And yet, however indirectly, Caterina had made him what he was, and talking about her to Mihaela this evening had brought back surprisingly fresh memories. A vital, sensual girl, married to an old man for the sake of her family’s wealth and position. Of course, that was how marriages were done in those days, and Caterina had never complained. She’d just taken lovers. Young as he was and intoxicated by several nights—and one particularly naughty afternoon—in her arms, Maximilian had never made the mistake of imagining he was the only one. He was grateful for her favors and eager for them to continue, but she was a married countess and he a penniless sculptor. She made use of that, commissioning a bust of herself as a gift for her husband, and so commanding Maximilian’s frequent presence in her palace. It didn’t go unnoticed, and when, that particular afternoon, the doors burst open upon Caterina and Maximilian rolling naked in a tangle of dustsheets on the elegantly tiled floor, Maximilian had just been grateful the other man was not her husband.
