Then I smiled, thinking, I am no stranger to that mouth. I am no stranger to that mouth. Instantly I quashed the thought. Instantly I quashed the thought.

Too late.

"Why do you smile that way?" he asked.

I stood speechless, as I did not wish to lie to him. Yet the truth was deeply mortifying. He was a stranger! One whose impudence had made me stumble in the promenade.

"What? Suddenly mute?" he prodded. "Inside, you chastised me. Now you refuse to speak."

"I do not refuse," I finally said. "I simply wish to choose my words more carefully."

"You needn't be careful with me," he said with unexpected gentleness. "I lived with sisters. I'm used to teasing them." Then he went silent, his head tilting slightly, examining my face. He was quiet for a long while.

"Now you're the mute," I accused.

He laughed, and the sound of it fluttered my heart. So sweet was it, I silently determined, that I must make this young man laugh again and again. Those eyes refused to release me from their locked grip. I wished desperately that my mother's handkerchief was not stuffed in my bodice.

The full lips moved and he said softly, " 'I found her so full of natural dignity and admirable bearing she did not seem the daughter of an ordinary man, but rather a G.o.d.' " " 'I found her so full of natural dignity and admirable bearing she did not seem the daughter of an ordinary man, but rather a G.o.d.' "

I was awed at his grasp of our favorite poet, indeed, my favorite of his books-Vita Nuova-and I wished with all desperation to reply in kind, though without revealing my soul too deeply.

"Good sir," I finally said, " 'you speak without the trusted counsel of reason.' "

He was delighted at my choice of quotes.

"Now it is you who is guilty of changing Dante's words," he said, "and, moreover, changing his meaning."

"Not so!" I cried. "I simply chose a phrase, a part of a phrase. One that follows your own in chapter two."

"And what is the rest of that phrase?" he probed, taking half a step closer. We were in dangerous proximity now.

I could hardly breathe. I closed my eyes to recall the words as they stood on the page. " 'And though her image,' " " 'And though her image,' " I recited, I recited, " 'which remained constantly with me, was Love's a.s.surance of holding me, it was of such pure quality that never did it permit to be ruled by Love without the trusted counsel of reason.' " " 'which remained constantly with me, was Love's a.s.surance of holding me, it was of such pure quality that never did it permit to be ruled by Love without the trusted counsel of reason.' " I opened my eyes, mortified that I had been the first to speak of that most poignant of emotions. I opened my eyes, mortified that I had been the first to speak of that most poignant of emotions.

"You see, you did did change the meaning," he insisted. "Dante was saying that in his love for Beatrice he was always blessed by reason." His face fixed itself in a noncommittal expression. "Though when it comes to the love change the meaning," he insisted. "Dante was saying that in his love for Beatrice he was always blessed by reason." His face fixed itself in a noncommittal expression. "Though when it comes to the love I I feel, I might not be so blessed." feel, I might not be so blessed."

I thought I might swoon and had to take a step backward. But with a small smile, the gentleman took one forward.

It was a bold challenge and though he had not touched me, a strong but pleasant shock reverberated through my body. I strove to remain calm.

"Who are you?" I said. "Why do I not know you?"

"I have been in Padua. At university. Before that, I lived with my uncles in Verona for several years." Pain flickered across his features then. "There were many deaths in my family-all my elder brothers, and my sisters. . . ." He shook his head. "The family business here in Florence will one day be mine."

"I lost all my brothers, too," I said.

Both of us looked down at our feet, yet too unfamiliar to share that black misery.

"And your name?" I did ask.

He grinned, then closed his eyes, as though trying to remember a particular line. " 'Names follow from the things they name, as the saying goes. . . .'" " 'Names follow from the things they name, as the saying goes. . . .'" He hesitated and I jumped in, so we spoke together in unison, from chapter thirteen: He hesitated and I jumped in, so we spoke together in unison, from chapter thirteen: " 'Names are the consequences of things.' "

We both smiled, utterly pleased with ourselves.

"So I am the consequence of my father's and mother's 'thing'?" I asked.

His laugh was bawdy this time. "I imagine your father would not approve of your speaking of his 'thing.' "

"Come, tell me your name," I begged.

"Romeo," he said. "And yours?"

"Juliet."

"Ju-li-et. It lies gently on the tongue."

"And your family's name?"

He spun suddenly on his heel and with a flourish bowed low before me.

What matter is my name if my mind has shattered in a thousand pieces and my heart, where the soul resides, has grown to the size of the sun?

