My gaze lands on my iPhone, and my heart jumps. I turn it on, and my screensaver springs to life, a picture of Dad and me sitting in front of a monitor on one of his sets. With shaking fingers, I scroll through my contact list and tap on Dad’s name.
For a split second, I fool myself into thinking it’ll work. That he’ll answer and come riding in to save me. But of course, that doesn’t happen. They don’t have service towers in the 1500s. Dejected, I fling the phone and watch it crash into the painted chest in the corner of the room.
Hanging over the chest is my wrinkled ball gown from last night. Another wrenching pain twists my stomach, and I hurl myself facedown onto the mattress.
…
The Piazza Mercato Vecchio is crowded, and everyone is watching us. Somehow, without the use of Facebook, Twitter, or text messages, word has already spread about our betrothal. Just the word makes me shiver. I look at the man walking next to me and narrow my eyes.
It doesn’t even faze him.
Grinning at the people gawking, Niccolo puts his hand on my elbow and leads me past the beggars on the stone steps asking for alms. I want to stop and help them, but I don’t have any pockets or a purse, and let’s face it—at this point, I’ll be lucky to help myself.
“Patience,” he says, leaning close so no one can overhear us, “I understand if you do not yet love me, but you will learn to do so in time.”
I stop walking so I can laugh incredulously—any concern I had about messing up his business arrangement with Uncle Marco went out the window with the words your betrothal has been arranged—and Cipriano crashes into me. My cousin is acting as my chaperone again this afternoon, but this time I’m eternally grateful. Hours after I barricaded myself in my room, Niccolo showed up all smiling and ready to “discuss our future.” My aunt and uncle practically pushed me out the door, but the only thing that really got me to leave was Cipriano offering to tag along as guardian.
My cousin apologizes for running into me and takes several steps to the side to give us privacy. I really wish he wouldn’t.
Niccolo’s lips flatten into a straight line, and he sighs in annoyance. I’m sure this isn’t how he thought our talk would go. With the way women usually act around him, he probably expected me to fall at his feet and thank him for deeming me worthy.
But yeah, that’s not happening.
With a quick look to our audience, I fist my hands on my hips and attempt to control my voice. “Niccolo, why do you want to marry me?”
The question, as weird as it feels rolling off my tongue, has to be asked. There’s still a chance we can stop this whole thing from happening if I can just talk some sense into him.
“Because you’re perfect.”
I snort at his haughty tone and throw my hands in the air. “No, I’m not!”
A group of men passing by us abruptly stops. They smirk at one another and step closer in the obvious hopes of eavesdropping better. The sound of Niccolo’s jaw clicking is magnified with the now-hushed crowd around us, and for a moment, I consider making a big old scene—throwing a temper tantrum, flinging a few insults, and putting all my trashy talk-show viewing to good use. A man who worries so much about honor and respect wouldn’t want the little lady mouthing off in public. But my behavior would also mortify Cipriano…and my aunt and uncle. They don’t deserve that, even if they do want to marry me off to an old geezer.
So I close the distance between Niccolo and me by a fraction and lower my voice. “You don’t even know me.”
Niccolo’s gaze flicks over to Cipriano as if he can’t believe I have the audacity to challenge him. Cipriano stares stonily back—and I don’t even attempt to hide my smile.
Ha, ha. He’s on my side, Big Guy.
Niccolo huffs in exasperation. His nostrils flare as he pastes a tight-lipped smile onto his face. “You are mistaken, my dear. I’m aware of your love for art, your light feet on the dance floor, your clever mind, and your occasional sharp tongue, though I dearly hope that last quality grows tempered with time.”
He smiles at the crowd now straining to listen and lifts his chin in acknowledgment, rolling his eyes as if to say, Women, whatcha gonna do?
Then those cool blue eyes bore into mine, and he lowers his voice so only I can hear. “You are but a young girl with much left to learn, though soon you will come to your senses. We have common interests as well as family connections, and we will make a good match. It is what is expected. And it is what will happen. It would behoove you to accept it.”
