“I’ve a night to myself with the Duke of Gandia going out for once instead of entertaining,” he began automatically. “His guardsmen invited me along in the entourage; we all know each other now after all the zara games we’ve played. Thought I’d slip down, see everyone . . .” Cadge a few delicacies too, no doubt, and the odd coin anyone might feel like lending him. Marco trailed off, and his eyes flickered over me. “What are you wearing?”

I groaned. “Will you just get out of my way, Marco? So I can get to my chamber and take off what I’m wearing?”

The same frank admiration I’d seen in Leonello’s eyes now filled Marco’s. “I’ll help you take it off.”

“Oh, be serious.” I looked over my shoulder toward the hum of commotion from the kitchens. So far it seemed no one had missed me. I’d told everyone I felt ill, needed a breath of air. “Keep the mouths shut and the hands moving until I’m back!” I’d said in conclusion, or started to say, but in the end I slipped out without saying it. It was a phrase I’d stopped using since Bartolomeo had said those same words to me, but murmured against my lips.

“Who knew you’d look so well dressed as a man?” Marco caught me around the waist. “Not my usual tastes, but just this once—”

“Marco, let go of me. I’d rather sleep with a Tiber eel, don’t you dare—”

But his lips dove down on mine. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured. I tried to evade his kisses, and he pulled me against him with a heat he hadn’t shown for me in a long time. That heat had been pleasant enough, but when compared to the passion with which my apprentice had seized me . . . “Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?” Marco said wetly into my neck.

“No, because I’m not.” I gave his hand a sharp smack as it tried to find its way inside my doublet. “Sweet Santa Marta, what is wrong with you men? I put a pair of hose on and you all go insane! Marco—”

“Signorina,” a distinctly cold voice called. “That idiot Ottaviano’s gone and broken the horn clean off the sugar unicorn. I’ll repair it with a little egg white.” A hesitation, and diffidence crept into the voice. “Are you still feeling ill, or—”

Then that voice broke off like it had been cut with a knife.

I groaned, feeling the urge to thump my head repeatedly against the wall. Preferably until I achieved unconsciousness. “Bartolomeo,” I said, closing my eyes. “Go. Away.”

“Egg white, yes.” Marco sounded offhand, breezy. “That should patch your sugar subtleties for you. I can lend a hand if you like; I’ve a night free from my own kitchens!”