“Then punish me.” I sank to my knees before him, allowing my skirts to pool around me. “I am in error, Your Holiness, and I require penance. Punish me for my wrongdoing.”

He stopped, looking down at me. I released his sleeve and bowed my head until my hair flooded forward over his feet: a penitent Magdalene in truth, kneeling at the feet of Christ. All the Magdalenes ever depicted in paint have wonderful hair, don’t they? Penitence just doesn’t look as picturesque without a good flood of hair. “Forgive me, Father,” I whispered. “For I have sinned.”

He was silent. But he did not move either, and I reached slowly, oh so slowly, for his hand. I brought it to my lips, allowing my breath to whisper across his fingertips, and kissed his ring. “Punish me,” I whispered, and through my veil of hair I cast him a slow, burning glance.

His hand descended on my head, the papal benediction I had seen him bestow hundreds of times. But his hand wound through my hair, jerking me to my feet with a painful yank. “You deserve it,” he whispered.

“I do,” I whispered back, and kissed him with my teeth. He caught me up in an embrace so hard it hurt, tossing me down on the satin-covered daybed, and so much for my new lavender gown with the silver brocade insets because it came off me with a great rip of expensive silk. I wrapped my arms around him, my knees, and I gasped quietly as his mouth left rough marks on my shoulders.

“Minx,” he muttered with an angry, unwilling chuff of laughter against my breast. “Meddling minx—”

“Then punish me for my meddling,” I whispered, setting my teeth into the lobe of his ear, raking his back with my nails, and he filled me with a groan that was half need and half fury.

“Goodness,” I said afterward, curling against him. “I should anger you more often, Your Holiness.” He had bent his head to my breasts and used his teeth until I cried out, not precisely from pain. My skin still tingled. “I do believe I like your kind of punishment.”

He gave a hmph at that, a glint still showing dangerous in his eye, but he pulled my head down against his shoulder. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Giulia Farnese.”

“Then I shall endeavor to give you more for your trouble.”

“More?” He cocked a heavy dark brow. “More what?”

“I don’t know,” I said demurely. “I shall have to put my mind to it.”

He laughed again, his old laugh with its thread of amusement at the world’s follies. “My Lucrezia,” he asked, “is she truly so happy?”

“She is.”

“She’s Sforza’s wife,” he grumbled, “but she is my daughter first!”