My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century (16 page)

I turn my head, incredulous, but the glint in her cool gaze stops the rebuttal on my lips. Strangely intrigued to hear what she could possibly offer as advice, I nod, totally poised to cut her off at a moment’s notice.

Antonia purses her lips as she scans me from head to toe, the combination of the night breeze and her blatant disapproval making me shiver. “Unfortunately, we cannot all fashion ourselves into true ladies. And while I do not even begin to comprehend the foolish workings of the male mind, the truth is this: you would do yourself good to focus your romantic attachments on Signor di Rialto.”

She pauses as I reel back, absorbing that absurd bomb with about as much grace as an elephant, and a pitying smile replaces her previous smirk.

Somehow the effect is even crueler.

She wiggles her fingers in a dismissive gesture and sighs. “Go. Enjoy your little
dalliance
with young Lorenzo tonight. Get the boy out of your system, soak up every glorious minute…and then in the morning, wake up from this dream world you both seem to inhabit.”

My head spins from her unique mixture of stinging insult and pure insanity. Wanting to laugh, I open my mouth and instead brilliantly say, “Excuse me?”

Alessandra just got through telling me that Antonia wants Niccolo for herself. Looking past the enormous
ick
factor of the older man thing, why on earth would the girl be trying to pawn him off on me?

I tilt my head and examine her, searching for her angle, knowing there has to be one.

Antonia shrugs her dainty shoulders. “Making a good match with a respectable man is about all we can ask for in this life. And if that man happens to love you, all the better. Anyone can see the way Signor di Rialto watches you. Marry him; give up the fantasy of Lorenzo.”

This night has simply been too much. First, the anxiety over standing before a crowded room while everyone scrutinizes my every move. Then Niccolo’s creepy flirtation, not to mention the showdown between him and Lorenzo, followed by the most amazing moment of my life, and now this. I roll my eyes.

Antonia’s arm juts out to stop me from walking away.

“You are no better than the rest of us, Patience D’Angeli,” she spits at me, reminding me of an enraged llama. “This is how real life works. It is time to abandon playthings and the ways of childhood and step into womanhood. Accept the blessings you are being given, or someone else
will
.”

And with that parting bit of wisdom, she gives me an enraged once-over and sashays away. At the door, she casts a final pointed glance in my direction, then disappears.

By the time I finally make it back inside, I’m emotionally drained. I just went from elated to seething in a nanosecond, and my tired brain cannot keep up. The party’s still raging, with couples dancing merrily on the dance floor and chatting on the sidelines. I don’t see Lorenzo in the crowd, but I do spot Niccolo near the front of the stage.

I duck into the shadowed corner my aunt showed me earlier.

Sinking to the floor, I hold my head in my hands to process everything. All I want is to be alone in the seclusion of my room so I can replay the magic of the Lorenzo portion of the night and forget everything else.

I stand, trying to think of the best way to escape the party, when tidbits of a nearby conversation catch my attention. Mostly because it’s about me.

“London must be worse than we thought,” a shrill voice says. “The girl is completely ill bred. She cannot sing or play music, and she is entirely too headstrong and free spirited. Francesca, you certainly have your work cut out for you if you expect to land her a decent match.”

Francesca? My aunt is out there?

I lean closer toward the sound of the voices. I knew I couldn’t trust her.

“Shut your mouth, Filippa.” I shrink back at the venom laced in my aunt’s usually chirpy voice. “I shall not tolerate you disrespecting my family in my own home. Patience is a beautiful, lovely, intelligent girl. Any man would be blessed to have her by his side. And anyone who does not agree can leave. In fact, they must.
Lucia.
” My aunt’s voice rises, and I hear scampering feet along with shocked intakes of air.

“Signora, do you require my assistance?” Lucia’s familiar voice is added to the floating headless movie playing in my mind.

“See to it that Signora Benedicti and Signora Cacchioni have everything they require. They are leaving us.”

No one could ignore or mistake the tone of finality in my aunt’s voice.

Wow
. I close my mouth and feel the prick of tears behind my eyes.

I wait until the
click-clack
ing of shoes disappears before I step out of the shadows. Aunt Francesca’s still standing there, silently fuming. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips taut.

“You showed them,” I say, walking up beside her.

She jerks her head in surprise and gnaws at her lip. “You overheard that horrid woman?”

I nod, and she glances back at the door, her kind eyes hardening into shards of ice.

