His Last Duchess by Gabrielle Kimm Read Free Book Online Page A

she and Giovanni had—as children do—made brief, giggling forays into each other’s privacy: damp little moments of probing fingers and explosive snorts of laughter. She had no doubt that what awaited her in October would be as different from this as silk from sacking.
    The handsome Signor d’Este would have much to teach her, she felt sure. The raising of his eyebrow as he had kissed her fingers just now had been knowing, playful—even teasing. Lucrezia felt a warm, prickling sensation in her belly. She sat back down on her bed and with searching fingers that suddenly seemed as detached from her as though they were no longer her own, she explored her skin. Her hands were lover’s hands— his hands: the right traced up and over her left wrist, forearm, elbow, shoulder; the left moved back down the right arm. She put a hand over each breast and held them, and then, flat-palmed, stroked one hand down her belly, searching and curious. She lay back across the bed. Her breath caught in her throat as raw, inexplicable sensations ignited and burned, fierce and sweet inside her expectant body.
    An owl called in the still night air and a fox barked twice. The castle was silent; Lucrezia wondered if she were now the only person awake in the entire building.

Part Two
Castello Estense, Ferrara
October 1559
Three months later

4
    The candle guttered and its bobbing flame sent shivering shadows across the room. The red bed-hangings seemed to flutter and points of candlelight flickered in every one of the diamond panes of the two windows.
    Lucrezia watched her new husband close the chamber door. He leaned with his back against it, facing her, his eyes fixed upon hers. Lucrezia’s skin tingled, as though she had been running, though she had only climbed a flight of shallow steps—and that, slowly. She realised she was trembling. She tried to smile, but the smile died before it could reach her lips. Until a moment ago she had been sure that she felt elated and happy—as she knew she should today, her wedding day—but at the same time everything seemed insubstantial and unreal, as though she were playing an exciting, but clearly fictitious, part in a play. She felt detached from reality, an observer of her own emotions, aware of herself as though she were a separate third person hidden somewhere in the room, eavesdropping on what was about to unfold.
    Alfonso said nothing. Leaning lazily against the bedroom door, weight on one leg, the other crooked up with the sole of his foot flat against the wood, he just stared at her with his head tilted to one side. As though, she thought, he were observing a painting or admiring a piece of sculpture. The corners of his mouth lifted as his eyes left hers and wandered from her face, down to her feet and back, slowly, slowly; appraising—approving, she imagined, for his smile broadened as he looked back into her eyes.
    â€œYou’re beautiful,” he said at last.
    Lucrezia tried to swallow. A burst of music from downstairs, and the sound of voices still celebrating, pushed its way through the open casement making her start.
    â€œIf you remember, I told you that my household was awaiting your arrival with great anticipation,” Alfonso said softly. “They are merely demonstrating their pleasure at your presence in the Castello. Come here.”
    She knew this to be a command.
    She walked a few steps and stopped in front of him. Alfonso looked at her mouth. Lucrezia realised it was slightly open: her lips were dry and she could feel her breath on them—cold in, warm out. Alfonso put his hands on her shoulders, then turned her so that she faced away from him. He ran the fingers of one hand up into her hair, and a shiver ran down her spine. She tipped her head back, pushing against his touch. Then, slowly and deliberately, much as she had imagined in her other life, back in her old chamber with Giulietta that summer, Alfonso began to unfasten