“I see,” Giana said.
“No, of course you do not, but your husband will show you what is expected, dear Giana. He will be gentle, I am certain. It is not something to dread, indeed, I find that I sometimes—” Angela stopped in mid-sentence, still flushing. “And the result can be a lovely baby.” She rose suddenly and her voice became brusque. “Now, my friend, this is most improper talk. Let me show you my roses and azaleas. They are among the most beautiful in all of Rome, even more lovely, I think, than those at the Piazza di Spagna. Have you walked up the Spanish Steps to the Piazza della Trinita` di Monte? I can scarce climb twenty of those steep steps without feeling faint. But Teodoro’s arm is always there to steady me.”
Elvira, a tall, long-legged girl with flowing thick black hair, lay on her back on the golden coverlet, her white legs parted. A young, pale-skinned man, hairless and as soft-looking as Elvira, stood over her, running his long fingers along the inside of her thigh.
“It appears this gentleman will proceed in a more routine fashion,” Daniele said. “This, my dear Giana, is how most wives are taken.”
The man straddled Elvira’s legs and pushed himself against her, his white buttocks in the air.
“I do believe Elvira is enjoying this,” Daniele said indifferently, “else she’s a fine actress. Probably the latter.”
Elvira wrapped her long legs about his thrusting buttocks and looked up at him, her face contorted.
“He is hurting her.”
“Oh no, my dear. Elvira’s studied expressions encourage her partner to believe that he is the only man in the world and that she is experiencing great passion.”
Elvira and the man were rocking against each other on the bed, his arms rocking Elvira’s shoulders and her hands stroking his white back. The man suddenly tensed and threw back his head.
“Elvira is quite talented,” Daniele observed as the man collapsed on top of her. “She had to spend very little time and not a great deal of effort.”
But Giana’s eyes were closed. That was how babies were made, that was what Teodoro did with Angela. That is what you will do with Randall. Somehow, she could not now remember the pleasure she had felt when Randall had touched his lips to hers. She felt only fear and revulsion and shame.
“Could Elvira have a baby?”
“Whores do not have babies, Giana, only wives.” At her look of incomprehension, he sighed and said, “There are ways to prevent conception, and a girl who beds several men a night must use them. You may ask Lucienne if you are interested in specifics.”
Giana shrugged indifferently. “Since I will never be a whore,” she said coldly, “I have no need to know.”
Giana took up her post behind the naked statue, thankful she had hidden herself from the longing glances of Señor Alfredo. She gazed about the brightly lit salon and rested her eyes indifferently upon Elvira, whose hand nestled comfortably upon a gentleman’s thigh. Laughing, brash Elvira, only twenty years old, a whore since she was fifteen. “Sí, little Helen,” she would say in her bright, lisping voice, “I am everything you are not, but what you are, I cannot understand. Non capisco. Men,” she would say, “are such simpletons. One has but to toss them a smile, caress them ever so gently, and part one’s legs. And the money they will pay.” She would roll her glinting dark eyes. “So much easier than being married to some poor macellaio, how you say, ah, butcher, and cooking and having babies every year.”
“Do you ever feel anything?” Giana had asked her once.
Elvira had raised her lovely thin black brows. “My poor Helen—this is my occupazione, my business. My pleasure will be one day with a man I choose.”
Giana started at the touch of Lucia’s hand upon her arm. “Look, cara,” Lucia whispered. “Is he not the most beautiful man you have ever seen?”
Giana followed Lucia’s pointing finger. A man stood in the doorway of the salon in the company of Signore Travola, a wealthy shipowner. He was handsome, Giana admitted, tall, broad-shouldered, and narrow-waisted. He rested his topper against his double-breasted black dress coat, set over straight black trousers. His waistcoat was pearl-gray silk, his shirt and cravat snowy white. She judged him to be in his late twenties, very dark, with thick black hair and nearly black eyes. He was much too large a man to be Italian, and he was clean-shaven, without the fashionable bushy side whiskers. He was doubtless a foreigner, but what nationality, she could not guess. He smiled at something Signore Travola said, displaying even white teeth. “Sí,” she said, “he is attractive, I suppose.”
Lucia sighed. “I hope he chooses me. He has an air about him . . . a man who knows women and enjoys them.” She gave a delicious shudder.
“He is still a man . . . and a client.”
“Ah, cara, you are so funny. If you met him at one of your fancy dinners or at a ball, wouldn’t you be drawn to him? Want him to take you in his strong arms?”