He exhales, and his face relaxes as though we’ve merely been disagreeing about the weather or what color curtains to put up in our future love nest. I throw my head into my hands, my mouth open in a silent, humorless laugh. I’m aware of the women in the crowd shooting daggers at me, pulling their daughters close to them as if to shield them from me. That’s the worst part—well, no, potentially being stuck here and marrying this guy is the worst part, but it definitely sucks that if I were a normal Renaissance teen, marrying Niccolo would probably seem like I hit the jackpot. Girls here grow up expecting to hook up with an older man, and they have no clue that in healthy relationships, one where the dude isn’t old enough to be your father, a man and a woman get married because they both want to, not because she’s been handed over like some kind of prized cattle.
Not that I actually know anything about healthy relationships personally, but Dr. Phil certainly seems to.
Inhaling slowly, I turn to tell Niccolo this marriage is only happening over my dead body, but no words come out. Because at the end of the square, Lorenzo appears. He intently scans the crowd as if searching for something—or someone. We lock eyes, and that devastating smile crosses his face.
Then he sees who stands beside me.
“Cat!”
I bite my lip from calling out to him. Cipriano, though he doesn’t understand the name, recognizes Lorenzo’s voice and immediately sets off toward his friend, calling a belated “Excuse me” over his shoulder.
“Whatever is he…,” Niccolo’s voice trails off as he looks in the direction Cipriano charged and sees Lorenzo approaching us. A vein in Niccolo’s temple pops as he works his jaw back and forth. A low growl emanates from his chest.
Antonia.
As Niccolo’s eyes reduce to slits, I know she saw me with Lorenzo. And maybe it was a last-ditch effort to win him for herself, or a simple act of vindictiveness for when I didn’t jump to take her advice last night, but when pure hatred washes across Niccolo’s face as he stares at Lorenzo, I know without a doubt—she told him about our dance. Possibly even our kiss.
His lips turn up in a cruel smirk as Lorenzo struggles against Cipriano’s hold. Their two heads—one dark and tousled, the other golden and curly—lean together as Cipriano confirms what is plainly obvious to the rest of the gathered crowd. Niccolo and I are betrothed.
Even the thought makes me nauseous.
Lorenzo’s gaze snaps to mine, and a murmur rises among the patrons as they realize the real-life soap opera taking place before their eyes. Niccolo grabs my arm and starts pulling me in the opposite direction.
“Get your hands off me,” I say through clenched teeth, still not wanting to make a scene even though that ship has long since sailed. I lean back and try to pry my arm out of his grip, but he tightens his fingers around me, and I wince in pain.
“Patience,” Niccolo growls in my ear, “a future bride of mine does not engage in public exhibitions. You will hold yourself together, remember who you are, and act like a lady.”
“And if I’m not a lady?” I spit back, fully aware I’m acting like the exact brat he thinks I am.
When Niccolo stops and turns around, my victorious grin dies before it can even begin. His cold eyes bore into mine. “Then your uncle will be quite displeased. And disgraced.”
The truth of his words sinks in. The only thing he could’ve said to get me to walk away with him now. I give up the struggle.
Running across the piazza to Lore
nzo will do nothing but humiliate my Renaissance family and make everyone believe Patience is the uncivilized foreigner they believe her to be. I’ll just have to find another way to explain to Lorenzo the insanity of the last few hours…and hopefully discover a way out of it.
As Niccolo guides me farther and farther away, my mind reels over one appalling fact. When I first stepped out of Reyna’s tent and then met Alessandra, Cipriano, and Lorenzo, I actually let myself believe the gypsy transportation was the perfect way to get out of my Sweet Sixteen.
But now, as I hear Lorenzo’s voice call my name again, I realize that an unwanted party is nothing compared to an unwanted betrothal.
Chapter Fifteen
The clanging church bells sound different inside the Cathedral Santa Maria del Fiore. The Giotto bell tower—the massively tall white-and-green structure that houses the seven thundering bells—stands just to the left outside, yet the warm sound floats through my ears dull and muted. The early morning sun filters through the dazzling stained glass windows, hitting the marble tiles of the floor and reflecting back onto the breathtaking paintings and frescoes. Any other day, I’d be spellbound.
