A pity, the prince thought, that she was a brunette. Brunettes were so common. She had obviously inherited her Florentine father’s coloring. Still, the skin was flawless, and the aquamarine eyes now engaging his quite boldly were spectacular. And since she was a widow, he would not have to worry about protecting her virtue. “You are different from your sister,” he told her candidly.
“More so than you can imagine, signore,” Bianca told him with the faintest of smiles. “I have been told you are to find another husband for me; however, I do not wish for another husband. I wish only to be reunited with the man I love.”
“A child’s wish,” the prince said coldly. “Your mother has advised me that you are a difficult female. Understand that I will not tolerate any defiance from you. Your appearance in Florence may have been considered special, but your dark hair is a detriment here in Venice. I will nonetheless find you a suitable husband, and you will marry him without complaint, Bianca.”
“May I see my sister now, signore?” Bianca asked him.
He almost chuckled. His granddaughter had his daughter’s stubborn nature, and it took him back to the day when he had told her she would be marrying a Florentine merchant and not remain in Venice. She had wept and raged at him over it, but in the end she had gone meekly to the altar with Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo, as he had expected her to do. Bianca would do the same when he found the right match for her. “Of course you may see Francesca,” he said to her. “She has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.” He motioned to a servant with his hand. “Fetch my granddaughter,” he said. Then turning back to his other guests, he asked them, “What think you of Venice?”
“Magnificent as our mother said it was,” Marco quickly replied. “Today, of course, I shall remain with our family, but tomorrow, signore, I should like to visit my father’s warehouses here, with your permission.”
“You are all to call me Nonno,” the prince said. “I am, after all, your grandfather.”
“You are too elegant a gentleman to be called just Nonno,” Georgio said. “I will call you Nonno Magnifico.”
Alessandro Venier laughed heartily at this pronouncement. The boy had charm, and was amusing. If he continued to show humor, he would invite him to remain. He must write to Orianna and ask what plans they had for the boy.
A squeal of delight interrupted his train of thought. “Bianca! Marco! Georgio! You are here at last!” A young girl had run into the salon. She was tall and slender. At thirteen her breasts were budding as the material from her gown clinging to them attested.
“Francesca!” Bianca was amazed. Her little sister had indeed changed. The red-gold hair was luxurious. The green eyes sparkled. She hugged the girl warmly.
Their brothers looked surprised. This was Francesca? She had only been gone from Florence a little over a year, but the change was astounding. They greeted her with kisses and warm words.
“I have changed, haven’t I?” Francesca said gleefully.
“Our gondolier said you have a face to rival Helen of Troy,” Georgio told her.
“Who is she?” Francesca asked. “Do we know her?”
Her two brothers laughed at her ignorance.
“I can see your education has been neglected, bambina,” Marco said.
“On the contrary,” the prince interrupted. “Francesca has learned to dance all the newest dances. She can play her lute exquisitely and sing divinely. Her manners have become flawless. She has learned to supervise my kitchen and make the most wonderful scents from the flowers in my garden. She is perfectly educated.”
“To be an ornament, but not a companion,” Bianca noted.
“But the perfect wife is the most glorious ornament in her husband’s house,” the prince replied. “Francesca will soon have a husband to please and she will do it quite well, Bianca. Were you not an ornament in your late husband’s house?”
“It is obvious that my mother said nothing to you of my marriage or the shameful way it was brought about,” Bianca told him. “I will not discuss it here in the presence of innocent ears, but should you be curious, Nonno, you have but to ask me.”
“Francesca, my precious, take your sister and her servant with you now. Help them get settled,” Alessandro Venier said, dismissing his two granddaughters, which Bianca found slightly offensive. She was not some verginale like her sister. She had been a married woman, now a widow, and was entitled to more respect. Her grandfather was treating her like a child, and she wasn’t. “I do not like him,” she muttered under her breath. “He is too much like our madre.”
When they had left the salon and were walking up a broad flight of marble stairs, Agata said, “Do not irritate your grandfather, mistress. You would do better to make him your friend and not your enemy.”
“He does not treat me with the respect a woman of my age and experience is entitled to, Agata. He is old-fashioned and will be very angry when I refuse the man he thinks will make me a good husband. Better we not be friends.”
“You don’t want to marry again?” Francesca was puzzled. “Do you want to go into the Church now? You did not the last time I recall.”
They had reached the top of the staircase, and followed the younger girl as she led them into a spacious apartment of several rooms.
“These are our rooms,” Francesca said. “We each have our own bedchamber, and your Agata can either sleep on a trundle in your room or share a separate chamber with my Grazia. Now tell me why you don’t want to marry again.”
“It isn’t that I don’t want to wed again, but I want the choice to be mine. I have already made it, but our mother will not allow it,” Bianca said to her sister.
“Why not? Isn’t he rich enough?” Francesca asked, curious.
“He is a Turk,” Bianca replied.
“An infidel?” Francesca’s green eyes went wide with surprise.
“So he is called,” Bianca said.
“Well, of course you can’t marry an infidel, Bianca,” her younger sister said. “Even I can understand that.” Her tone was very assured.
“Why not?” her sister demanded.
