Read His Last Duchess for Free Online

for titbits when we were small,” she said, and the duke smiled.
    â€œOur head carver in Ferrara has a ferocious reputation,” he said, “though I am not entirely sure from where it sprang, originally. His temper, so I have been told repeatedly, is legendary—but I have never actually known him to lose it. As is so often the case with legend, it seems, the facts rarely live up to the fiction.”
    Lucrezia said, “You would have to treat someone with great respect, though, wouldn’t you, if they had both a reputation for ferocity and an impressive skill with a knife?”
    The duke laughed. “You would indeed!” he said, and his gaze slid from her eyes to her mouth and back. Her words and his appreciative laughter sounded again in her head; she caught her lip between her teeth to stop her smile becoming too broad.
    â€œThinking of our head carver,” the duke went on, “we entertain frequently in Ferrara. At this time of year, we often eat outside in the central courtyard. Torchlit, it can be most attractive, and if we are lucky enough to dine at a full moon, it can be quite enchanting.”
    â€œI look forward very much to seeing the castle and its grounds, Signore.”
    â€œAnd the household holds its collective breath, awaiting your arrival,” the duke said with a slow smile. Lucrezia held his gaze. He blinked slowly at her, almost lazily, and Lucrezia looked down at her hands.
    There was a long pause. The silence, Lucrezia thought, bulged between them, threatening to burst like an overfilled wineskin.
    After a moment the duke said, “I must thank you for my tour of the house—you have a most refreshing set of opinions on your father’s collection, Signorina.”
    â€œPapa loves his paintings, and—I think particularly—his sculptures, Signore,” Lucrezia said. “Perhaps his enthusiasm is infectious—I’ve always enjoyed them too.” She glanced towards her father, who was engrossed now in conversation with a tiny woman to his left; although reassured that he was not listening, Lucrezia nonetheless dropped her voice. The duke bent towards her, his eyebrows raised, and Lucrezia felt her heart race at his closeness. She said, in little more than a whisper, “He has told all of us about each piece so often that I would be a poor student indeed if, after such frequent repetition, I did not remember at least some of the details.”
    She expected a smile, but to her dismay, the duke’s eyes were suddenly cold. Unsure of what she had done to offend him, she began to fiddle her food with her fork, but her throat seemed to have swollen and her appetite had quite disappeared. The duke turned away from her and began to speak again to her father.
    Lucrezia ate little of the meats that followed the eels and only picked at the salads—the broad beans and Parmesan cheese, which she liked very much, but somehow no longer felt like eating. (“Damned peasant food that the nobility like to think illustrates their broad-mindedness !” she remembered Angelo the cook sneering, last time her mother had requested the dish.)
    The duke—and his dog—seemed happy with their meal: the great wolfhound sat pressed against its master, their heads almost level. From time to time, it would rest its muzzle upon the linen table covering, and stare at its master’s plate, the fringes of hair over each eye twitching as it watched the progress of each mouthful of food. The duke seemed to enjoy passing titbits to his pet, and they both appeared pleased by what they ate.
    Lucrezia picked up a piece of bread and began to shred it. The soft crumbs scattered across the table and onto her lap. What could it have been in her remarks that had so quickly discomposed him? Perhaps what she had intended as no more than an affectionate mockery of her much-loved parent had been interpreted by Signor d’Este as disrespect. Glancing