“I also heard you kick some Italian butt,” I tell her. “Who knew you had a vicious streak?”

Her eyes widen, but when she sees my teasing smile, she laughs.

Pulling me into a hug, she says, “It is not common knowledge. However, if someone disrespects my children…,” She trails off and leans back, her soft gaze traveling across my face. “Patience, I pray you realize how much I consider you to be my daughter. I could never replace sweet Maria, Signore rest her precious soul, but it would be a great honor to be a mother to you.”

She stares at me, waiting for a response. The look in her eye is so serious, so believable, but the smile on her face is back, reminding me again of Jenna.

My aunt is asking me to trust her, to let myself believe in the love she’s offering me. A big part of me wants to say yes, to use this time as an experiment in what it would feel like to have an actual mother who cares about me.

But I don’t know if I can take another rejection.

So I smile and hug her again in response to the silent question in her eyes. It may not be the answer she wants, but it’s the only one I can give.

Chapter Fourteen

I spend the morning tucked away in my room, staring moony eyed at my rumpled ball gown and running a finger over the wrinkles, remembering with a smile how they got there. Every caress of Lorenzo’s fingers, every brush of his lips in the darkness. The way he held me in his arms while we danced, the way he looked at me before leaning down to kiss me.

And I spend a whole lot of time wondering when I can see him again.

The morning has been quiet, with everyone sleeping in after the late-night revelry. Even the servants are hushed, probably under strict orders not to disturb our sleep. Left to my own devices, I grab my sketchpad and box of pastels and attempt to recreate the magic of last night. The dappled moonlight filtering through the trees, the way Lorenzo’s curls danced in the soft breeze. I chew on my bottom lip as I try to capture the perfection that is his grin and the slightly crooked tooth it exposes. Then I lean back and compare it with Lorenzo’s drawing of me.

The beauty of the memory—and my Italian subject—has added a new quality to my work. There is a lightness, a wistfulness to the strokes that I’ve never before been able to achieve. I’m not too proud to admit Lorenzo’s is better—but considering the fact he’s been soaking up the mojo in the Renaissance air for eighteen years, second place ain’t too shabby.

With a grin, I roll them both up and put them in my backpack. Then with Lucia still not beating down my door, I break out my toiletries from home. After brushing my teeth, washing my face, and running my boar-bristle brush through the ringlets running down my back, I slip into a seafoam-green surcoat and waltz around my room to the rumbles emanating from my empty stomach, pondering the likelihood of anyone getting up any time soon to feed me. I haven’t eaten since the cast-aside pear at the ball.

Lucia’s distinguishable knock, rapid fire and purposeful, beats against my door just as I reach inside my backpack for the peppermint I shoved to the bottom last week.

“Come in,” I call, pushing the bag back under the bed.

Please be here to tell me food is coming.

My always-serious servant sticks her petite head inside and appraises my outfit. “Your uncle has summoned you to his
studiolo.
He says he has an urgent matter to discuss.”

“An urgent matter?” I ask, shooting to my feet. I wonder if people use that word as casually in the past as they do in the future. At certain times of the month, I’ve considered chocolate consumption an urgent matter.

Lucia nods, and I follow her out into the hall. She points a finger toward my uncle’s private chambers and then briskly takes off in the opposite direction.

Okay, then.

I walk down the winding hallways between the two rooms, my slippers a soft whisper along the rugs, and consider all the possible things my uncle could need to speak with me about.

I come up with nothing.

Outside the heavy wooden door to my uncle’s
studiolo
, I stop and listen, hoping to hear Alessandra’s chirpy voice inside or coming up the corridor behind me. But all I hear is silence. Suddenly feeling as though I’ve been called to the principal’s office, I brace myself. I take a deep breath and knock.

“Come in, dear!”

Not my chirpy cousin but my cheerful aunt—that has to be a good sign. If she’s inside, I couldn’t be in too much trouble, right?

Relieved, I relax my shoulders and let myself in.

Aunt Francesca beams at me from her position next to Uncle Marco on the other side of his massive desk. Both of them look euphoric, as though they just won the lottery. And since I know they’re in no way hurting for cash, I can only assume it means one thing. I’m in for another surprise. My shoulders tense right back up.

“You wanted to see me, Uncle?” I ask, holding tightly to the memory of dancing in Lorenzo’s arms.
Not all surprises end badly.