“No.”
“You are such a child. A little moth, afraid of the blazing flame. Wish me luck. I would certainly prefer him to that plump little Mario Galviani who sweats all over me.” Lucia danced away, her eyes bright, her full hips swaying provocatively. She took a glass of champagne in her hand and struck a pose against a high-backed chair, one meant, Giana saw, for the beautiful young man.
Giana watched him as he gazed about the salon. Though he seemed to laugh easily when his companion spoke, she thought he looked bored. He smiled perfunctorily toward Lucia, but made no move toward her. His dark eyes found Giana’s for a brief instant, and she quickly drew back into the shadow of the statue. She found, to her surprise, that she was shaking. He was too large, too overpowering, and he frightened her.
* * *
Alexander Saxton raised a thick black brow as he studied a tall honey-haired girl.
“Dio, Alex, you have the look of Satan himself,” Signore Travola said, grinning over the wide space between his front teeth. He followed Alex’s gaze. “That is Margot, my friend. From what Madame Lucienne tells me, Margot arrived on her doorstep some five months ago, after the bloody French had killed her sister in the February riots in Paris.”
“Rome’s gain, undoubtedly.”
“She has the saddest eyes and the softest mouth, so I have heard. She is just the medicine I would prescribe for a man who has the look you do.”
Alex said, “Medicine, Santelo? I do not particularly care for a medicine that has already been taken by so many men.”
Santelo laughed. “Always so fastidious, Alex. Since this is your last night in Rome for a month, you can hardly find a virgin and set her up as your mistress before you leave. That would be a waste in any case. And you are mixing pleasure with business on this trip, are you not?”
“Si,” Alex said, his dark eyes on the girl Margot again. He admired the graceful curve of her long neck, and her sloping white shoulders. Her waist appeared tiny in the huge bell-shaped gown. He sighed, and said more to himself than to Santelo, “I do have the need, and the girl is tempting enough.” His gaze swept the now crowded room. “Who is that other blond girl? The one who seems to be hiding behind the statue?”
Santelo shrugged and shook his finger. “You had better hurry, Alex. I see another gentleman interested in your Margot. Your obvious preference for blond-haired girls can prove a problem in Rome.”
“It is not particularly a preference, Santelo, it is just that I enjoy discovering if all the hair is blond. Now, my friend, if you will excuse me, I think it is time I took my medicine. I will doubtless see you in the morning before I leave for Milan.”
Signore Travola watched his American business associate wend his way toward Margot, his stride graceful for so large a man. He was not particularly surprised to see Margot’s amber-colored eyes light up in genuine pleasure. Most women responded to the handsome American like that. He wondered what it was Americans ate that made them grow so large. He watched Alex take Margot’s arm and guide her from the salon. As they passed him, he winked broadly at Alex. “Do not forget that
lovely mouth,” he said.
“Who is that beautiful man, caro?” Lucienne asked, handing Santelo a glass of champagne. “So large he is. A foreigner?”
“Si, an American, Lucienne, a businessman from New York.”
“He has the look of a wealthy man.”
“His shipping empire grows by the day.”
“And yet he is young.”
“And in need of the tonic your Margot will provide. He lost his wife last year. He works like a demon—perhaps to forget.”
“He will forget tonight,” Lucienne said complacently. “Now, you must please yourself, caro.” She beckoned Lucia, and turned away to greet Daniele.
Santelo eyed the sloe-eyed Lucia, and knew he was not in the mood tonight to be smothered between her huge breasts. He tossed down his champagne, shook his head at Lucia, and bade good night to Lucienne. He took his leave, wondering as he walked out into the warm night if Alex was enjoying himself.
“Good evening, Lucienne,” Daniele greeted her. “I see my chick is hiding again behind her statue.”
“Ah, caro, that is because Señor Alfredo is here again tonight. He vows not to leave Rome until he has tasted her charms. Even with the skills she has learned to keep my gentlemen at arm’s length, she fears Alfredo will simply haul her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs.”
“So she has learned some of your skills, Lucienne?” Daniele asked with great interest.
“The child has learned a thing or two, I think. Before you arrived on Tuesday evening, she chatted most skillfully with several gentlemen. They adored her, but she told them with a practiced moue of disappointment that she was already engaged for the evening. She had them eating out of her small hands, thankful they had the chance to speak to her. At least she no longer plays the terrified little girl I remember clutching my arm three weeks ago.”
