“You are beautiful,” he repeated. “But how should I dare to touch you with my mouth?”
“You would have dared, if you had thought me desirable,” she answered hoarsely. “You cannot guess how beautiful I was–before you were born, Orsini.”
He felt a sudden pity for her; the glamour of her fame clung round her and gilded her. Was not this a woman who had been the fairest in Italy seated beside him?
He raised her hand and kissed the palm, the only part that was not hidden with jewels.
“You are sorry for me,” she said.
Orsini started at her quick reading of his thoughts.
“I am the last of my family,” she added. “And sick. Did you know that I was sick, Orsini?”
“Nay, Madonna.”
“For weeks I have been sick. And wearying for Rome.”
“Rome,” he ventured, “is different now, Madonna.”