A Garden at Night

From the Bushes

Her silhouette was striking against the backdrop of the light of the raucous party happening inside the palazzo; her chin high, eyes fixed on the night. It wasn’t the only balcony along the palazzo’s infamous ballroom, but it was the only one occupied. What drew her out here, he wasn’t sure-- he could, after all, hear the lively music and laughter drifting down from the party-- why linger alone on such a festive occasion? But he thanked the Gods, if they truly were there, for intervening with fate on his behalf.

 It was a miracle alone he’d made it on the palazzo’s lawn with the security the Duke had up for his son’s engagement party. Not that they hadn’t been invited, but he’d hoped to slip away with a maid or a kitchen girl, someone easy to miss, before joining the party officially. 

That was when he’d seen her. Something froze him there in the carefully groomed bushes, but it was when the summer wind tousled stray strands of hair in her face and he caught the scent of lavender and rosemary that he was absolutely transfixed.

From then on time seemed to slow as he drank in the sight of her. The rich burgundy of her gown, the quality of the gold trim, the pearls crowning her dark braids like a halo, the jewels adorning her, sharp green eyes, flushed lips and cheeks, gentle hands, a furrowed brow, and -- worst of all -- the shiny bauble on her ring finger. Perhaps this was the Duke’s future daughter-in-law. So why such a petulant expression?

Just as he was shifting closer in hopes of...he wasn’t sure what, a figure joined her.

“My Lady, what are you doing out here? Your Lady Mother is looking for you!”

“She can keep looking. Have earned a moment’s peace, Anna,” she whispered, eyes still staring into the night.

“But, My Lady--”

“We’re alone.”

“Not truly, but very well, Rose. This is your own engagement party.”

“It is more my father’s than mine, that boy is a pig.”

“You shouldn’t speak so plainly, especially not of your future husband.”

Even as she said that there was a ghost of a smile on the maid’s face.

So this was the bride-to-be.

Jealousy, unbidden and unfounded, surged in him. He felt rage at the thought a mere Duke’s son, a mere mortal man would dare lay claim to her.

Her. Rose. Her name was Rose. She was speaking again. He crouched lower into the bushes, he didn’t want to be seen, to scare her away.

“You know I’m right, you saw him at supper! Like a child, he was.”

“Did you see his collar by the end of the meal?”

“How’d he get it on his forehead?”

“I’m not entirely convinced he was using utensils.”

Rose let out a peal of laughter that echoed through the garden and the sound filled him with delight.

“Hush, someone might hear!” Anna whispered, giggles bubbling through and doing a terrible job of hushing her mistress. Or even calming her down.

Rose’s laughter died and he sobered as well while she grew quiet and pensive. He hated the look on her face, marring her perfect features. Her face was meant for joy, she looked radiant when she was laughing.

“I’m not certain I care if they do. I’m only sixteen, I can’t do this. I hate him, I hate my parents, I hate this. I just… I just want to run away and never look back. To be free of this. Join a convent or become a fish woman,” Rose said, her voice rough, her breath quick as she leaned on the railing and gripped it until her knuckles were white.

His heart ached, he rose shifted to rise, to reach for her, to stop the tears from coming--

“I hear being a fish woman is hard work, something you’d be unaccustomed to due to your well breeding, which is also why you’d be an absolute disgrace for becoming one. And service to Our Lord would not benefit such a girl as you who has a duty to her family.” A shrill voice cut through the emotional silence.

There was a longer, tenser silence.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Merely enjoying the view of the gardens, your grace,” Anna rushed, head bowed in a curtsy where she stayed because Her Grace gave Anna no indication she’d even noticed her presence on the balcony.

“Maria Rosalia Gonzaga -- your fiance is searching for you and your absence from your own celebration is unseemly. Come inside,” her shrill voice ordered, brushing off Anna. He decided right then he didn’t like Rose’s mother.

At least he knew her name now thanks to her. It would be much easier to find out more about her. To find her.

Maria Rosalia Gonzaga.

One of the names on the invitation. Again, he felt a surge of jealousy as he was reminded that another dared to lay a claim to her. He wasn't sure what he thought his own claim was, where this jealously came from, but he knew he wanted her.

“Yes, Your Grace,”

Rose. He couldn't help but imagine a different ring on her finger.

“That’s better,”

Too late, he realized she was being led away. His last sight of her was the glimmer of the pearls crowning her in the candlelight.

She wanted to be free?

He could give her that-- and more. She deserved more.

Perhaps he ought to join the party early, he could afford to skip a meal.

“His Grace, Titus Pompeius, Duke of Montferrat.”

All eyes in the ballroom turned towards the entrance.

The Duke of Montferrat. Always invited, but never seen. Only the word of His Majesty assured the rest of nobility that there was a Duke of Montferrat. That and the fact commerce with the Duchy continued. But this was the first time in recent history that any of the Dukes of Montferrat made a physical appearance.

Recovering, many in the ballroom quickly looked away as to not be caught staring at the man. But as he ambled through the crowds closer to her, Rose couldn’t tear her eyes away.

Dark curls crowned his head, a strong jawline held his chin high, he was dressed in robes fitting a king-- but it was his dark, piercing eyes that held Rose captive. She watched him wade closer to her, stopping for pleasantries but never lingering long, always coming closer. Rose got the sense he was coming straight for her.

Not unusual, this party was to celebrate her coming union with the son of his host.

But God, those eyes.

“Your Grace,” was all she managed to breathe as she curtsied, tearing her eyes away from his and looking down at his shoes. Focussing on anything that let her catch her breath back.

