folding Kat into an embrace the way a mother or a big sister might, “it can’t be that bad.”
“Yes it can!” wailed Kat. And proceeded, in the ensuing time of babbled words, to prove her point. Or try to, at least.
By the time she was done, Francesca was standing at the window, looking at the canal below through a curtain she had drawn partly aside with a finger.
“You could probably nip it in the bud, you know,” the courtesan mused. “This budding marriage between Casa Dorma and Casa Valdosta, I mean.”
She removed her finger, allowing the curtain to sway back into place, and cocked her head toward Kat. “I heard the rumors myself, last night. A marriage of convenience, driven partly by politics and partly by the crude fact that Angelina Dorma is pregnant. Nothing more than that.”
“Nothing more!?” choked Kat. “It’s still a marriage, Francesca! And—” She choked again. Then, in a whisper: “Pregnant? By Marco?”
Francesca shrugged. “That seems to be the assumption. Myself, I wouldn’t—”
“That bastard!” shrilled Kat. “That—”
“Katerina!”
The sharpness in Francesca’s tone jolted her. “Yes?”
The courtesan was frowning. “Before you get too carried away with your own self-righteousness . . . A question: Did you ever tell this young