“Why not? Bianca, if he is an infidel, he isn’t a Christian. His ancestors probably killed our dear Lord! Infidels are terrible people. Everyone knows that,” Francesca said with great conviction.
“Your knowledge, which is obviously based on ignorant prattle, is astounding,” Bianca said sarcastically. “From where have you gained all of it?”
“Everyone knows infidels are wicked,” Francesco persisted.
“Amir is the kindest and gentlest man I have ever known,” Bianca told her sister. “I am so weary of being told that he is wicked because he is not a Christian. Are there wicked infidels? I’m sure there are. My late husband, may he burn in hell forever, was a wicked Christian. But there are good Christians and good infidels, Francesca. Do not judge a man by his religion. Judge him by his character, little sister.”
“Nonno will find you a good husband,” Francesca responded soothingly, as if she had heard nothing Bianca had just said. And she probably hadn’t. She would grow up eventually. “Would you like to hear about the man I want to marry?” she asked her older sister, and then went on without waiting for an answer. “He is a prince,” she said with a sigh. “His name is Enzo Ziani. He is so handsome, Bianca. He smiled at me when he came to visit Nonno last, and said I was a flower who would one day bloom magnificently.” She sighed deeply. “He has been visiting a great deal lately. I believe he comes in hopes of seeing me.” She giggled. “I love him already.”
“How nice for you,” Bianca said drily. Francesca wasn’t going to understand her position. How could she? Her sister had been sheltered her entire life, and was now the obvious darling of their grandfather, with a Venetian prince for a suitor.
“Isn’t it?” Francesca responded, not catching her sister’s
sarcasm.
Bianca settled quickly into her grandfather’s house, and found it was as dull as her life in Florence had been. Her brothers remained for a little over a week but then were gone. They had strolled both the Piazzetta San Marco and the great piazza itself with their grandfather as he showed them off. Marco had made several business contacts, and would return to Venice on a regular basis for their father. Bianca, however, like most highborn women, was not allowed in public. The only women to be found on the piazzetta were courtesans and common whores.
Although she loved being on the water once again, it wasn’t like her little villa. At least there she had been able to walk the beach freely, and ride in the hills about Luce Stellare. Her younger sister’s whole life, it seemed, revolved around getting married and the object of her desire, Prince Enzo Ziani.
Bianca had been in Venice several weeks before she finally met him. And when she did, she realized immediately that her grandfather had not chosen this man for Francesca. Alessandro Venier had chosen Enzo Ziani for Bianca. Her little sister was not going to be pleased, but Bianca would let their grandfather take the brunt of Francesca’s anger.
He was, of course, at thirty-three, much too old for Francesca but hardly too old for an eighteen-year-old widow. He was a widower, and had been married since he was seventeen to a wife who died during a tenth futile attempt to give her husband an heir. He had been without a wife for several years, but now his family was insisting that he remarry. His visits to their grandfather had been for the purpose of discussing a possible match between the houses of Venier and Ziani—the advantages and the dowry.
Her grandfather requested her presence one afternoon in his small private salon. She came to find him with a guest. Bianca curtsied politely, then waited to be invited to sit.
“Is she not lovely?” Alessandro Venier asked the man seated with him. “Her coloring is not Venetian, but have you ever seen eyes that color, Enzo?”
Bianca bit her tongue. Her grandfather spoke of her as if she were not there, and as if she were a fine thoroughbred animal. Madre di Dios! He was so old-fashioned and he had been given the power of life and death over her.
“No, I have not,” Enzo Ziani said, rising, helping Bianca to a chair before reseating himself. He saw the anger that had flared up briefly in those wonderful eyes.
She thanked him with a faint nod of her head. At least he had manners, she thought. Francesca was going to be furious when she learned of her prince’s visit.
“Bianca,” Alessandro Venier said, “this is Prince Enzo Ziani. I have given him permission to call upon you.”
“If you have, then you will have broken Francesca’s innocent heart, Nonno,” Bianca said bluntly. “My sister believes you have this prince in mind for her.”
“She is much too young!” her grandfather snapped. “I shall not even begin to consider offers for her until next year.”
“I am flattered to have attracted the little one’s eye,” the younger man said, “but she really is too young for marriage. The man who wins her heart will be fortunate.”
“I will leave you and Enzo to become better acquainted,” Bianca’s grandfather said. Then he rose and left the room.
Bianca laughed. “He is hardly subtle, is he?” she said. “But as I do not wish to waste your time, signore, please understand that I have chosen not to remarry.”
“Unless I am a certain Turkish prince,” Enzo Ziani replied.
Bianca grew pale but then she said, “How could you possibly know something like that, signore? And how indecent of you to bring up such gossip to me.”
“Your grandfather is an honest man, signora. He told me that your own mother had a stubborn nature too when it came to marriage. He wanted me to know the truth of your romantic nature because he said I should have to win your heart in order to win your hand,” Enzo Ziani said. “Is that true?”
“My heart is already given, signore,” Bianca answered him. “I will be candid with you, for I am not dishonest. After I was widowed, Prince Amir ibn Jem and I became lovers. I am told it is his faith that makes him unsuitable.”
