been with Italians, nor conducted in Rome under the avidly speculative glare of the circles in which she moved. And never had she fancied herself to be deeply emotionally involved. It had been only friendship and compatibility that attracted her—no more than that. It was safer that way. Safer than yielding to any overriding sensual attraction that might ignite a passion that would be hard to quench.
After all, no one knew better than she what that might lead to. Hadn’t it happened to her own mother? Falling for a man who, when he’d been faced with unintended pregnancy, had not wished to commit to her?
Although his father had cracked the financial whip and forced a marriage, there had been no happy ending. Her father had chafed at marriage, chafed at fatherhood—and had been on the point of leaving her mother when he was killed. Was it any wonder, Carla asked herself, that she was wary of making such a mistake herself?
So, for every reason of good sense, there was only one reply for her to make to this arrogant, sensual man who possessed the power to disturb her senses.
Yet she could not say the words. Could only find the means to give a slight, fleeting, demurring half-smile, and a self-protective sweeping down of her eyelashes to hide the all too revealing response in her eyes as she made an evasive reply.
‘So...have you loaned any other paintings to the exhibition?’ she asked.
Her voice sounded abrupt, even breathless, but she did not care. She met his gaze head-on, keeping hers quite limpid, though the effort was great—the more so since in his eyes was a look of knowingness that told her he had understood immediately why she had not answered him.
But to her relief he followed her diversion.
‘Indeed,’ he murmured, still with that semi-amused look in his eyes that was so disturbing to her. ‘The Luciezo is, in fact, part of a triptych. The other two portraits are on display across the gallery.’
There was a discernible tinge of annoyance in his voice at the curator’s decision as he indicated across the width of the gallery, towards an alcove in which Carla could make out two portraits.
‘Shall we?’
The cool voice held assumption, and Carla found herself being guided forward. He halted, lifting his hand to the portraits they were now in front of.
‘What do you make of them?’
Carla’s trained eyes went to the portraits, immediately seeing the skill and artistry in them, seeing in them all the hallmarks of a master. Her eyes narrowed very slightly. But not Luciezo.
‘Caradino?’ she ventured.
She felt rather than saw the glance the Count threw at her. Surprise—and approval.
‘Caradino,’ he confirmed. He paused. ‘Many attribute his few surviving works to Luciezo.’
She gave a slight shake of her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘There is a discernible difference.’
Her eyes ran over the portraits, taking in the brushwork, the lighting, the shadows. Her gaze went from appraising the technicalities of the portraits to the subjects themselves. And then, for the first time, her eyes widened as her gaze rested on their faces.
So unalike. So very, very unalike.
One so fair and pale. A married woman, clearly, as illustrated by the tokens in the painting—her pearl earring, the sprig of myrtle in her lap, the dish of quinces on the little table at her side—and yet there was about her, Carla could see, an air almost of virginity...as if with different garments and accoutrements she might have modelled for a painting of the Virgin Mary.
A crucifix was in her hands, glinting between her long, pale fingers. Carla looked at the woman’s eyes.
Sadness. As if, like the Virgin Mary, she had in her gaze a foretelling of the great sorrows that were to come.
She pulled her gaze away. Let it rest on the other woman’s face.
Another young woman. In this portrait the subject’s hair was a lush chestnut-brown, lavishly unbound and snaking down over one bare shoulder. Her gown was a sumptuous red, not a celestial blue, and cut low across her generous bosom to reveal an expansive amount of soft, creamy skin. She held red roses in her hands, rubies gleamed at her throat and on her fingers, and her hands rested on her abdomen—its slight swell discreet, but undeniable.
Carla drew her eyes away from the telltale curve of the young woman’s figure, moved them back up to scrutinise her face. Beautiful, in a sensuous way, framed by her rich tresses, her cheeks flushed, lips full and with a sensual cast to them. Carla’s eyes went to the woman’s eyes and held them for a long moment—held the unseeing gaze that looked out over the centuries between the two of them.
‘Who are they?’
Her own voice cut short her perusal, and she drew her gaze away to look back at il Conte, standing at her side.
‘Can you not tell?’ he asked. He glanced back to the portrait of his ancestor, across the room, then back to Carla. ‘His wife—and his mistress. He had them painted at the same time, by the same hand. Caradino stayed at my castello and painted them both—one after the other.’
Carla’s face stilled. ‘How nice for them,’ she said drily. ‘It seems your ancestor kept his mistress...handy.’
But the Count did not rise to her sardonic comment. ‘It was quite normal in those times. Nothing exceptional. Both women knew and understood the situation.’
Carla’s lips pressed together. ‘Knowing and understanding are not the same thing as tolerating and agreeing,’ she riposted.
The dark, hooded eyes were veiled. ‘Women had no power in those times. And after all,’ he went on, ‘my ancestor’s mistress was very lavishly looked after.’
‘She’s carrying his child,’ Carla retorted.
She could feel an emotion rising up in her—one she did not want to feel, but it was coming all the same.
‘An excellent way to secure the Count’s protection,’ agreed Cesare. ‘I believe they had several children, over the years. He was very faithful to her, you know. Surprisingly so for the times.’
Automatically Carla’s eyes went not to the mistress of the former Count but to his wife. No sign of fertility there—and in the eyes only that haunting sadness.
Thoughts ran through her head, unstoppable.
How did she feel? How did she cope? Knowing her husband was having children, openly, with his mistress? Yet presumably she, too, must have had an heir, at least, or the line would have died out—which it obviously hasn’t?
‘But enough of my ancestors—have you seen the other paintings displayed here yet?’
The voice of the man at her side drew her back to the present. She turned towards him. Saw him with fresh eyes, it seemed. Her gaze went past him to the portrait of Count Alessandro, who had been so unconcerned as to have his wife and mistress painted simultaneously.
A shaft of female indignation went through her, as she brought her gaze back to the current Count.
‘Not
