Bianca was confused as he tugged her off the table, seated himself on a stool closer to one of the walls, and positioned her between his legs, facing away from him but toward the mirror.
“I want to give you a gift. I want you to see how beautiful you are when you climax, carissima,” he whispered in her ear in a voice that went far toward banishing her doubts.
With one hand he gently teased the nipple of her left breast, while the other slipped lower and lower to the moist curls below her stomach. To begin with he just combed through them with his fingers, untangling them, twisting them, gently letting his palm rest atop them. Then his index finger slid lower, in search of the small pearl of flesh that he knew would bring her pleasure. She watched his finger as it found its place and began gently tracing circles over it. Ian’s other hand came down to join the first, delicately pulling her open so she could watch his long sensual movements as he rubbed first his fingers, then his palm, up the length of her hot, wet lips. He was now rubbing her sensitive place with both hands, pressing and pulling it with all ten fingers in a sensual display that took her breath away. It was obvious that she was getting near to her climax, but Ian was not ready to let her go.
He wanted her to see herself at her most excited, wanted to be sure she knew how indescribably lovely she looked when she peaked on the highest of sensual waves. Keeping his hands in place he slid off the stool and stood behind her for a moment. She was just leaning into his warmth, enjoying the feel of his hard shaft on her backside, when he bent at the knees and appeared to disappear. When she saw him again, he was edging her legs apart, making room for himself between them.
He drew his hands away for a moment as he kneeled in front of her, then used them to open her again. In the mirror Bianca could see only the back of Ian’s fair head, but she could feel his tongue and lips on her. She had thought she was close to climaxing before, but the sensations she now felt were so much more intense, she had to pray for the strength to stand. Looking at herself with a man’s golden head between her legs, licking, sucking, and nibbling her as he slid a finger in and out of her waiting passage, was thrilling. She felt experienced, desired, wanted, beautiful, assured. She watched her hand take Ian’s head and push it harder between her legs, newly confident in her desire. She moaned louder as he slid his fingers in and out of her faster, his tongue continuing its sensual dance over her, around her, across her. Finally, he sucked her in with all his strength, sucked her through his teeth and wrapped his tongue around her, and she climaxed again and again in his mouth.
When she clawed his head with her hands and called his name, completely lost to reason and concern, Ian knew his gift had been accepted. He drew himself up to her and kissed her, his lips still wet with her dew. She pushed herself toward him, wanting to be close to him, wanting to feel his arms around her, to smell the scent of his skin mingled with the scent of her arousal. She looked at them in the mirror, Ian’s chin resting on her head, his muscular arms pulling her toward him, her breasts pressed against his chest, and she never ever wanted the moment to end.
She began to notice Ian’s shaft pushing harder and harder against her thigh and remembered that she was not the only one who deserved to feel wave after wave of shattering pleasure. She caught Ian’s eye in the mirror and let her hand stray to his organ.
His jaw clenched as her fingers caressed him, and he knew he needed to be inside her soon. He wondered if he dared test their new, delicate truce with the fantasy that he had been having. Remembering her willingness and openness and unable to ignore the dictates of his hard member, he pulled away from her slightly, turned her around so her back was to him, and moved her toward the stool.
As if reading his mind, she bent over it, its surface cool and smooth on her stomach, and reached behind her to pull him closer. She watched in the mirror as he moved toward her, his shaft long and hard, and placed himself behind her. His entry felt so delicious that she shuddered, bringing him dangerously near a climax. He bent over her and cupped his hands around her breasts, massaging them as he pushed himself into her, relishing the feeling of her against his thighs, the tightness of her passage, the ripple of her muscles as she pushed herself up to meet him. He let go of her breasts and stood up straight, pressing into her as hard as he could, reveling in the feeling of her eyes on him in the mirror as he brought her hips toward him and ground himself into her.
When Ian reached his climax, he felt her contracting around him, matching her release with his, prolonging it, intensifying it, amplifying it. Their cries of pleasure mingled together, leaving the laboratory through the roof and flying up into the heavens.
Too spent to return to their rooms, they lay together later on the table in the middle of the laboratory. Bianca had dozed off, but Ian, overfull of a feeling that, though unfamiliar, he could only describe as joy, was unable to sleep. For a while he had watched the sleeping figure next to him, struck by how familiar and comfortable it was to have her there, but then his eyes had strayed toward the sky. He was looking up, wondering what was happening to him and what was going to happen to the two of them, when something incredible occurred.
Ian was too stunned to move, but his cry of astonishment woke Bianca. She followed his eyes up toward the ceiling, and then gave her own cry. It was as if the heavens had opened up in celebration. Star after star after star was taking flight, trailing across the sky with long white tails of light.
Chapter Eighteen
Bianca ran to a window, looking for the source of the shrieking that had roused her from her sleep. Pushing aside the heavy draperies, she found herself face-to-face with a peacock—a large, mean-looking peacock with a shriek that could have driven the most peaceful matron to acts of violence. As she stood there, the door to her room flew open and Nilo came running in, followed by Francesco at a slightly less vigorous pace.