“But you do not care, do you? His unsuitability makes him even more desirable in your eyes,” he said to her. “How charming you are.”
“Do you think I am a child then to be so shallow?” Bianca asked, irritated.
“Ah, I have offended you,” he replied, but he really didn’t seem distressed by it.
“Yes, you have insulted me deeply,” she told him. “You have loved and lost. Or perhaps you did not love your wife. Perhaps she was just a possession to be displayed on appropriate occasions and bear your children.”
“Now you insult me,” he said. He was finding himself fascinated by this beautiful woman who spoke to him so frankly. Most women had hardly anything to say of interest, except, of course, the more educated of the courtesans who were expected to be interesting if they were to be successful at their trade. A man’s wife, or prospective wife, was supposed to be modest and retiring in everything except household matters and the raising of her children.
“Do I?” Bianca didn’t look in the least sorry. “I suspect if you wish to make a connection with the house of Venier, you would do better to wait a year. My younger sister, Francesca, will be ready for marriage then. Her beauty, according to my grandfather, is more to Venetian tastes than mine is. Francesca considers you the ideal man and she is certainly the ideal woman for a traditional gentleman like you, signore. I am not. Would not a woman like my younger sister suit you better, signore?”
“I do not wish to wait another year,” Enzo Ziani told Bianca as candidly as she had spoken to him. “My family is anxious for an heir, as I am the only son in our branch.”
“Ahhh, you wish for excellent breeding stock, then,” Bianca responded. “Best you wait for Francesca. We both come from the same mother and father, and madre is a fine breeder of brats. All of our mother’s children have lived. Francesca is five years younger than I am, however. You will have more time to breed with her, signore, than with me.”
He burst out laughing. “You are deliberately attempting to provoke me,” he said.
“No, I am being honest with you,” she said. “I am flattered that sight unseen you would even consider a marriage with me. I know that your family is an old and honorable one, or my grandfather would not even have considered you. But I am in love with Amir ibn Jem, and I will not stop loving him. He has promised to come for me, and he will, signore. How embarrassing to have your betrothed wife stolen by the sultan’s grandson. There would be nothing you or Venice could do about it.”
“Venice is a great republic,” he countered.
“Yes, it is,” Bianca agreed, “but they are just as afraid of the Ottoman sultan as is the rest of the world. Venice will make only a token outcry over my going. The sultan is very fond of his grandsons.”
“If you believe your prince will come for you, then you are a fool. I do not believe you are a fool, Bianca. Your Ottoman prince has a harem full of beautiful women he has returned to, and in all likelihood has forgotten you already. You will come to realize that in time. I find you eminently suitable to be my wife, and I shall tell your grandfather so. We will celebrate our marriage in three months’ time, in September, at summer’s end.”
“Tell Nonno what you will, signore. I will not agree, and cannot be made to do so. I will stand before the priest and deny your suit. Consider the laughter of all of Venice when I do, and the embarrassment it will bring to both of our families.”
“You are a stubborn woman, Bianca,” he told her, “but I will win you over. Now, come and kiss me.”
“You have surely lost your mind to ask a woman who has so firmly rejected you to kiss you,” Bianca said, jumping up from her chair so quickly it fell over with a clatter.
His response was to reach out and yank her into his lap and c
atch her chin between his thumb and forefinger, which allowed him access to her lips. His mouth closed over hers, kissing her a slow, deep kiss.
Bianca struggled so hard against him that his chair came out from under him and they both ended up on the floor of the salon in a tangle of her skirts. She shrieked angrily to find him laughing atop her. “Get off me, you monster! You brute!” She beat at him furiously with her fists.
“Why? I rather like having you beneath me. Now I will be able to dream of what is to come between us.” He caught her hands and pinned her arms by her sides, his lips capturing hers again in a hot, passionate kiss. “San Marco! You are outrageously desirable!” he said upon finally releasing her.
Bianca didn’t like the fact that she found his kisses exciting. Were respectable women supposed to enjoy being kissed by strangers? And the fact was that Enzo Ziani was indeed a stranger. He was not Amir, and his kisses, while provoking and appealing, were not Amir’s. They did not leave her weak with a desperate longing. She yanked her head away, and gathering all of her strength pushed him off her so she might scramble to her feet. One of her silk slippers came off in the process, and he grabbed at her foot. She took great pleasure in kicking him away.
“You are a seducer of women, signore,” Bianca told him angrily. “My grandfather shall learn of this atrocious behavior you have exhibited with me!” Then she stormed from the little salon, clutching her slipper in her hand.
Behind her Enzo Ziani still sat upon the floor, laughing. What a woman! And she was going to be his wife! He didn’t give a damn about her Turk. He would make her forget all about that infidel prince when he made love to her. He jumped to his feet, smoothing out his fur-trimmed velvet robe. His cock was hard with the sudden need for her that had overcome him. Thank God his garment covered his lust.
Then suddenly the door to the salon opened, and Francesca came in. “Oh!” she said, feigning surprise. “I didn’t know anyone was here, signore. How nice to see you. Did you come to see me?” And she smiled at him coyly.
Bianca: The Silk Merchant's Daughters Page 21