Читать книгу The Devil’s Queen - Jeanne Kalogridis - Страница 23

A small crowd had been invited to the palazzo that evening to more properly celebrate my arrival. Donna Lucrezia had taken care to ensure that at least one representative was present from each of the city’s most influential families—the Orsini, Farnese, delle Rovere, and Riario.

I smiled a great deal that night as I was introduced to dozens of Rome’s luminaries. Uncle Filippo, bound to leave the following morning, knew everyone well and was clearly at ease in Roman society. Sandro’s manner with the guests was far less stuffy than it had been the previous evening; he actually grinned and displayed some wit.

As we were seated at the table and wine was poured, Ippolito remained noticeably absent. I was disappointed; I wanted to tell him that I had decided to forgive him. And I suspected my blue dress was quite fetching.

Supper was served. His Holiness had sent over a dozen suckling pigs and a barrel of his best wine. I was rather nervous at first but soon became lost in conversation with the French ambassador, who complimented my feeble efforts at his native tongue, and with Lucrezia’s grown daughter Maria, a gracious woman. I was enjoying the people, the food, and the wine, and had forgotten about Ippolito until I caught sight of him in the doorway.

His doublet was bright blue velvet, the same shade as my gown, with the pearl button at the neck undone; his short black hair was tousled. The conversation ebbed as others noticed him.

“My apologies to the assembled company,” he said, with a sweeping bow. “And to our dear hostess, Donna Lucrezia. I was forgetful of the hour.”

He quickly took his place at table, directly across from Sandro and at some remove from me. Chatter resumed, and I returned my attention to my plate and the French ambassador.

Five minutes later, I heard a shout. Ippolito had jumped to his feet so quickly that he had knocked over his goblet; a garnet stain was spreading across the table, but he cared not at all.