“Lady Maria Rosalia of Montua,” he greeted and she had to bite back her shock that the mysterious Duke of Montferrat knew her name. Which was silly, since her name was on the invitation.

“It is an honor for you to attend, Your Grace,” and there it was, her mother cutting in. Her voice was less shrill, more pleased at the presence of someone held in high esteem to the king at a social function she had planned. To celebrate sentencing her daughter to marry a pig.

“Lady Lucrezia, the honor is mine. Congratulations on the...upcoming union between your families,” he said haltingly as if to share that he was truly displeased.

It was silent for a beat while her mother recovered, trying to figure out how to spin this conversation in her favor.

“Indeed, we are truly fortunate. Maria Rosalia had many suitors interested...and many still, despite her engagement.”

This irked Rose, that the path the rest of her life would take sat in her father’s hands and therefore her mother’s, just like her mother before her. Except, unlike her mother at her age, she lacked the ambition that would have excited her at the thought of being promised to a more powerful nobleman. Instead, she was only acutely aware of the unjustness of her situation and part of her already resented the Duke of Montferrat for his bringing it up.

“Yes, very fortunate. Though, there is room for more prosperity.”

At that, Rose’s gaze snapped back up to the Duke’s face, only to find that piercing gaze was still settled on her. He had never looked away, even to greet her mother. She then realized that the Duke of Montferrat had finally made an appearance for a reason.

Now, she had a bigger reason to resent his presence.

“Yes, there always is. Oh, your father is calling, Maria Rosalia, I shall see what he wants. Why don’t you keep His Grace company? It isn’t often he steps among us...he may need introductions,” Lucrezia said smoothly, placing her daughter in a position to feel the Duke out for marriage in one sweep. At said daughter’s engagement party to another man.

The only difference was that this man, this Duke, had the ear of the king in a way that no one else in the ballroom did. Not even her fiance. This led to power and wealth her family could only imagine, but perhaps brush against with a fortunate marriage for their daughter.

But was he better than Giovanni? He certainly looked better.

“Tell me, my lady, of your studies,”

“I can recite many verses of the Bible, read, speak, and write in French, Latin, Italian, and English, spin and sew--” she began listing the things her mother had drilled into her to share with potential suitors when she was interrupted.

“No, no I mean...what do you enjoy reading? In your free time?”

She liked him better than the rest, no one had ever asked her what she wanted, what she liked except Anna. No man had ever, no suitor. But there was still something chilling about him, something that held her back. She knew from experience that having a powerful man’s attention wasn’t always a good thing.

“I...do enjoy the poets of the day.”

“Poetry, now that’s a start,” he said as they walked along the edges of the ballroom, the edges of the party. It felt like they were in their own bubble, apart from the others.

“A start, Your Grace?”

“Of, perhaps, something more. But please, call me Titus,” he whispered, leaned so close his breath ghosted against her exposed neck and left her shivering.

“Titus...call me Rose,” she whispered back, but despite her leave to call her by her nickname, she still felt cautious around this stranger. He might be her ticket to freedom or his gentlemanly veneer held something more sinister than her current fiance.

Rose...Rose...Rose…

She had given permission to use her first name, giving him more hope than he had dared for when he had first slipped into the party. He had not expected to get to her side so easily, to spend so long deep in conversation with her. For her to look at him like this.

“Titus?”

He had drifted away, watching her speak, so far that he had stopped listening to the actual words. He was too caught up in his own thoughts, but she pulled him back, calling his name.

“Forgive me, Rose, my thoughts drifted away from me. You were saying?”

“I said I was reading Virgil’s Aeneid,”

“A classic,” he murmured, choking up a little at the thought of someone alive during his lifetime being referred to as “a classic.” He wanted to laugh.

“Is something the matter, Titus?”

Before he had a chance to answer, her disgustingly pleased looking mother joined the conversation.

“Your Grace, please forgive me, but it is time for Maria Rosalia and I to retire for the night… Although, His Grace, my husband, has given leave for you to write to each other, if you are amendable,” she said, smugly. She looked like she had won some battle.

He felt, however, that he had won the most ground. She had just given near permission to court her daughter on the sly, to contest the engagement, to potentially gain the ire of his current host.

“Most certainly, my lady, it would be an honor. Perhaps I may entertain you in the future, His Majesty is visiting soon,” he said, knowing that to holiday with the king would be too much for her to resist. Or for her husband, who he was most worried about.

But he could see something stirring in Rose’s eyes, she didn’t look pleased with his forwardness with her mother. That, or she was displeased with his meddling in her life. Even he wasn’t sure why he was doing this, why he needed to have her.

Unfortunately for Rose, he was, above all, a selfish creature after years of simply taking what he wanted. Even before his...change.

“You must write to us as well, then. But, until then, Your Grace,” she curtsied and Rose followed suit, looking back at him and assessing him with sharp, green eyes.

But as the first light of dawn threatened to creep over the hills, he realized too late that he was going hungry tonight. But it had been worth it, that glimpse of her. Of Rose.

Even as he trudged home, slipping through the shadows, she lingered in his thoughts. Her voice lingered in his ears when he reached home. Her scent ghosted by as he climbed the stairs. He wondered what her hands would feel like in his as he opened his bedroom door. Were they as soft and delicate as they looked? as he changed into bedclothes. Would she shy away from his touch? as he climbed into bed. Or, alternatively, as he closed his eyes to sleep: what would her unblemished throat feel, would taste, against his lips? His teeth against her soft throat?