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daughter’s hand to his cheek. “Ah, my Isabella.” His brown eyes softened. “What shall become of you when I die?”
    Isabella blinked in confusion. She recognized the soft gaze of tragedy in his eyes. “What a strange thing to say, Papa!”
    A shiver coursed through her spine. He squeezed her hand, sensing her fear.
    “I fear I should not have turned the dukedom over to Francesco before my death. After ten years of apprenticeship, I hoped he would learn the feel of the reins in his hand. A good rider learns when to give the horse its head, to ride with the lightest touch.”
    Isabella stared at a Bronzino portrait on the wall—Francesco as a child. She focused on the firm line of his lips.
    “Francesco was not born with light hands, Papa.”
    The granduca studied his favorite child, her eyes steady on his own.
    “Ah, my daughter. You are most like me.”
    “It is true, my father. I am like you in every way.”
    “More the pity you are a girl, my Isabella.”
    She snatched her hand away.
    “Is it such a tragedy that I am not born with the de’ Medici palle, Papa?”
    De’ Medici balls. Her father laughed.
    “And let us be grateful to God for the two children I already have, Nora and Virgino,” Isabella said. “Have I not proved myself an adequate brood mare for the de’ Medici stable?”
    “My treasures, those grandchildren. And of course you have courage, figlia mia. ”
    “Then why do you appear so sad?”
    Cosimo sighed. “I do not want your husband to take you back to Rome.”
    Isabella scoffed. “Rome? Rome could never be my home. And Paolo will never insist. Did you not pay a dowry of 50,000 scudi expressly to keep me here in Florence? I shall remain in Tuscany with you always.”
    “What will your husband say when he learns of your hunting accident?”
    “I will tell him the blood came from a wound, and the scandalous gossip of a miscarriage is fantasy. He will know he could not have possibly fathered a child in the past few months. Besides, he is too busy with his mistresses in Rome.”
    Cosimo studied his daughter’s face.
    “You truly hate him.”
    “Paolo Orsini is a brute,” she said, looking away. Her eyes rested on the portrait of her brother.
    “Will you ever forgive me for forcing you to marry him?” asked Cosimo.
    “Never, Papa,” she said, still turned away from him. “Mai!”
    She felt her face quiver. She took a deep breath, composing herself, then turned back to her father, offering him a smile.
    “Perhaps forgiveness might be found if we go hunting again. Quite soon. Just the two of us. And perhaps Leonora. She needs to escape Pietro’s ill humor. He really is quite unbearable.”
    Cosimo’s face creased in pleasure. Youth flashed in his eyes.
    “Ah! My two favorite companions. I will have the huntsman make arrangements for the coming week. I shall ride with the most beautiful women in all Tuscany. No, in all the world!”
    Isabella smiled. “And the three of us will inspire the most delicious gossip!”
    Cosimo loved to spend time in the company of his daughter and daughter-in-law. The fact that half of Florence thought Leonora’s child was fathered by the granduca made no difference to Cosimo.
    Isabella turned her back on Bronzino’s portrait of her brother.
    The artist depicted his cold eyes too skillfully.
    “Papa,” said Isabella, as her father escorted her into the dining hall, “I forgot to tell you about the shepherdess I met in the Siena Hills. A mere child, but quite remarkable. Stubborn as I was as a little girl—”
    “As you? Ha! Quite impossible.”
    “Davvero , Papa. Really. She had the most determined little chin.”
    “A Senese shepherdess! Of all people to make an impression on a de’ Medici princess,” marveled Cosimo. “I look forward to hearing more.”

C HAPTER 11
    Florence, Pitti Palace
    F EBRUARY 1573
    The de’ Medici family waited, their hands on either side of their plates, observing an ancient custom: the showing of hands in