Uncle Marco waves me in and claps his hands together. “
Sì, sì!
Please, Patience, come in and rest yourself.” He indicates the large rug-covered chair opposite him, the one Niccolo sat in the last time I was here, then strides to close the door, testing the knob once he does to ensure it’s shut.

My aunt rounds the desk, takes my hands in hers, and says, “Your uncle and I have
glorious
news of your future to share with you!”

The Jenna-like enthusiasm scares me. The cords of her neck bulge in a barely contained reaction to whatever earth-shattering information she believes she holds, and when my uncle joins her, they stare at me with matching smiles of glee.

Not all surprises are bad
, I tell myself again. Maybe when she says
future
, she means later today, when she’ll be taking me clothes shopping or to an art gallery. Or maybe we’re going on a trip somewhere, like Rome or Venice, or somewhere equally as cool.

Wringing my hands together, trying to hold on to a shred of optimism, I repeat to myself:
Lorenzo, Lorenzo, Lorenzo
. “Okay,” I say, forcing a smile. “Lay it on me.”

My aunt looks to my uncle. He adds his hand to our joined ones, puffs his chest with pride, and says, “Your betrothal has been arranged.”

Muted voices from the street float through the open window behind the desk. I blink and stare at my uncle, noting his expectant expression, and wait for my brain to comprehend what he really just said. Clearly the message got scrambled in translation.

Am I losing my Italian decoding skills?

A nervous jolt shoots through me. Maybe the gypsy magic is wearing off. If so, does that mean I’m going to be leaving soon?

My aunt squeezes my hand, jiggling it up and down, bringing me back to the
urgent
news they have to discuss. She widens her eyes and nods repeatedly.

Squinting, I tilt my head and scrunch my nose. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Her delighted smile lessens by a degree, and this time she’s the one who speaks. “Your betrothal, dear. It has been arranged.”

The same message as before but this time delivered in a different voice. Aunt Francesca’s words slowly sink into my gray matter…and I burst out laughing. I never took my aunt and uncle for practical jokesters, but I’m pleasantly surprised to see they have a sense of humor.

They exchange a look of confusion, and Aunt Francesca frowns. “I do not understand your response, Patience. Is it from merriment that you laugh so?”

I wait for their masks to crack, for them to laugh and call an end to this strange form of teasing. But if anything, their faces just become grimmer. My laughter trails off, and I shift my gaze back and forth between them. “Wait, you guys are serious?”

My aunt’s eyes fill with concern. “Very much so.”

Perplexed, I open my mouth, then close it, then open it again. “And who, exactly, would I be marrying?”

A muscle in my uncle’s jaw jumps. “Signor di Rialto, of course.” Horror locks my spine, and the world tilts as he folds his arms across his chest. “Niccolo made his intentions to take you as his wife quite clear. Surely you suspected as much last night.”

I grip the sides of my chair, realizing this time there was no translation error. “
Niccolo?
You’re telling me that Niccolo wants to marry me. He actually said those words?”

Uncle Marco nods. “As soon as an approval from a notary is obtained, though I dare say that shall take no longer than a few days.”

Blood rushes from my face. My heart pounds faster as the world closes in around me.

A few days?

I’ve already been here a few days. A few days are nothing. Who’s to say gypsy magic will swoop in and save me in a few more?

My lungs feel as though they’ve collapsed inside my chest. I struggle to catch my breath as a cold sweat breaks across my upper lip. A deep chill runs down my body from head to toe, and my legs tense.

I spring from my chair on autopilot and tear through the door, faintly hearing Aunt Francesca call out after me. I don’t stop running until my knees scrape against the marble steps of the fountain in the courtyard.

Wrapping my arms tightly around my midsection, I close my eyes and rock. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. I’m gonna open my eyes and wake up and realize this whole thing has been one really, really long dream.

One, two, three, open.

Smooth white marble shimmers up at me, reflecting the almost noonday sun, and I gingerly touch it.

I’m still here. And this time travel thing has officially become real. I need to get home. Whatever voodoo curse that gypsy put on me has to end. Now.

Before I become someone’s wife!

Niccolo’s
wife.

I pull at my hair and shake my head over and over, the icky feeling of Niccolo’s finger trailing across my palm last night washing over me.

Be sure to keep your mind open to the lessons ahead.

That’s what Reyna said. Somehow those words hold the key to getting me back to the twenty-first century. I stare helplessly into the depths of the fountain and replay those words over and over, hoping my brain can figure out the message’s meaning while the rest of me drifts in a state of numbness.

