CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 7

As one does, I made conversation with my betrothed. "How beautiful the flowers are tonight. My mother chose them and arranged them. She's invariably a style setter." By that I meant the flowers were a hodgepodge of wild blossoms and blinding colors combined in ways they should never be . . . and yet such was Juliet's cache that I knew tomorrow morning every noble lady in Verona would be following her lead.

Duke Stephano paid no attention to my conversational gambit. Grabbing my wrist, he hauled me toward a concealed corner of the room, and despite a flutter and a flurry, no one intervened.

I'm not a large woman, but I have many appallingly rambunctious siblings and I know how to set my heels.

When Duke Stephano realized he could haul me no farther, he released me beside the long table filled with marvelous dishes of artichokes roasted in breadcrumbs and cheese, blushing peaches baked in custard, gilded pastries, pickled pheasant eggs in many colors, pies of calf brains, and crusty breads accompanied by herbs and oils.

I nodded at the chef who waited at the end of the table for my approval. The Montague kitchen was the envy of Verona, and with the help of our trusted cook, I had made it so. Foolish Lysander for abandoning me so soon. I would have made him a good wife. Not that I'd planned so far ahead . . .

At the center stood a sugar sculpture of a loving couple surrounded by tweeting birds. The female resembled me. The male, unfortunately, resembled a goblin. Our sculptor, it appeared, held an unfavorable opinion of Duke Stephano.

I had the presence of mind to pick up a sturdy silver bowl that would bruise if slammed down on Duke Stephano's broad-knuckled fingers. I wandered along the table, choosing a tidbit here and a tidbit here, smiling at guests who lingered near, inquiring of children and elderly relatives.

Duke Stephano followed on my heels, snarling like a mad dog. "If you keep eating so much, you'll be fat as butter. Like your mother."

Some would say I should have done the proper thing and applied tact and flattery. I can, you know, if I have the time to think through my words. I'm as trained as any other virtuous maiden of Verona.

Yet with no chance of appeasing him and more than a little incensed that he should so insult my beloved mother Juliet, I stopped and boldly looked him over from head to toe.

He was a tall man, once mighty and handsome, but dissipated living had rendered him outsized in all the unfortunate spots and, it was rumored, he suffered from gout. My critical gaze flayed him, and he flushed even ruddier yet. When I felt I'd made my point, I answered in kind. "I will never be fat, for with your wives you cannot breed children, you breed death."

"No more. That part of my life is done. You and I, I pledge, will live long together, with many children." He cast a glance around at the guests and the healthy number of Montagues and Capulets among them. "You should be fertile. God owes me that."

I crossed myself. "Sir, you blaspheme and tempt the fates. The deaths of your wives—"

"The deaths of my wives weigh no more heavily on my soul than your marred reputation weighs on you. After your display of immodesty in that corridor with that . . . Marcketti youth, I should renounce you. And prancing all about the ballroom with Prince Escalus's men." He made himself plain for all to hear—and guests and servants did linger near, ears cocked. "Yet I have good reason for marrying you."

Aha!The truth loomed, waiting for me to ferret it out. "Pray tell me, good lord, what reason would that be?"

"Power, my stupid trollop. Power and revenge." He laughed, a deep, infectious laugh that startled me with its warmth....

And sent a chill up my spine. "Power? From marrying me? What power would you find in this unholy union?"

"Don't worry your fool's cap mind about that. You are nothing but a female, a pawn. Be grateful for your part in this, my stratagem."

Behind him in the ballroom, Lysander swaggered in, cap askew, arms draped around some of the most disreputable youths in Verona.

I saw his drunkenness. I despised it and me for longing so keenly. Lysander was still the most handsome, shapely, and exhilarating youth I had ever seen, and if he would come to me, I would welcome him in my heart and in my arms.

Duke Stephano turned as if my gaze had provided him with a map. He observed Lysander, then turned back to me and thrust one stubby finger in my face. "Come to me in the garden when the belltower strikes the evening hour, and I'll teach you how a good wife should speak and behave. Do not fail to meet me at the fountain, or tomorrow's sunrise will never be witnessed by your cheating eyes."

I curtsied deeply, courteously. "My lord, I come at your command." I watched him walk away, then pulled the strong, slender carving knife out of the roast duck.