“Don’t touch it, don’t touch it,” Nilo was shouting as he bounded for the window.
“It is just scared. It will be fine,” Francesco huffed, stopping to get his breath where Bianca stood. “It was quite a shock. We did not know they could fly.”
Bianca nodded solemnly. “Will there be other animals? Tigers? Can we use the second ballroom as a zoo?”
“Signorina Salva,” Francesco spoke formally, puffing himself up as if offended, “you do not know the first thing about throwing a gala party. There must always be peacocks.”
He marched away from her and approached the distraught and still shrieking bird on her balcony. When Bianca left her apartment a short while later, he and Nilo were deep in serious consultation about how to return the animal to the floors below and keep him there.
The shrieking was less audible outside her bedroom, but the house was by no means tranquil. The staff appeared to have been tripled in size, and there were serving men draping every banister, dusting every corner, spreading new rugs over every floor. Bianca had to dodge an armoire that seemed to have grown legs, a tray of newly blown glasses, and a large orange tree that appeared intent on filling the entire staircase, to make her way to the dining room.
When she arrived, relief washed over her for two reasons. First, none of the furniture in the room seemed inclined to move of its own accord, nor was there anything even remotely out of place. Second, seated at the table, alone, was Crispin. He was the person she most wanted to see, but she had been worried that she would have to risk antagonizing Luca and the new plant by going up to the plant rooms to seek him.
He greeted her warmly as she plopped herself down on a chair.
“Tell me, my lord, is it always necessary to have peacocks at a gala party?”
Crispin’s expression was grave. “Why, certainly. The more birds, the more gala. Typically, Ian won’t attend anything with under ten peacocks, but I am less stuffy than he is.” He leaned forward to confide in her. “I once went to a two-peacock ball, but I admit it only under duress.”
“I promise to keep this information like a sacred trust in my bosom.” Bianca bowed her head slightly.
“Of course, I would expect nothing less. Tell me, is that the question you came to the plant rooms to ask me yesterday, or was it something more trivial?”
“I am sorry. I must have annoyed Luca beyond bearing.”
Crispin smiled and waved her apology aside. “Think nothing of it. It’s good for him.”
Bianca had taken a large bite of the pastry in front of her and chewed it slowly to give herself time to think. When she had swallowed it, she addressed Crispin.
“I guess you also heard about my encounter with your new plant. I asked Luca where it came from, but he did not know.”
“It was very strange.” Crispin looked thoughtful as he spoke. “It arrived yesterday, beautifully wrapped and addressed to me, but there was no signature. It puts me in a bit of a spot because I don’t know to whom I am beholden, nor where the plant came from.”
“Does that happen often?”
Crispin laughed. “Usually when people give you expensive things, they want to make sure you know exactly where it came from so you will know exactly where to direct your gratitude.”
Bianca wanted to work around to her next question as subtly as possible. “Has anyone ever sent you anything dangerous?”
“Me? A dangerous plant? Why would someone do that?”
She feigned nonchalance. “Maybe if someone were envious of your plant rooms? Or if they did not like the Arboretti.”
Crispin was suddenly paying more attention. Had Ian, still suspicious, put her up to interviewing him after their heated discussion the day before? He had suspected Ian’s apology had concealed some dark motivation. “We Arboretti certainly have our share of enemies, but I—”
“Like whom?” Bianca threw caution to the wind.
Crispin did likewise. If Ian was going to send her to interrogate him, he wanted to make sure she got an earful. “Anyone whose prices we have undercut or whose shipments we have beaten, people such as the Bartolini family, who will never forgive us for cornering the market on cardamom. Envy is a powerful motive too, and there are dozens of people, like Oswaldo Cresci or Fillipo Nonte, with whom we’ve never had dealings but who envy our size and success and would probably go out of their way to damage our prestige if they could. That is speaking only of the company in general. There are also more personal animosities, like Morgana da Gigio’s grudge against Ian or L.N.’s ongoing feud with the prince of Navarre.”
Crispin sat back, satisfied by the effect of his words on Bianca. Her surprise had quickly given way and he saw the dawning of her comprehension.
“Santa Dorotea’s throat, she is the woman! The woman from two years ago!” Bianca was almost stuttering. If Ian and the young, rich widow had been lovers, it was no wonder Bianca had seemed unappealing to him. When Morgana da Gigio was in a room, no other woman existed. Not only on account of her magnificent beauty; it was more than that. She seemed to emanate something that put people under her spell. Bianca had only seen her from a distance, at other balls and gatherings, but she had always been fascinated by her.
“Mora lived here in the palace for several years. She and Ian were very good friends. Yes, she had definitely bewitched Ian.” Crispin was nodding his head to keep from licking his lips in anticipation of the beautiful fit his brother would throw when Bianca reported back to him.
“What happened? Why does she harbor a grudge against Ian?” Bianca’s voice was almost steady.
Crispin shrugged and pushed his chair back from the table. “You will have to ask Ian about that, when you report to him later. Be sure to tell him that I refrained from mentioning the putative Foscari heir.”
