Betrayed by His Kiss

Author:Amanda McCabe [Mccabe, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-09-06T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Isabella heard the revelry long before she could see it, a wild tangle of flutes and tambours, laughter, cries. She slowed down in sheer astonishment as they turned from the labyrinth of narrow lanes towards the meadow of the Prato, suddenly full of gladness at the sunny day.

The merriment, the glimpse of bright banners snapping in the breeze, the smell of roasting meats and cinnamon-spiced almonds—it all reminded her of festivals in the village at home, where music and parties cut into the sameness of everyday life and lifted everyone up.

As they stopped at the crest of a hill, Isabella glanced back over her shoulder to the stones and spires of the city. Her wide-brimmed velvet hat shaded her eyes from the sun that glittered in the clear turquoise sky. For an instant she fancied she could see Botticelli’s studio, smell the tempera on the warm breeze. She remembered the half-finished painting on his easel, the scene of the magical garden. It felt as if she was about to step into it in truth.

‘Isabella!’ Caterina called. ‘Hurry up, before all the strawberries have vanished.’

Isabella laughed and looked ahead to where Caterina walked with Giuliano. She hung on to his pearl-strewn velvet sleeve, their two beautiful heads bent together. ‘We would never want that to happen!’

Caterina held out her free hand and Isabella hurried to take it. ‘Just stay close to me, cousin, and all will be well,’ Caterina whispered. But she did not smile as everyone else did. Instead she looked distinctly worried.

Isabella didn’t know what could go wrong on such a glorious day, but there was no time to ask Caterina what concerned her. Giuliano led them onwards towards the party. He was just as handsome as Orlando in his own way, Isabella thought as she watched him. His face and figure were all that was perfection. And yet there was nothing intriguing behind his eyes, as there was with Orlando. No mystery, no depth.

The Prato was a vast green meadow near the banks of the Arno. Flowering trees and hedges blocked some of the sickly sweet smell from the river, adding splashes of pastel colours to the rolling green ground. But today the grass could hardly be seen for all the brightly clad revellers who crowded there amid the shade of silk pavilions.

Isabella followed Caterina through an archway of green vines and white flowers, and emerged from its shade into a sunlit, magical day. A garden of Venus.

Ladies in lustrous gowns of apricot, ochre-red, green, white, gold, their hair flowing free, twined with ribbons and flowers, danced in a lively, intricate circle on the grass. As their hands clasped, bells around their wrists tinkled, making them giggle. Around them moved a larger circle of men, even more elaborately dressed, with striped stockings and plumed caps. As Isabella watched, the two circles touched, meshed, then broke apart again. The music grew faster and faster, the colours blending together like a stained-glass window.

As Caterina and Giuliano stepped from the arch, applause broke out and they were soon surrounded by boisterous admirers.

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