Today I can barely summon the energy to look.
The past twenty-four hours have been a blur of activity and conversation about wedding feasts, trousseaus, and dowries. Aunt Francesca has been keeping me busy, operating under the delusion that all this planning will get me excited about becoming a blushing bride. Church seemed like the only place I could go without her hovering. Where incessant chatter about a future I don’t want can’t follow me. A place where I can think, crack Reyna’s code, and figure out just how the heck I’m gonna get back home before I end up someone’s wife.
Surprisingly, even with the countless lists and things to prepare, my aunt allowed me to come here—probably in the hopes that God will talk some sense into me. And I have to admit, if ever there’s a person who can help me now, it’s Him.
As I drift across the cold, hard floor and peer up at the domed ceiling, I pray silently for divine intervention. More than anything, I’d love to find a way to stay a little longer with Alessandra, Cipriano, and Lorenzo—but if staying here means marrying Niccolo, I need to get the heck out of Dodge. Whether it’s through the form of gypsy transportation, a huge guardian angel swooping down and carrying me back home, or one of those crazy portal things like in the movies, I don’t care. I just want to be back in my own time again, where life makes sense.
The heady scent of incense tickles my nose, and I sneeze. Behind me, Lucia—the chaperone Aunt Francesca sent with me on my pilgrimage—provides a constant stream of muttering that joins the hushed murmurs of the other patrons as the soundtrack for today’s excursion. I glance behind me and watch her lips move, noticing they’re forming the same words over and over like a chant. A thought tickles the back of my mind.
Turning around, I walk backward and ask, “What are you saying? Is that a prayer?”
She lifts her wide eyes and throws a palm up a moment before I collide into something hard. When arms circle around me, I realize it’s a someone.
“Cat.”
At the sound of Lorenzo’s voice, I sink back against his chest. Just like that, the fog I’ve been in lifts, my numbness fades, and the clanging bells roar to life. His arms tighten around my waist, and I feel his sigh against my neck. Lucia coughs repeatedly—reminding us where we are—and with obvious reluctance, he lets me go.
My shoulders sag in relief as I turn to face him.
“Lorenzo.” His eyes soften as I say his name, and even though the world around us is completely nuts, I smile. “How did you find me?”
The grin he gives me back lacks its usual confidence, but it’s just as sexy as ever. “One of my servants has been stationed outside your palazzo since sunrise.” My eyes widen in surprise, and I can’t help but grin at the sweet, romantic gesture. He laughs once before his face falls. He quickly scans the area around us and soberly whispers, “I needed to speak with you.”
I nod and grab his hands. “I know. Lorenzo, I’m so sorry.” I take a breath and wet my lips, my heart going about a mile a minute. “The piazza yesterday was so messed up—you shouldn’t have found out about Niccolo like that. You have to believe this is not something I want. My uncle totally ambushed me after the ball, and it’s been a living nightmare ever since.”
He closes his eyes tightly and lets go of one of my hands to run his fingers through his disheveled hair. It’s then that I notice how miserable he looks. His doublet is rumpled, there’s a purple tint under his eyes, and his skin is ashen and lifeless. The glow he normally exudes is gone.
“It has been for me as well. I have not yet slept, for I have been formulating a plan.” He steps closer, darts an appraising glance at Lucia, and grasps my shoulders. “Cat, you must fight this betrothal. You do not love Signor di Rialto. You care for me, just as I care for you.”
A half laugh, half whimper bubbles from my chest. “Of course I don’t love him, Lorenzo.” Shaking my head, I want to tell him he’s right—that I do care about him. Want to be with him. But even now, I can’t bring myself to say the words. Instead, I shrug my shoulders. “But it doesn’t matter how I feel.”
His tired face transforms into a mask of determination. Lorenzo skims the back of his knuckles across my cheek, and the gentleness in his gaze makes my stomach twist.
Closing my eyes, I lean into his touch.
