Read Online The Second Duchess by Elizabeth Loupas - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Loupas
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often too familiar for my taste, but a remarkable artist nevertheless. I will make the arrangements.”
I toyed with a comfit of candied angelica. “He will have his work cut out for him,” I said. “I cannot pretend to be a promising subject.”
“Nonsense. You are the Duchess of Ferrara, Madonna, and an archduchess of Austria by birth, and as such you will be an adornment to any canvas. Be certain, when you dress yourself to be painted, that your hair is loose, as it was when you entered the city.”
I could not keep myself from being shocked. “With my hair loose?” I repeated. “That is for children and courtesans, my lord.”
“Of course with your hair loose.” From the darkening of his expression it was clear he disliked having his wishes questioned, even in such a small matter as a portrait. “This is Ferrara, Madonna, and here the considerations of art and beauty outweigh the petty scruples of etiquette. Your hair is remarkable, and I wish it commemorated, not only for my own pleasure but for the appreciation of future generations as well.”
I stood there speechless. I had known, of course, that Alfonso d’Este was a patron of the arts and a lover of beauty. I had just never thought that he would apply his artistic eye to me.
Me. Ugly me. Painted all in my hair for future generations to goggle at.
“As you wish, my lord,” I said stiffly.
“Then there is no need to discuss it further. Good evening, Luigi. Good evening, mio zio .”
Luigi Cardinal d’Este and the duke’s uncle, the Marquis of Montecchio—another Alfonso—greeted us pleasantly. Already I had heard whispers of the cardinal’s illicit connection with Lucrezia Bendidio—and another Lucrezia! How was I ever going to keep them all straight?—a pretty young countess in my sister-in-law Nora’s household; the whispers hinted that young Messer Torquato Tasso, the poet, made passionate advances to this same young woman whenever he could escape Nora’s attentions. The Marquis of Montecchio, by way of contrast, was a somber widower. His own legitimacy was doubtful—he was the late-in-life son of Alfonso I, the current duke’s grandfather, and a beautiful young mistress named Laura Dianti. Some said the first Alfonso had married la Dianti on his deathbed, but the old pope had not recognized the union—the papacy was feudal overlord to the Este for Ferrara, and every potential heir it could disinherit brought it one step closer to taking over Ferrara completely as a papal fief. Thus, in theory, the marquis’s two young sons were barred from succeeding to the ducal throne. In practice, however, the older boy was the heirapparent for sheer lack of any other candidate.
Unless the cardinal renounced his vows, took a wife, and fathered legitimate sons. Such things were not unheard of, and Luigi d’Este did not seem to take his holy orders too seriously.
Or unless, of course, the present duke, my husband, produced an heir of his own. He had certainly kept his promise to instruct me in further details of the relations between a husband and a wife; I had begun to take a certain amount of pleasure in his caresses, and that in its turn pleased him a great deal. Delightful as it was, he informed me the pleasure was not an end in itself; his physicians and the professore of medicine at the famous University of Ferrara had assured him it made the woman more likely to conceive. If that was true, it seemed I would have little need of further potions from Maria Granmammelli.
Such thoughts, and while in conversation with a prince of the church!
“Good evening, Your Eminence,” I said. “Good evening, Marquis. I hope the comedy was to your taste?”
“Enchanting, my daughter,” the cardinal said. There was a gleam of humor in his eyes. From the comedy, perhaps? Or from sheer mischievous mockery? “And the more so that it was in honor of so charming a lady.”
“No feasts are so pleasant as wedding feasts,” the marquis
I toyed with a comfit of candied angelica. “He will have his work cut out for him,” I said. “I cannot pretend to be a promising subject.”
“Nonsense. You are the Duchess of Ferrara, Madonna, and an archduchess of Austria by birth, and as such you will be an adornment to any canvas. Be certain, when you dress yourself to be painted, that your hair is loose, as it was when you entered the city.”
I could not keep myself from being shocked. “With my hair loose?” I repeated. “That is for children and courtesans, my lord.”
“Of course with your hair loose.” From the darkening of his expression it was clear he disliked having his wishes questioned, even in such a small matter as a portrait. “This is Ferrara, Madonna, and here the considerations of art and beauty outweigh the petty scruples of etiquette. Your hair is remarkable, and I wish it commemorated, not only for my own pleasure but for the appreciation of future generations as well.”
I stood there speechless. I had known, of course, that Alfonso d’Este was a patron of the arts and a lover of beauty. I had just never thought that he would apply his artistic eye to me.
Me. Ugly me. Painted all in my hair for future generations to goggle at.
“As you wish, my lord,” I said stiffly.
“Then there is no need to discuss it further. Good evening, Luigi. Good evening, mio zio .”
Luigi Cardinal d’Este and the duke’s uncle, the Marquis of Montecchio—another Alfonso—greeted us pleasantly. Already I had heard whispers of the cardinal’s illicit connection with Lucrezia Bendidio—and another Lucrezia! How was I ever going to keep them all straight?—a pretty young countess in my sister-in-law Nora’s household; the whispers hinted that young Messer Torquato Tasso, the poet, made passionate advances to this same young woman whenever he could escape Nora’s attentions. The Marquis of Montecchio, by way of contrast, was a somber widower. His own legitimacy was doubtful—he was the late-in-life son of Alfonso I, the current duke’s grandfather, and a beautiful young mistress named Laura Dianti. Some said the first Alfonso had married la Dianti on his deathbed, but the old pope had not recognized the union—the papacy was feudal overlord to the Este for Ferrara, and every potential heir it could disinherit brought it one step closer to taking over Ferrara completely as a papal fief. Thus, in theory, the marquis’s two young sons were barred from succeeding to the ducal throne. In practice, however, the older boy was the heirapparent for sheer lack of any other candidate.
Unless the cardinal renounced his vows, took a wife, and fathered legitimate sons. Such things were not unheard of, and Luigi d’Este did not seem to take his holy orders too seriously.
Or unless, of course, the present duke, my husband, produced an heir of his own. He had certainly kept his promise to instruct me in further details of the relations between a husband and a wife; I had begun to take a certain amount of pleasure in his caresses, and that in its turn pleased him a great deal. Delightful as it was, he informed me the pleasure was not an end in itself; his physicians and the professore of medicine at the famous University of Ferrara had assured him it made the woman more likely to conceive. If that was true, it seemed I would have little need of further potions from Maria Granmammelli.
Such thoughts, and while in conversation with a prince of the church!
“Good evening, Your Eminence,” I said. “Good evening, Marquis. I hope the comedy was to your taste?”
“Enchanting, my daughter,” the cardinal said. There was a gleam of humor in his eyes. From the comedy, perhaps? Or from sheer mischievous mockery? “And the more so that it was in honor of so charming a lady.”
“No feasts are so pleasant as wedding feasts,” the marquis
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