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Mélisande grinned and settled into the crook of his arm. “What made you become such a shameless roué? Or were you simply born with an obsession for the opposite sex?”
He laughed at her directness. “Indeed not; I was raised in an exceedingly prudish household,” he said with disdain. “My father served as Prince Assistant to the Papal Throne, and as such, we—my brother and I—were bound by the strictest code of conduct. Any form of enjoyment was practically synonymous with committing a mortal sin.” He rolled his eyes, making her giggle. “Naturally, I rebelled.”
“How you must have frustrated him!”
“Indeed, such was my chief pursuit,” he agreed, laughing with her. “By the time I was eighteen, I was such an embarrassment to the family that to get me out of sight, my father had me made an emissary of the Roman Curia—a servant of the Holy Church, if you can imagine—and sent out of the country to trouble foreign courts. It was a benevolent form of banishment. One I was happy to suffer.”
“Mmm, the prodigal son,” she murmured, running her hand across his chest. The sprinkling of hair over the muscle there seemed to fascinate her. He understood, for her rounded smoothness held the same attraction for him.
“Indeed. I returned every few years to visit my mother—and endure my father’s criticism, of course,” he added. “I tried to keep tales of my exploits from reaching his ears, but he always seemed to know everything. I found out later that he had his spies reporting back to him on my activities. When he died last year, he said I was his greatest disappointment.”
“What an awful thing to say to one’s child!”
Alessandro smiled and patted her hand, loving her for springing to his defense, even though her sympathy was misplaced. It suddenly occurred to him that this was the first time in many years that a woman had asked to hear his story. Many, many years. Usually, it
was he who listened while they talked.
“He was laughing as he said it,” he reassured her. “I’ll never be the pious stick he was, nor was I anything like my brother. Pietro was the ducal heir until three years ago. Unfortunately for me, he died without an heir.” He sighed, feeling the sadness return for the first time in a long while. “Father was never the same. All his joy, what little he ever had, died with his firstborn. I now bear the burden of his titles: Duke of Gravina, Emissary of the Curia, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire, et cetera, et cetera,” he said. “A lot of titular nonsense, but it sounds awfully impressive when one is formally introduced.”
Mélisande lifted a brow and traced his jawline with a fingertip. “And how is it that such an important personage is here in England engaging in, shall we say, ‘pleasurable recreation’ rather than back home tending to the business associated with all those burdensome titles?”
“My father rather frequently complained to his peers regarding my shameful proclivities. Thus, when I inherited his titles, the Curia found a way to prevent my contaminating their holiness with my wicked ways.” He grinned. “Knowing my love of vagrancy, and yet respecting my not inconsiderable diplomatic skills, they sent me here to advance their political position with the English king.”
“And your mother? What is she like?”
Alessandro’s gaze softened. “You would like her a great deal, I think,” he told her, fully believing it. “She has courage and spirit. She was a trial to my father at times, but they loved each other.”
“And does she share your father’s opinion of your lifestyle?”
“She tolerates my wayward behavior with much grumbling and a great deal of unsolicited advice.” He chuckled. “She wishes me to settle down and take my place as the head of our family. And I shall, one day,” he added, forcing himself not to look at her. God forbid that she look him in the eyes and see the hope burning in his heart. “One day, I will continue our esteemed line and make her happy again.”
“I, too, was a disappointment to my parents,” she told him. “Now they are both gone, and I am certainly not living up to their high expectations of me.”
“Do we not all fall short of both divine and human expectations?”
“I suppose you’re right,” she replied, smiling again. “But enough of gloom and doom. Tell me more about the man behind the wicked reputation.”
“What else would you like to know?”
Her eyes lit. “Everything,” she said eagerly. “I already know you enjoy chess and dancing, but what of life’s other enjoyments? Besides the one we’ve just explored, that is; although”—her gaze dropped to his stiring member—“I can certainly understand why you’re so keen on it.” Grinning naughtily, she reached down to grasp him. “I myself am finding it quite entertaining.”
He burst out laughing at her bawdiness, and then again at her blush. For a virgin, she said and did the most unexpected things! “I find you”—he paused, distracted by her hand’s slow movement up and down his swelling length—“delightfully surprising.” His laughter quickly turned into desire. “I know you to be a gently born virgin—at least until recently,” he said, raising a brow, “yet you have all the boldness of a seasoned courtesan.”
Mélisande colored, and her hand stopped momentarily. “Actually, my mother was a courtesan. Isabelle Jeannette d’Orleans. It was her surname I gave you when we first met.”
On hearing the name of Louis’s first and most beloved mistress, Alessandro stilled. It is as I suspected, then... Isabelle d’Orleans was a legend in Versailles, her name still occasionally mentioned at court by the older set.
A log popped in the hearth, briefly bathing the room in a warm glow. His gaze dropped to the tiny mole on Mélisande’s left breast, the one shared by King Louis and Louis’s mother. Moving down, his gaze rested on the oddly shaped birthmark on her right hip. He’d had the honor of attending the French monarch in his morning dress once, and he’d noticed that same, singular mark in the exact same place. Mélisande’s eyes, too, were her paternal grandmother’s.
“My father fell in love with her when he first visited Versailles, and they were married before he left,” Mélisande continued. “My mother taught me many things. She once said that passion makes us bold, frees us from inhibition.”
Her mother must have married to prevent a scandal.
“Alessandro?”
“Apologies, amora. I must be getting tired.” He wondered if she knew her true parentage. No wonder she was so passionate! Her mother was famed for her torrid affaire with the French king, who was himself a lusty man.
“I’m a little tired, as well,” Mélisande admitted. She looked to the cold tub with distaste. Rising, she yanked the bellpull, then threw on a wrap and stood by the hearth to warm up.
