Her gaze went back to the man in the portrait. He looked out at all those who gazed at him with dark, hooded, assessing eyes. She looked at the powerful features, the raven hair, worn long to the nape of the strong neck, his jaw bearded in the fashion of the time, yet leaving unhidden the sensuous line of his mouth, the unbearably rich velvet of his black doublet, the stark pleated white of his deep collar, the glint of precious gold at his broad, powerful chest.
He was a man whom the artist knew considered his own worth high, whose portrait told all who gazed upon it that here was no ordinary mortal, cut from the common herd. Arrogance was in that hooded gaze, in the angle of his head, the set of his shoulders. He was a man for whom the world would do his bidding—whatever he bade them do...
A voice spoke behind her. Deep, resonant. With a timbre to it that set off yet again that low, internal seismic tremor.
‘So,’ he said, as she stood immobile in front of the portrait, ‘what do you think of my ancestor, Count Alessandro?’
She turned, lifted her face, let her eyes meet the living version of the dark, hooded gaze that had transfixed her across the centuries—the living version that had transfixed her only moments ago and was now transfixing her again.
Cesare di Mondave, Conte di Mantegna.
The owner of this priceless Luciezo portrait of his ancestor, and of vast wealth besides. A man whose reputation went before him—a reputation for living in the same fashion as his illustrious forebears: as if the whole world belonged to him. To whom no one would say no—and to whom any woman upon whom he looked with favour would want to say only one thing.
Yes.
And as Carla met his gaze, felt its impact, its power and potency, she knew with a hollow sense of fatalism that it was the only word she would ever want to use.
‘Well?’
The deep voice came again and Carla realised that she needed to speak—had been commanded to answer him. For this was a man who was obeyed.
But she would not obey immediately. She would defy him in that, at least.
Deliberately she looked back at the Luciezo, making him wait. ‘A man of his time,’ she answered finally.
As you are not a man of your time.
The words formed in her head silently, powerfully. No, the current Conte di Mantegna was not a man of the twenty-first century! She could see it in every austere line of his body. He carried his own ancient ancestry in the unconscious lift of his chin at her reply, in his dark brows drawing together.
‘What do you mean by that?’
Again, the question demanded an immediate answer.
Carla looked back at the portrait, gathering her reasons for the reply she had made him.
‘His hand is on the pommel of his sword,’ she essayed. ‘He will slay any man who offers him insult. He subjects himself to the scrutiny of one who can never be his equal, however much genius Luciezo possesses, simply in order that his illustrious image can be displayed. His arrogance is in every line, every stroke of the brush.’
She turned back to the man who had commanded her to speak. Her answer had displeased him, as she had known it would.
There was a dark flash in his eyes, as he riposted, ‘You mistake arrogance for pride. Pride not in himself but in his family, his lineage, his honour. An honour he would defend with his life, with his sword—that he must defend because he has no choice but to do so. The artist’s scrutiny is to be endured because he must be ever mindful of what he owes his house—which is to protect it and preserve it. His portrait will be his persona in his own absence—it will persist for posterity when he himself is dust.’
The night-dark eyes went to those in the portrait. As if, Carla thought, the two men were communing with each other.
Her brow furrowed for an instant. How strange to think that a man of the present could look into the eyes of his own ancestor... That, in itself, made il Conte entirely different from all those who—like herself—were simply cut from the common herd of humanity...who had no knowledge of their ancestors from so many centuries ago.
Her expression changed, becoming drawn for a moment. She didn’t even know of her own more immediate forebears. Her father was little more than a name to her—a name reluctantly bestowed upon her when her mother’s pregnancy had required that he marry her, only for him to be killed in a car crash when she was a small child. His widow had been unwelcome to her in-laws, and Carla had been raised by her mother alone until her remarriage to Guido Viscari when Carla was a young teenager.
I know more about my stepfather’s family than I do about my own father’s!
To a man like il Conte that very ignorance about her paternal forebears must seem incomprehensible, for he would know the identity of every one of his entire collection of ancestors for centuries—each of them doubtless from families as aristocratic as his own.
With such a heritage she could not be surprised by his immediate retort. Yet she had one of her own.
‘Then it is entirely to the credit of Luciezo’s mastery that he can convey all that with his portrait,’ she replied, making her voice even. ???Without his genius to record it your ancestor is merely dust.’
There was defiance in her voice—and an open assertion that, however many heraldic quarterings the illustrious Conte di Mantegna was possessed of, none could compare with the incomparable genius of a great master such as Luciezo.
That dark flash came again in the depths of the Conte’s eyes. ‘Will we not all be dust in years to come?’ he murmured. ‘But until that time comes...’