“Drive,” he smiled at the chauffeur, “slowly and carefully, anywhere you want.”
The man nodded, grinned, and pocketed a bill.
They were silent as the cab moved away.
“Well,” said Florence at last, “you may begin.”
De Medici looked at her.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Will you marry me?”
“You promised speeches,” she laughed.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, staring at her. “I can’t think of anything to say.”
They were silent again. The cab entered a park. Turning to her, De Medici raised her hand to his lips. His restless, burning eyes remained on her face. He felt intoxicated. Her profile with its parted red lips, its tiny line of white teeth, her eyes dark and desirous as they avoided him, her aromatic hair in black coils under the toque.
“Dearest,” he whispered, “I adore you.”