CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5

No one could call Prince Escalus a handsome man.

His harsh countenance was marked from the Acquasasso family's tortures: a knife had nicked him beside his right eye and above the same eye, red ripples in his skin gave testimony that red-hot something had been held close to burn and scar. Even years later, his brown complexion held a gray tinge of dungeon. He limped slightly from the iron bar they had used on the bones of his right leg. He was now but twenty-four, but at the temples his shoulder-length black hair contained streaks of premature white, and he had a reputation for moving silently and appearing suddenly when he was least wanted.

For instance, now.

Prince Escalus gazed upon me and in the reflection of his critical eye, I saw myself as I must look: glowing with the first flush of love, disheveled by the fall to the floor, and worst of all, unchaperoned.

Hastily I tucked my hair and straightened my gown.

Prince Escalus then focused on the young lover. "You are Lysander, aren't you? Lysander of the Marcketti of Venice?"

"Yes, Prince Escalus." Lysander whipped off his badly chosen cap and bowed a little too deeply. He was nervous—as was I.

"I'm glad you've chosen to come to this celebration and end the difficulties between the prosperous Marcketti and the noble Montagues." Prince Escalus pushed the door wider and spoke into the shadowy room, where I could see his three steadfast companions and bodyguards, Dion, Marcellus, and Holofernes, and—"Are you pleased, also, Lord Romeo?"

Shit. This situation could not possibly be more ruinous.

"I'm overjoyed at this unexpected turn of events, the announcement of my daughter's betrothal." As my father moved forward into the light, he spoke with intensity and in warning tone—for someone else shoved his way forward.

I knew who it was even before I saw his face.

My soon-to-be spouse and murderer, Duke Stephano. He was red faced, perspiring—and livid.

Woe, for ruin is now my middle name.

I bowed my head to shut out the sight. By all that was holy, I had betrayed myself to my betrothed. I would be shunned, condemned, forced to take the veil as a penitent, a fallen woman.

But hark! Prince Escalus spoke surely, slowly, commandingly. "Romeo, I know the tradition is that the prospective bride should follow her parents into the celebration where they will make the appropriate announcement. But since I am without issue and I'm fond of both the Montagues and Duke Stephano of the noble house of Creppa, may I assume the privilege of leading the bride and groom into this blessed occasion and introducing them as a couple to the people of Verona?"

I kept my head bent, yet looked through my lashes.

My father's mouth hung open, as did Duke Stephano's.

Lysander looked like a recently kicked puppy.

Prince Escalus seemed to find his intercession nothing out of the ordinary, yet when my gaze touched his, his stern expression commanded me, and I turned my eyes to the floor, where they remained.

In haste, my father recovered himself. "My wife, Lady Juliet, and I are grateful for your support and generosity, and to have your public benediction on this union makes it doubly blessed. Indeed, my prince, I yield my place gracefully." He put his arm around Lysander's shoulders. "Let me guide you to the party, boy, where you can find friends your age and frolic like the unmarried, frivolous, silly youth you are." As Papà forcibly led Lysander away, he emphasized each of the adjectives, and I foresaw a blistering lecture delivered in a furious undertone, for as any fond father would do, Papà blamed Lysander for the disgraceful state of affairs.

Nurse was summoned to erase all trace of my fall to the floor.

Prince Escalus excused himself to take a piss and strongly suggested Duke Stephano join him. Apparently he feared that without supervision, the duke would flee into the night and the scandal he sought to avert would overtake us all.

The men vanished toward the garden, where I'd had installed a series of portable Leonardo's Lavs. (I was tired of drunk men pissing on my beautifully tended roses.)

Nurse arrived; she'd obviously been apprised of what had happened, for she pushed me into the now-empty chamber and worked in haste, whispering that I must say as little as possible, speak to no one in confidence and to remember, unfriendly ears eagerly awaited further scandal.

I reminded her I was wise beyond my years and knew what was expected of me . . . and abruptly shut my mouth when she glared and said, "Like your parents, you have proved yourself to be feckless, irresponsible, made mad by a full moon and a handsome face and figure."

What could I say? While I never would have believed it possible, every word was true. "All I did was talk to him," I muttered.

"Without the supervision of your parents and his! If report tells true, you held his hand!"

"To be precise, he held mine—"

"Shut your foolish mouth."

I did.

By the time I was refurbished, the prince and the duke had returned, one dour, one surly, neither speaking.

So it was I found myself pacing along the corridor toward the ballroom, Prince Escalus between my betrothed and me, and my hand on the prince's arm.

The silence was crushing in its weight.

As we stepped in, Prince Escalus said to me, "Smile."

He was right, and I smiled, chin lifted, joyously, proudly, carrying myself like a queen as my mother had taught me.

All of Verona was here in the magnificent Montague ballroom.

Drops of belladonna made eyes bright. Plucking revealed long, noble female foreheads and bleaching creating golden hair where formerly raven hair had reigned. Male hairlines also revealed long, noble foreheads, although that was more from hair loss than any human intervention. Musicians played light songs of dance and cheer, and troubadours crooned of romance and thwarted love. Thick blue curtains embroidered with the Montague arms concealed alcoves where a man and a woman could enjoy an assignation. In short, everything was as it should be . . .

Except where was Lysander?

Walking in with Prince Escalus meant that officially, I was still a respectable woman of society.

Yet unfortunately, Duke Stephano dragged me down into the stink of suspicion, and he would never forgive me for my part in his humiliation.

I wished I could assure Duke Stephano his humiliation compared nothing to mine—not that he'd care. I had fallen in love with a pretty face who abandoned me at the first whiff of challenge and scandal. Lysander should be here, staring at me longingly, not cavorting with youths his age or kissing other girls.

The prince did as he had promised; he lifted his glass and proposed a toast to our upcoming nuptials, and his patronage made it impossible for Duke Stephano to denounce me. But as soon as we had been politely cheered and insincerely congratulated, Prince Escalus moved on, leaving me alone with my furious betrothed.

Not alone alone, you understand. Montague servants practiced invisibility while carrying out their duties, yet glanced worriedly at me and consulted with one another. They would do what they could for me, bless them. Guests milled all around, watching eagerly for rumblings of trouble.

I flatter myself it was not me society so enjoyed seeing flayed like a sardine on a platter, but rather my betrothed, Duke Stephano. He treated his own kin with appalling indifference, allowing his aging parents no more than a retirement in a cold country home at the foothills of the Alps. Orlando, his younger brother and heir, lived in exile, afraid for his life. His servants despised him. Three dead wives equaled three families who loathed him. If I were a gambling woman, I'd bet his horses and dogs wished him dead. Certainly every guest and servant here rejoiced to see him dishonored.

Duke Stephano grabbed my arm and squeezed hard enough to raise a bruise.

I struggled, but a hand appeared on his shoulder, squeezed just as hard as he'd done with me, and spun him around.

Rescue! And from a most unexpected source.

Duke Stephano faced Fabian and Gertrude of the house of Brambilia, the people who made him look like a saint.

Titania's parents.