Although Daniele appeared pleased with Lucienne’s description, he felt a tug of sorrow. He had noticed himself that her beautiful eyes no longer shone with a young girl’s sparkle.
“She talks to my girls quite a bit, just as you wished. Margot was complaining to me that she never runs out of questions.”
“No, I don’t suspect that she would.” Daniele paused a moment and sipped his champagne. “I am conducting something in the nature of an experiment next week. Giana will spend the day with girls and boys near her own age. Indeed, one of the young men—” Daniele paused at the sound of a man’s shouting voice. He saw Draco make his way unobtrusively toward the man, and Lucienne’s attention followed him.
“The fool has drunk too much,” Lucienne muttered. “I will talk to you later, Daniele.”
Draco escorted the gentleman gently from the salon, and within a couple of minutes the gay conversations resumed. Daniele made his way to Giana.
“Good evening, my dear,” he said.
“Uncle, who was that loud fool?”
Daniele shrugged. “Someone new to Lucienne’s establishment. He will not be allowed entrance again. Are you ready to accompany me upstairs?”
“For another lesson?”
“Yes.”
“I would as soon not, Uncle. There is nothing you can show me that I haven’t already seen.”
He heard indifference in her young voice, and was not sure if she feigned it. “Nonetheless,” he said, offering her his arm.
Giana sucked in her breath when Daniele opened the curtain to the Golden Chamber. It was the young man Lucia had pointed out, with Margot. His dark eyes were resting upon the wedge of thick blond hair between Margot’s plump thighs.
“I am pleased with you,” Alex said, and drew her to him.
Daniele observed the couple on the golden bed with the objectivity of a connoisseur. Margot was astride, her white hands splayed on his wide chest, her head thrown back above her arched back.
“It is one of the few times a man allows the woman the upper hand, so to speak,” he said to Giana. He saw that Giana had lost her negligent pose and had grown silent beside him.
Giana watched the man’s hands as they stroked through Margot’s hair and down her back to knead her full hips. There was both gentleness and power in his hands. He swung Margot onto her back in an easy graceful motion, and knelt above her. Giana wanted to look away, but she couldn’t seem to move her eyes away from him. She had never seen a man’s body so perfectly proportioned, so severely elegant. His chest was covered with a mat of curling dark hair, and his waist and belly were lean and sculptured with muscle. She drew in her breath sharply as he gently raised Margot’s legs to his shoulders. She saw him meet Margot’s wide eyes before he smiled and lifted her hips to his mouth.
Giana felt her blood rush to her face. She felt oddly warm, especially in her belly, and her lips were suddenly dry. “What is he doing, Uncle?”
Daniele smiled in genuine pleasure. “It appears that you haven’t seen everything yet, Giana. He is giving Margot a woman’s pleasure, something one rarely sees in a brothel. And from her response, my dear Giana, I would say he is doing it admirably well.”
Margot was trembling, breathing in short gasps. She tried to pull him over her, to give him his pleasure, but he held her tightly to him. He was a master, this one, she thought vaguely.
“Relax, Margot,” he said to her, raising his head. “I want no playacting from you. I want to feel your pleasure.”
“No, signore,” she panted, her body aching with sensation. “I am not important. It is you—” A great shudder coursed through her body, and she clenched her teeth to keep from crying out, but a groan tore from her throat. He moved astride her and gently parted her with his fingers, his eyes on her dazed face. She tasted herself on his lips as he plunged inside her. She felt her body stiffen and let her cries fill the room. It had been so long, so very long since she had felt such pleasure.
Giana couldn’t seem to breathe easily as she stared at the heaving couple. The heat in her belly seemed like a fire in a hot desert. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind, but she felt herself shudder when Margot shuddered, felt herself flush as Margot writhed beneath him, her face contorted, her hips thrusting upward frantically, almost desperately. What was happening to her? Giana had never seen a woman so abandoned, only the men. To be certain, the girls groaned and moved about when the men took them, but Giana knew that they were pretending, nothing more.
Giana saw the sweat glistening on Margot’s white flanks. The man’s huge body was still pressed against her. He seemed to be devouring her, consuming her. She was suddenly terrified at the answering response in her own body. “Please, Uncle,” she cried, her voice hoarse, clutching at Daniele’s sleeve, “I want to go home. Please.”
“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.
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