I hear him draw a shaky breath and hold it, and when I open my eyes, he lets it out in a rush. “But it does matter. It means everything. Cat, I am fighting my father for permission to marry now. I have promised to take my place in the family business if he allows me to have your hand in marriage. He is…considering”—his voice is a growl as he says the word—“my proposal. And if he denies it, then we will run away together.” Lorenzo’s jaw tightens, and he swallows hard. “Either way, you are not marrying di Rialto.”
For one long moment, I let his words sink in. And when they do, my world tilts for the second time in as many days. What is up with the men around here? Is something in the water? Then I remember they don’t even drink the water, and I’m left clueless again.
For a girl who doesn’t even believe in the institution of marriage after the string of exes her mother’s left behind, I’m certainly racking up the proposals.
But then I shake my head, realizing none of this is funny. “Lorenzo, all you would be doing is playing right into your parents’ hands, giving them what they want. You said it yourself that day in the country—you can’t be a banker. You’re an artist.” I see the rebuttal forming on his lips, and I throw my hand up to stop it. “No. Even if we run, you know there’s no better place to be an artist than Florence. This is your dream, Lorenzo—and I won’t be the reason you give it up!”
The last word echoes off the stone walls, and the churchgoers around us turn to sneer in disapproval. Behind me, Lucia stamps her foot. “Shh!”
Lorenzo gently places his hands on either side of my face, lowering his head to stare directly into my eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper as he says, “Patience D’Angeli—Cat—you are my dream now.”
His gaze is steady and confident, and something inside me sinks, leaving me weak. I rest my forehead against his chest and wrap my arms around his narrow waist, not caring if I’m causing a scandal. What’s the worst they can do to me? Force me into a marriage I don’t want when I’m severely underage? Oh, yeah, they’re already doing that!
Lorenzo kisses the top of my head and whispers so only I can hear, “Find a way to meet me tomorrow for evening vespers. I will be waiting.”
I look up and stare into his hope-filled eyes, failing to find the energy to argue anymore. Slowly I nod in agreement. The smile of victory he gives me in return is nothing short of beautiful. Lorenzo winks, then dashes out the door.
…
My steps are lighter on the way back to the palazzo. Seeing Lorenzo has given me hope again, enough to see through the fog,
at least. It’s not that I’m actually planning to run away with him, but now I have hope that another solution may be out there. I exhale audibly and lace my arm around Lucia’s as we round the corner in front of our house. She rolls her eyes.
“You are in better spirits, Signorina,” she says, shaking me off and taking a step back.
She motions for me to take the lead into the courtyard, and as we enter the coolness of the inner square, I look up to see Alessandra watching us. She gives me a cautious, tight-lipped smile, and I wave.
“I am in better spirits, Lucia. But you know what I need? A girls’ night. I’ve never really had one before, and besides, shouldn’t the bride at least get a bachelorette party?”
While the joke is forced, the sentiment isn’t. I know none of this mess is Alessandra’s fault; she’s been all kinds of awesome from the moment I got here. But ever since my uncle dropped the Niccolo bomb, I’ve been too wrapped up in my own misery to let her in.
Lucia raises an eyebrow at the unfamiliar word but nods, somehow getting my meaning. Just in case, I explain, “I need a night away from all the drama, a night of pure, unadulterated fun. You think you can get the kitchen to whip up some of those awesome pinecone pastry things—and whatever other medieval goodies you guys have going on up there—and bring them to my room?”
Lucia nods again and asks, “Will you be alone?”
I smile up at Alessandra’s window and say, “Not if I can help it.” Cupping my hand around my mouth, I call out, “Hey, Less, you’re sleeping in my room tonight! I’m gonna show you what a girls’ night in London looks like!”
She catches my wink and beams down at me. “I shall meet you in your room!”
Her fiery tresses disappear from the window, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucia’s mouth twitch before she dashes up the stairs. As I follow behind her, I try to remember all the chick flicks I’ve seen that had sleepover scenes, considering I haven’t had one personally since I was eight. Though the products in movies might be better, I think the basic ingredients are still the same: beauty treatments, makeovers, and lots and lots of girl talk.
My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Page 17
