In the Garden of Sin (3 page)

“I understand,” I said, and at the time I thought I did. I knew the essential facts of sexual intercourse, and I had surmised that the act could be performed in various positions, but aside from that, what else was there? The finer points of kissing, perhaps, or of conducting oneself flirtatiously? Despite my scholarly open-mindedness, I really was woefully uninformed about the myriad ways in which men and women enjoyed each other’s bodies.

Looking back upon that morning, I believe Elle sensed my ignorance despite my reassurances. “At Grotte Cachée,” she said, “you will be taught certain practices that may shock you at first, and you will be expected to perform these acts with men who are virtual strangers to you.”

Before I could truly digest that, Vitturi said, “You should be aware, Mistress Leeds, that you may be observed either with or without your knowledge during the course of your training by myself, Elle, or your fellow novices, in order to benefit your own education and that of the other young ladies.”

God have mercy
, I thought, but I merely said, “As you will, Don Domenico.” I was in no position to take umbrage with this or any other condition he might choose to set forth. It was imperative that I be included among the prospective courtesans traveling with Vitturi and Buckingham to Grotte Cachée. It was a mission at which I could not, would not, fail; the life of my beloved uncle depended upon my success.

“For your own sake, Hannah…” Elle began. “I say, do you mind if I call you Hannah?”

“Please do.”

“For your own sake, there is one thing that ought to be clarified ere we proceed further. You do understand the manner in which you are expected to repay your indebtedness to Signor Vitturi, do you not?”

I stole a glance in the Venetian’s direction, expecting him to be discreetly sipping from his cup or otherwise averting his gaze while the indelicate subject was broached. But no, he met my eyes directly, albeit with an inscrutably blank expression.

Looking away quickly, I said, “I believe I do.”

“And this arrangement is acceptable to you?” Elle asked.

Were I to reply that it was not, I would no doubt be escorted forthwith from Signor Vitturi’s presence, and that would be that.

“’Tis acceptable. However…” I paused a moment to recall the wording of the caveat I had composed during my long, sleepless night, which I prayed would safeguard my virtue during my “novitiate” at Grotte Cachée. “There is a matter which I believe warrants some consideration. ’Tis my understanding that gentlemen of a sporting stripe take great pleasure in being the first man to lie with a maiden.”

“Many do,” Elle said. “Methinks it has oft to do with the male urge to capture the most precious and elusive game, but there are men with less predatory motives, those who pride themselves on the skill and tenderness with which they introduce young virgins to the pleasures of the flesh. My brother Elic, whom you will meet at Grotte Cachée, is one such gentleman.” Leaning toward me, her impish smile hidden from Vitturi behind her fan, Elle said in a deliberately loud whisper, “From all accounts, Signor Vitturi is another. Do not be misled by his stern manner. They say he has the gentlest hands in Christendom.”

Slanting Elle a look, Vitturi said to me, “You are suggesting, I take it, that a young lady who debuts as a courtesan with her maidenhood intact, but well schooled in divers erotic pleasures, might command an unusually high price of the gentleman to whom she grants the privilege of deflowering her.”

His summation was actually quite close to what I had planned to say—but for the phrase about being “well schooled in divers erotic pleasures.” I felt the same little tremor of foreboding as when Elle had made that comment about my tutelage involving the performance of shocking acts with virtual strangers.

Ah, but there would be no such acts required of me if I could convince Domenico Vitturi to allow me to remain a virgin, would there? I assumed that I would be taught various types of kisses and caresses, and made to practice them, possibly with Vitturi himself, in lieu of lying with him. Of course, given that his novices were sometimes “observed with or without their knowledge,” I might be compelled to witness others engaged in actual acts of lovemaking, but surely that would be the worst of it.

“It makes a great deal of sense, Domenico,” Elle told him. “Hannah can learn what she needs to learn—and compensate thee quite adequately for thy largesse, if she be inventive— without sacrificing that valuable little maidenhead. It only remains to determine whether she meets thy lofty standards.”

“Does she meet thine?” he asked her.

Their use of the quaintly familiar
thee
and
thine
suggested an intimacy that surprised me, especially given Vitturi’s air of reserve; I wondered if they were lovers.

“She already speaks Italian,” Elle said. “She has a scholarly bent, which is a charming novelty in such a beauteous little thing. She sings, plays music, composes madrigals…” Smiling at me, she said, “I think the gentlemen of Venice will throw themselves at the feet of this quick-brained little English maiden with the dazzling red hair.”

He scowled at my too-thick, too-wavy hair. “’Tis yellow, not red.”

“’Tis somewhere in between,” Elle said, “but it
does
dazzle,
and she has the loveliest skin, translucent but full of color, like glazed China porcelain. Exquisite, no?”

“What little we can see of it.” Vitturi sat back in his chair, using his hands to lift his right leg and cross it over the left. His left calf appeared well muscled through his black nether hose, the right somewhat less so. He regarded me in silence for a moment before saying, quite soberly, “Mistress Leeds, have you given this matter the clear-headed deliberation it warrants?”

“I have, Don Domenico.”

“And you are absolutely convinced that this is the course you wish to follow.”

“Aye, quite convinced.”

He nodded. “Elle seems to think you a likely candidate, and I would tend to agree. However, given the nature of the vocation to which you aspire, and my reputation as a patron of the most desirable and sought-after
cortigianas
in Venice, our assessment of your person must needs be quite thorough. You understand?”