My brow furrowed. "That is not Dante. Or if it is, I cannot place it."

He pressed his lips tightly together, then spoke. "It is my own verse."

"You're a poet!"

"That I would never claim."

"Why? They were pretty words, carefully composed. I had to think a moment. They could could have been Dante's." have been Dante's."

"You are far too kind, Lady Juliet." His eyes narrowed. "Indeed, I think you mock me."

"No, no! Romeo, I am an honest woman. There is much I cannot claim for myself. But straight talking is one that I proudly do. And when it comes to poetry, sir, I fancy myself of strong and fair opinion. And I tell you your verse was pleasant to the ear."

He sighed happily.

"Here, listen to mine," I said.

Am I mad to judge a man by the shape of his hand, square and strong, the way he holds my face so tender in his palm.

Warm, enchanted fingertips that magic make upon my soul, All of that, all of that, in the shape of a hand.

Romeo fixed me with a blank gaze.

"You wrote that?" wrote that?"

"I did. What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing."

"Then why do you stand there like a stag just struck by an arrow?"

"Women . . . ," he began, but could not finish.

"Women do not write poetry?" I finished for him. I bristled, insulted, and started turning away.

"No, please, Juliet!"

He grasped my hand in both of his, not unaware of his presumptuousness. I could not deny that despite my strong words, his touch had, alarmingly, turned me soft inside. Yielding.

"Forgive me. I have never known a woman poet. The verse was . . . brilliant. And the verse was yours yours."

"Brilliant?"

"I thought it so. Dante, were he here in this garden, would agree."

I gently released myself from his grip, aware that pulling away was what I wished least to do. "You teased me before," I said, surprised to hear my voice grow low and husky. "You tease me again."

He shook his head. "Who has read your poems?"

"Only my friend Lucrezia."

"Others should read your work."

"Oh no.That would cause a world of unhappiness." I fell silent, suddenly miserable. "My future husband would never approve."

Romeo's features crumpled, and a certain light faded from his eyes. I understood his disappointment.

As much from my own anger at the Fates as his, I lashed out at him with as much sense as a hedgehog. "What, did you not expect a woman of my age to be betrothed? Do I look like a spinster to you? Am I so hideous?"

He was amused at my intemperance, refusing-like a stubborn fish-to take my bait.

"Ah, I see.You test me," he said. "You wish me to versify on the subject of your beauty."

"That was not my intention," I insisted. He nevertheless said: Her color is the paleness of the pearl She is the highest nature can achieve And by her mold all beauty tests itself.

I smiled at the well-chosen lines of our favorite poet.

"Ah, she is mollified."

"Not entirely," I said, enjoying the game. "I require one of yours."

"On the spur of the moment?"

"Well, certainly you've written of other ladies' beauty."

He was very quiet and displayed a look of bafflement.

"Come, a winsome young bachelor like yourself . . ."

"I am not a bachelor. I'm a scholar, only recently come from-"

"Padua, I know. But you have written of love-your heart 'the size of the sun.' Is beauty so hard?"

A slow smile bowed his lips and his eyes swept over my face.

"No, my lady, not when the beauty is that of an angel."

I was growing keenly aware of the sensations this man's near presence was having on my body. I strove to remain serene.

He continued slowly, as the words flowed into his head.

Not when the name evokes a precious stone.

Who is Juliet? How does her smile manage to foretell the rising sun, her eyes the brightest stars in the southern sky?

Who is Juliet, a lady on whose sweetly scented breath ride surprising words that illumine the night and make a poet's heart sing with wonder at his good fortune to know her?

"I am more than satisfied," I said, deeply impressed with his agility and flattered by the sentiment.

"But I am not." He looked unhappy. "Who is your betrothed?"

"My 'nearly betrothed' is Jacopo Strozzi."

Romeo's face paled.

"Do you know him?"

"I know of him."

"What do you know of him?" do you know of him?"

My young courtier was growing more uneasy by the moment, the magic vapors surrounding us suddenly evaporating.

"What is it?" I asked.

He remained stubbornly silent.

"I have been honest with you, sir.You must do me the honor likewise. What do you know of Jacopo Strozzi?"

"That he will soon be partners with an enemy of my father."

A sharp breath escaped me. "That enemy's name is Capelletti," I whispered.

"It is. How do you know this?"

"My father is Capello Capelletti." I found myself anguished at speaking the next words. "Our families are at war with one another."