As Crispin walked from the room, Bianca’s world fell apart. She was too stunned to ask what he meant about reporting to Ian, too shaken by the news that Ian and Morgana da Gigio had been lovers. And perhaps also parents. In her mind she imagined herself next to Morgana da Gigio, plain, hideously unsophisticated, horribly boring. She cringed at the comparison, and again at the thought of the effort it must have been costing Ian to lie with someone as untutored as she was after the raptures he had experienced with Morgana. For it was obvious just from looking at her that a night with the wealthy widow was a night one would not soon forget.
If he had known the effect of his words, Crispin would never have spoken them. Bianca would certainly not be repeating them to Ian, in large part because she knew she could never face him again. What did she have to offer him that could compare to the delights he had already sampled with others? She should have known better, should have seen it from the start, or at least that day at Tullia’s. She cursed herself and the desire for knowledge—or even just the plain desire—that had propelled her headlong into this mire of questions and emotions.
The clocks in the house chimed ten, a brutal reminder of the depth of that mire and the hard work in front of her if she was to stand a chance of proving her innocence. She had only seventy-four hours left to catch a murderer, and she still did not have the faintest idea how to begin.
Guests began arriving as the clocks struck eight, first in a trickle, soon in a flood, with a line of gondolas that clogged the Grand Canal. Invitations had been issued to every prominent family, and it appeared that they had all decided to accept. Some arrived out of friendship or loyalty, but most came out of curiosity, to see Ian betrothed at long last. Of as great interest as the stony count, however, was his betrothed. Bianca had turned enough heads at the few balls she had attended to earn her the disapproval of the bulk of the patrician mamas, not only because she was young, beautiful, rich competition for their daughters, but more because she was, as one matron described her, “so heedless of what is proper.” As the guests congregated throughout the palace, sipping prosecco and admiring the elaborate decorations, most of the talk was speculation about the nature of Bianca’s inevitable social gaffs that night.
Custom dictated that the betrothal couple remain out of sight until all the guests had gathered, but the other Arboretti were in plain view, gallantly entertaining the available females, while Francesco and Roberto ensured the older members of the patriciate were not neglected. Jugglers and acrobats moved through the crowd, stealing sips of drinks, telling jokes, and making gold ducats appear from ears. The peacocks were also there, milling about in gilded splendor, the light of the candles on the ground floor making them look like beasts from a fairy story.
Women’s gowns in all colors of the rainbow—this one woven with gold, that one edged with pearls—presented a riot of color almost as impressive as that in Crispin’s glass room. Their wearers eyed one another expertly, gathering in groups to comment on the neglected modesty of necklines (“She looks like a wet nurse, ready to suckle”), the overpadding of shoulders (“I suppose when you have been bedding your gondolier for years, you lose perspective”), the role of hemlines (“If I had wanted to see the ankles of a donkey, I would have gone to my place in the country”), and whether Signora Ricco had managed to buy back her diamonds after her gambling losses or if she was still wearing paste. Even before the feasting and the dancing had commenced, everyone was ready to agree that the party was a smash.
When the clock struck nine, an expectant hush fell over the collected guests. People crowded into the central ballrooms on all three floors in the hope of catching a glimpse of the couple as they made their ritual descent into the crowd. A quartet began to play a slow but lighthearted melody, specially designed to last the duration of their entrance.
Then they played it again.
They were about to commence for the third time, masking the repetition with improvised solos, when a servant arrived with the message to stop. There would be no descent. The bride-to-be was nowhere to be found. Guests nodded knowingly to one another, not even bothering to lower their voices as they commented on this newest
example of Bianca’s indecorous morality.
Ian was far less complacent. He was pacing the floor of Crispin’s apartment, from which they were to set out, as though he wanted to test the overstated promises of exceptional wearability given by the merchant who had sold him the rugs. His mind raced ahead of his feet, running through an alphabetical list he had begun two days earlier of ways to torment Bianca. He had only reached D, for “dangling over boiling oil,” when Giorgio entered, pushing the woman in question ahead of him.
“I found her in the servants’ quarters with her maid, Marina.” Giorgio had a way of preempting Ian’s questions.
All thoughts of boiling oil, sarcastic retorts, snide remarks, and biting criticisms vanished when Ian saw her.
Her dress was of velvet the same color as the topaz that hung from her slender neck, lined and edged with pure white silk. It was cut to highlight her small, perfect décolleté, in the middle of which the topaz was nestled. Both the dress and the lining were embroidered in gold with flowers of every conceivable size and form, painstakingly copied from originals supplied by Luca. Her hair hung loose around her bared shoulders as was customary for unmarried women, held off her face by an elegant headdress of gold and diamonds. Her remarkable eyes looked even bigger, her lips even more tempting, than usual. Ian felt a lump form in his throat at the possibility that such beauty might one day be his.
“You look marvelous,” Ian meant to say, though what came out was, “Did you plan to escape through the kitchens when no one was looking?” The thought of her leaving him made the words ring out more harshly than he had intended.