I said, “Of course, signore,” although I didn’t really understand at all, as I discovered a moment later, when he asked me if I would “be so kind as to disrobe completely.”

  STARED AT VITTURI, my hands clasped so tightly in my lap that I felt as if the little bones might snap from the pressure.

“’Tis just as I thought,” he said. “You fancy yourself a
cortigiana
, Mistress Leeds, but in truth, ’tis a vocation for which an innocent such as yourself is entirely unfit. You must trust me when I say that any efforts which you or I were to put forth on such account would come to naught. I pray you, leave here and put the matter from your mind.”

“I… I am not unfit,” I said, hating the quaver in my voice. “I know that I would make an excellent courtesan. I just didn’t expect to be asked to take my clothes off in front of two perfect—”

“Hannah,” Elle said softly, closing a hand around mine.

She’s coming to my rescue
, I thought, but then she said,
“Don Domenico is not only within his rights to ask this of you, he is wise to do so. His courtesans are expected to be not only learned, witty, and clever, they are expected to be—
must
be, above all else—exceptionally beautiful. A courtesan’s beauty must extend beyond her face and hands. Her form must rival that of Aphrodite herself. Surely you understand why he cannot pass judgment on you until he sees you in your natural state. And after all, there is no shame in nudity. Your body is a wondrous machine, a thing of great beauty.”

How could I argue with such straightforward logic? And had I not resolved most earnestly to use every means at my disposal, no matter how distasteful, to save my uncle?

“If you cannot bring yourself to undress in front of Don Domenico,” Elle said, “then perhaps he’s right. Perhaps you are simply not meant to be a—”

“I
am
meant to be a courtesan.” I stripped off my gloves and started fumbling with the knot securing my coif at the nape of my neck. “’Tis just that this is all so new to me. I need to… I just need to…
Blast!”
I yanked at the coif until it pulled free, mussing the neatly braided bun in which I had styled my hair, and then I set about untying my collar, which proved equally aggravating.

“Allow me,” Elle said, leaning over to help.

I kicked off my shoes, reaching under my skirts to roll down my stockings.
Just do it. Do it and get it over with
. Domenico Vitturi had seen scores of unclothed women. He was used to it even if I wasn’t.

Quietly, with an uncharacteristic note of earnestness, perhaps even compassion, in his voice, Vitturi said, “You need not do this, Mistress Leeds.”

Both feet now bared, I sat up and looked him in the eye. “Will you allow me to accompany you to Grotte Cachée if I do not?”

He gave a sigh. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

“Well, then.” I stood, my face now scalding, and started prying open the row of tiny buttons that fastened my basque down the front.

My fingers felt huge, numb, hopelessly clumsy. I don’t know how I would have managed without Elle’s help.

Don’t think about it and it won’t matter
, I told myself as she removed my basque. I had come to believe that one’s mind and one’s body were distinct and separate entities, with intellectual concerns existing on the higher plane, corporeal on the lower. No matter what indignities my body was subjected to, if I divorced my mind from them, in essence pretending they weren’t happening, they would have no power to affect me. All that was required was a bit of mental discipline.

“You are Catholic?” he asked.

He was looking at the little gold crucifix around my neck, a symbol of the Roman Church that I wore beneath my clothes so as not to advertise my religion.

I winced.

He didn’t smile, exactly, but there was a hint of reassurance in his eyes as he said, “Your secret is safe with me, Mistress Leeds.”

Elle draped the basque carefully over the back of her chair, then did the same with my overskirt. She untied my bum roll, helped me to step out of my petticoats, unlaced and peeled away my stays…

As she pulled my shift up over my head, I wrestled with the urge to clutch at it, to squeeze my eyes shut and bow my head in shame. Instead, I lifted my chin and stared at the portrait of Buckingham over the mantel, reeling with the sensation of being utterly naked in a man’s presence. Vitturi made not a
sound as his gaze moved over my bare flesh, upon which no male had ever before laid eyes.

I hitched in a breath when Elle stroked a hand lightly down my arm, inciting a trail of goose bumps.

“She is exquisite, is she not, Domenico?” Elle asked. “Slender, without being skinny. Like a marble statue of a goddess, a true Galatea.”

“Her breasts are rather small,” he said.

“They are perfectly in proportion with the rest of her. Besides, a certain boyishness can be an asset in a courtesan, as you well know. ’Twas you yourself who told me about courtesans who dress in male clothing and even cut off their hair to entertain those benefactors who prefer the charms of their own sex, but do not wish to pay for their sport by losing their heads to the executioner. Hannah would be ideal for such purposes, would she not?”

“Pray turn around, Mistress Leeds,” Vitturi said in a be-maddeningly calm, even voice.

I did so, fancying that I could feel Vitturi’s gaze searing my very flesh—my shoulders and back, my buttocks, my legs— but of course, it was only the warmth of the fire.

His dispassionate appraisal made me feel all the more naked and exposed. Were he my lover, it would be a very different matter to feel his eyes upon me. It would feel natural, perhaps even exciting, the heat of his gaze serving as a prelude to his touch.

They say he has the gentlest hands in Christendom
.

My skin felt peculiarly sensitized all over, as if it were suddenly just a bit too snug, pulling so taut around my breasts as to make their tips draw up tight and hard. This hot, prickly awareness shivered through me, settling in that secret, untouched place between my legs.