feel the honey of her lips on his, her breasts pressed to his naked chest…

      “Maledizione!” Marc slapped his hand flat on the marble sill, relishing the sting of it against his callused palm. He reached up and unlocked the window, shoving it open to let in a gust of cool breeze. The high, jewelled collar of his doublet was choking him, so he unfastened it and ran his fingers through the loose, tangled fall of his hair.

      The chilly air cooled his blood, yet still he remembered that dream, how very real it had been, how it had shaken him. When he awoke to find the courtesan who came to him for the night sleeping beside him, her pale red-gold hair spread across the black silk sheets, he snatched her into his arms and kissed her awake. Yet even her great charms, practised and perfect, could not erase the dreams of Julietta Bassano.

      She was only meant to be a means to an end, a link in the careful chain he had forged over so many years. He could let nothing stand in his way.

      And yet there was something in her dark eyes…

      The door to the sala creaked open, drawing him out of his thoughts on the puzzle of Julietta Bassano. Marc turned, only to find that it was not Ermano Grattiano standing there. It was his son, Balthazar, poised as uncertainly on the threshold of that room as he was on that of life itself. He was tall, ungainly in his leanness, full of a fire, a yearning that he could not yet understand or control, angry and restless.

      Marc knew this because he had been much as Balthazar was at eighteen, bursting with the heat and passion of life. Yet Marc had only been the adopted son of a Spanish sea merchant, with only his own wit and ambition to bring to the world. Balthazar Grattiano would inherit all of his father’s vast holdings. Money, lands, fleets, jewels.

      Women. Perhaps one in particular, a black-haired widow full of secrets? Marc studied Balthazar carefully for a moment. No, this slim youth could have no appreciation for the subtleties and mysteries of a woman like Signora Bassano. One day, perhaps, if he did not follow his father’s path, his consuming desire to possess and destroy.

      Marc had no quarrel with young Balthazar. He even felt rather sorry for him, despite his rich inheritance to come. But Marc would not allow him to stand in the way of what he had come so far and given so much to accomplish. No one would stand in the way of that.

      “Signor Balthazar,” he greeted, when the young man still hesitated in the doorway. “Good day to you.”

      Balthazar’s jaw tightened, and he tilted back his chin to stare at Marc, a strange light in his pale green eyes. “I see my father has kept you waiting, Signor Velazquez.”

      Marc shrugged. “It is no hardship to wait in such a grand chamber, with such a glorious view.”

      Balthazar came into the room to join Marc at the open window, the last rays of the day’s sun sparkling off the tiny diamonds sewn on his white velvet doublet. He wore a belt of more diamonds and deep purple amethysts, and another diamond hung from his ear, large as a thumbnail, set in an elaborate filigree of gold. Despite these great riches, he radiated only unfocused anger. Passion with nowhere to go.

      Marc wondered briefly if he should introduce the young man to the pale courtesan of last night. She was beautiful and very skilled, but unfortunately he could not quite recall her name. And it seemed Balthazar had no trouble attracting female attention of his own. Below them, a silvery blond beauty who had been lounging in a gondola, her scarlet stockinged legs carefully displayed, sat up and gave him a dazzling smile and a wave. Balthazar in turn gave her a small nod. So, the thwarted passion was not of a sexual nature.

      It had to be something deeper.

      “They say you are much favoured by the Doge,” Balthazar said, still watching the woman in the red stockings. His tone was careless; only the stiff set of his shoulders betrayed even an inkling of his real feelings, whatever those could be.

      “I have been very fortunate since I came to Venice,” Marc answered. “Many people have shown me kindness.”

      “Why should they not? You are Il leone. My father has also shown you great favour.”

      Marc studied the young man carefully, pushing down a flash of impatience with Venetian dissembling. “Your father and I have