further,
Padre mio,
” came a soft, slightly husky female voice from behind them. “I am certain the great Raffaello does not desire to be bothered with the inner workings of our family.”
Seeing her standing in the door arch, with a narrow stairway behind her, Raphael rose, smoothing out the front of his doublet with both hands like an uncertain youth. For a moment, as before, he could not find the quick-witted banter she would expect. What the devil was it that made him feel so uncertain before her? Only women he was driven to bed had ever, even momentarily, had this same upper hand.
Margherita stood looking mistrustfully at him. Her sable-brown hair, in this light, parted in the center and drawn away from her face, was glistening, the shades more vivid than he remembered. It would take days, he thought, to mix the precise paints to achieve the highlights there. Her neck was graceful, slim, and creamy olive. Because of her cloak, he had not noticed its indescribably delicate turn. She appeared even more rich and complex than the young woman he had first seen yesterday. But that spark of determination and spirit in her eyes was still his greatest draw.
“On the contrary,” Raphael managed to say. “I find great insight in your father’s words.”
She moved forward. “And, pray,
signore,
how is that?”
“I hope it will explain why you have refused the offer from my assistant.”
“And why I shall refuse you myself. I am a decent woman, Signor Sanzio. I know my place in this world. I am meant to make an honest life.”
He bit back the coming of a bemused smile as he glanced at his assistants, who were smiling with him. “And what has modeling to do with that?”
“Is it not unseemly, and illegal, to position a woman’s body in a manner for study by a stranger who intends to survey every surface of one’s face and form?”
She exchanged a sharp glance with her father, whose lower jaw had fallen open in disbelief at her brazenness. “Margherita!” Francesco interceded, his voice rumbling with anger even as he managed a humble bow before their important guest.
“Would you ask that question, I wonder, of Isabella of Aragon? Or perhaps our Holy Father himself, both of whom have previously sat willingly for me?” He settled his eyes directly upon her. “There is modeling, Signorina Luti, and then there is portraiture.”
“
Per favore!
Signor Sanzio, I implore you! Forgive my daughter!”
“Forgive
me
?” Margherita gasped.
“I am afraid she has too much of her mother’s haughty spirit for her own good! Believe me, it was a trait I cherished in my daughter for the nostalgia it brought—until today, that is!”
“Tell me, Signor Sanzio.” Margherita took a step forward, hands clasped behind her back, her chin lifted, not with rudeness, but rather an unexpected confidence. “Was it your expectation that merely by your coming here yourself, cloaked in velvet and silver, and surrounded with your equally finely dressed minions, that I would be more easily convinced to change my mind?”
The way she had phrased it, the circumstance seemed instantly tawdry.
“I would not have guessed that a girl—” He stopped himself in midsentence. That tactic was not going to help things with her. But it was too late.
“What was it,
signore
? You would not have guessed that a simple girl from Trastevere could keep pace with someone so grand and worldly as you?”
He moved to deny it, but the truth was that this was exactly what he had meant. Women had always been without consequence in his life. There was no struggle in obtaining them for what purpose he wished. That was not the case now, very suddenly, in this most unlikely situation. While he barely knew Margherita, she already angered him, confounded him, and entirely bewitched him, all at the same instant.
When he did not readily respond to her question, she said, “Make no mistake,
signore.
Because I assumed a great
mastro
would move with an
Padre mio,
” came a soft, slightly husky female voice from behind them. “I am certain the great Raffaello does not desire to be bothered with the inner workings of our family.”
Seeing her standing in the door arch, with a narrow stairway behind her, Raphael rose, smoothing out the front of his doublet with both hands like an uncertain youth. For a moment, as before, he could not find the quick-witted banter she would expect. What the devil was it that made him feel so uncertain before her? Only women he was driven to bed had ever, even momentarily, had this same upper hand.
Margherita stood looking mistrustfully at him. Her sable-brown hair, in this light, parted in the center and drawn away from her face, was glistening, the shades more vivid than he remembered. It would take days, he thought, to mix the precise paints to achieve the highlights there. Her neck was graceful, slim, and creamy olive. Because of her cloak, he had not noticed its indescribably delicate turn. She appeared even more rich and complex than the young woman he had first seen yesterday. But that spark of determination and spirit in her eyes was still his greatest draw.
“On the contrary,” Raphael managed to say. “I find great insight in your father’s words.”
She moved forward. “And, pray,
signore,
how is that?”
“I hope it will explain why you have refused the offer from my assistant.”
“And why I shall refuse you myself. I am a decent woman, Signor Sanzio. I know my place in this world. I am meant to make an honest life.”
He bit back the coming of a bemused smile as he glanced at his assistants, who were smiling with him. “And what has modeling to do with that?”
“Is it not unseemly, and illegal, to position a woman’s body in a manner for study by a stranger who intends to survey every surface of one’s face and form?”
She exchanged a sharp glance with her father, whose lower jaw had fallen open in disbelief at her brazenness. “Margherita!” Francesco interceded, his voice rumbling with anger even as he managed a humble bow before their important guest.
“Would you ask that question, I wonder, of Isabella of Aragon? Or perhaps our Holy Father himself, both of whom have previously sat willingly for me?” He settled his eyes directly upon her. “There is modeling, Signorina Luti, and then there is portraiture.”
“
Per favore!
Signor Sanzio, I implore you! Forgive my daughter!”
“Forgive
me
?” Margherita gasped.
“I am afraid she has too much of her mother’s haughty spirit for her own good! Believe me, it was a trait I cherished in my daughter for the nostalgia it brought—until today, that is!”
“Tell me, Signor Sanzio.” Margherita took a step forward, hands clasped behind her back, her chin lifted, not with rudeness, but rather an unexpected confidence. “Was it your expectation that merely by your coming here yourself, cloaked in velvet and silver, and surrounded with your equally finely dressed minions, that I would be more easily convinced to change my mind?”
The way she had phrased it, the circumstance seemed instantly tawdry.
“I would not have guessed that a girl—” He stopped himself in midsentence. That tactic was not going to help things with her. But it was too late.
“What was it,
signore
? You would not have guessed that a simple girl from Trastevere could keep pace with someone so grand and worldly as you?”
He moved to deny it, but the truth was that this was exactly what he had meant. Women had always been without consequence in his life. There was no struggle in obtaining them for what purpose he wished. That was not the case now, very suddenly, in this most unlikely situation. While he barely knew Margherita, she already angered him, confounded him, and entirely bewitched him, all at the same instant.
When he did not readily respond to her question, she said, “Make no mistake,
signore.
Because I assumed a great
mastro
would move with an
Similar Books