A hand rests on my shoulder, and I dazedly look up and meet my aunt’s soft gaze. “It was our hope this news would be met with an entirely different reaction,” she says with a sigh, sitting beside me. She stares into the fountain for a long moment before saying, “I am aware of your attachment to the Cappelli boy.”

I stay quiet, trying to quell the trembling in my limbs, fearing that if I say anything, it’ll make this real.

Aunt Francesca lifts her head. “I had a romance of my own when I was your age, before I met your uncle.” She pauses and chuckles softly at the memory. “Like Lorenzo, he was shy of the age of marriage, but my heart did not care.”

Lorenzo.

The pain in my gut twists again as I think about him. My shoulders curl to my knees, my chin burrows into my chest, and I draw ragged, shallow breaths. I feel her rub the top of my head, running her fingers along my hair.

“It ended, of course, as your entanglement must, and that is when my father arranged my union with Marco. He was older than I, and much wiser. In all honesty, I was scared to death. But together, your uncle and I have created a wonderful life. Two beautiful children and years of memories.”

After a moment, I hear her get up, but she doesn’t walk away. She simply stands there silently, perhaps waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she sighs again. “That is the life we want for you, Patience, and you can have it with Niccolo. Open your heart to him; see what a good man he is. Do you understand how rare that is to find? As his helpmeet, you shall be cared for and protected. In this world, that is more than most can ever hope to achieve.”

But I’m not from this world!

Of course, I don’t say this aloud. Even if she would understand, the thought of speaking right now seems impossible.

My aunt presses a kiss to the crown of my head, and from my semi-fetal position, I watch her tiny feet disappear up the stairs. I hold out for as long as I can before I dash upstairs myself, peering around the corner to make sure the coast is clear and darting inside my room, slamming the door behind me.

In the safety of the now-familiar four walls, my legs give way, and I fall to the floor. Crawling over to the bed, I realize I haven’t cried or screamed or done any of the things a normal person might do when faced with something like this. It would appear all the years I spent living behind a mask have dulled my senses.

Instead, I yank my beloved backpack from under the bed, rip it open, and dump out the contents. I pick up each item, holding them and remembering little details—where and when I bought them, times I used them—reminding myself they are real. That I don’t belong here. That I’m not crazy.

My gaze lands on my iPhone, and my heart jumps. I turn it on, and my screensaver springs to life, a picture of Dad and me sitting in front of a monitor on one of his sets. With shaking fingers, I scroll through my contact list and tap on Dad’s name.

For a split second, I fool myself into thinking it’ll work. That he’ll answer and come riding in to save me. But of course, that doesn’t happen. They don’t have service towers in the 1500s. Dejected, I fling the phone and watch it crash into the painted chest in the corner of the room.

Hanging over the chest is my wrinkled ball gown from last night. Another wrenching pain twists my stomach, and I hurl myself facedown onto the mattress.

…

The Piazza Mercato Vecchio is crowded, and everyone is watching us. Somehow, without the use of Facebook, Twitter, or text messages, word has already spread about our
betrothal.
Just the word makes me shiver. I look at the man walking next to me and narrow my eyes.

It doesn’t even faze him.

Grinning at the people gawking, Niccolo puts his hand on my elbow and leads me past the beggars on the stone steps asking for alms. I want to stop and help them, but I don’t have any pockets or a purse, and let’s face it—at this point, I’ll be lucky to help myself.

“Patience,” he says, leaning close so no one can overhear us, “I understand if you do not yet love me, but you will learn to do so in time.”

I stop walking so I can laugh incredulously—any concern I had about messing up his business arrangement with Uncle Marco went out the window with the words
your betrothal has been arranged
—and Cipriano crashes into me. My cousin is acting as my chaperone again this afternoon, but this time I’m eternally grateful. Hours after I barricaded myself in my room, Niccolo showed up all smiling and ready to “discuss our future.” My aunt and uncle practically pushed me out the door, but the only thing that really got me to leave was Cipriano offering to tag along as guardian.

My cousin apologizes for running into me and takes several steps to the side to give us privacy. I really wish he wouldn’t.

Niccolo’s lips flatten into a straight line, and he sighs in annoyance. I’m sure this isn’t how he thought our talk would go. With the way women usually act around him, he probably expected me to fall at his feet and thank him for deeming me worthy.