“You have learned something tonight, Giana.” He gazed at her flushed face, his eyes searching hers. “You have seen something I had not expected you to see. Imagine giving a whore pleasure.”
Giana’s throat suddenly seemed clogged, and she turned her face away. The man had made Margot like a crazed animal, while he controlled her, caressed her. And she, just watching him, had trembled, as if it were she he was touching. She pressed her back against the chair, wanting only to escape him. Giana felt herself clammy with sweat, and she wanted to bathe, to cleanse her body and her mind. Her eyes went back to them again, and she saw Margot sprawled limply on her back, the man beside her, kissing her face and her tumbled hair. She shuddered at the sight of his manhood thrusting out from the thick black hair at his groin, still pressed against Margot’s thigh.
Giana tilted her frilled parasol to shadow her face from the blistering sun and gazed back through the magnificent terraced garden toward the vast Villa d’Este. For a moment she let the sound of the tinkling water from the hundreds of fountains drown out Cametta Palli’s bright chatter. She had thought to enjoy herself today, for she hadn’t been in the company of people her own age since she had left Switzerland. But she felt oddly annoyed with their incessant chatter, and was not quite sure why.
“Come, Giana,” Cametta said, “let’s wal
k to the Temple of Vesta.”
Giana nodded, thinking it the most sensible thing Cametta had said all afternoon. Although her half-dozen petticoats were heavy and cumbersome, and her corset pinched her ribs, she did not want to sit again and listen to Cametta prattling to her fiancé, Vittorio Cavelli.
“But I am too tired,” Bianca Salvado cried. “I want to rest.” She cast an imploring glance toward Vittorio Cavelli, her pink lips pouting.
You mean flirt, Giana thought on a sigh. She felt bored, bored with all the talk of how many flounces looked best on the girls’ dresses, and of all the plans of the young gentlemen who had accompanied them on their outing to Tivoli to see the Villa d’Este.
The five girls were all unwed, as were the young men in their party. A manservant had accompanied them to serve their refreshments, and Signora Palli stayed a discreet distance from the group.
Vittorio Cavelli, Cametta Palli’s fiancé, smiled gaily and gave Giana a mock bow. “Our English visitor has the stamina of a mountain goat.”
“But you are too serious, Giana,” Cametta said severely. “I have not heard you laugh once, and Vittorio is so amusing.” She lowered her voice and added on a sly whisper, “And so is Bruno. Don’t you think he looks romantic with his dark hair falling over his forehead? His eyes grow so languid when he looks at you.”
Vittorio was not at all amusing, but Giana forced a pained smile to her lips. He talked only nonsense, flattering the girls with his oily charm. What did Cametta see in him? As for Bruno Barbinelli, all he needed was to fake a club foot to complete his attempt at being Lord Byron. The several times she had seen him before, he had appeared content to keep his distance and simply gaze at her—with a penetrating stare he seemed to be practicing.
They rested, as Bianca Salvado wished. The young men spread blankets upon the ground and helped the girls display themselves to their best advantage. Glasses of lemonade were passed about by Signora Palli’s stolid, silent manservant.
“I do wish,” Cametta whispered to Giana, “that Vittorio and I could be alone. Do not tell Mama, but I have met him on several occasions at the Piazza del Popolo. But of course my maid was with me.” She sighed soulfully, her eyes resting adoringly upon the slender Vittorio.
Giana looked at her oddly.
“Ah, do not say that you disapprove. You know what parents are. They forget that they were once young and in love.”
“Yes, I suppose they do.”
“We will be marrying in but two months.”
Giana gazed over at Signora Palli, who was complacently drinking her lemonade, one benign eye on her daughter.
“Do you love Vittorio?” Giana asked.
Cametta cocked her dark head, bouncing her tight curls over her ears. “Of course. Who would not? He is so handsome, so gallant.”
“But do you know him?”
“Giana, how foolish you are. I know him enough to let him kiss me.” She rolled her eyes. “His mouth is so firm, and yet so gentle. I much enjoy it. Of course, he apologizes for being so forward.”
Bianca Salvado said, “What secrets are you two tattling?” She did not wait for a reply. “Vittorio, I believe Cametta is telling Giana all about you.”
“I trust you are being kind, little pigeon,” Vittorio said, a charming smile indenting the creases beside his mouth.
“Pigeons are such nasty birds, Vittorio. I vow I would prefer another fowl.”
But his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, Giana saw. My God, she thought, staring at him, he is bored. How strange, she thought, studying him from beneath her lashes; the way he gestured with his hands when he spoke, his palms up and his fingers spread, somehow reminded her of Randall. No, impossible. Randall was not a vain fop, and he was never bored in her company.
Bruno Barbinelli, a dark, brooding young man, an image he was at pains to project, rose and proffered Giana an elaborate bow. “Would you care to stroll through the gardens, signorina? We will not, of course, be out of Signora Palli’s watchful sight.”
Giana paused for only a moment. She wanted to walk about the beautiful gardens, no matter who her escort. She looked a question toward Signora Palli, and at the lady’s nod, she allowed Bruno to help her rise, and tucked her hand through his arm.
“Do not go far, you two,” Cametta called out, and dissolved into a giggle.