In Bed With Lord Byron

shared. And just because we’re not going to make love, it doesn’t mean we
don’t have something special, Lucy! As it happens, I don’t think sex is that important anyway,’ he added, with a note of disgust in his voice that surprised me. ‘Everywhere
I go, I see sex poisoning people’s minds, blurring their judgement, drawing them from the divine to the debased. Friendship is so much more simple. I’ve had so many good times with you,
Lucy – when we defied the Duke, when we got drunk, when we set those birds free. I feel closer to you than anyone . . .’ Leonardo trailed off, his eyes hooded with hurt, hands dangling
awkwardly by his sides.
    I sighed and smiled shakily.
    ‘You’re right,’ I said softly. ‘Of course you’re right.’
    ‘So I can paint you?’ Leonardo asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And I can lend you a dress. I have one, in the back, from another portrait I did . . . Let me go and find it . . .’
    It was such a relief to be a woman again, to be free of my sweaty tunic and feel a cool breeze about my legs. The dress was lovely – dark blue and very simple, with flowing sleeves and a
matching silk shawl to draw over the top.
    As Leonardo sketched me, he kept breaking off from time to time and cocking his head to one side, pursing his lips playfully and chiding me to ‘Smile, dear Lucy, try to be happy.’ I
tried, I did try. But the intensity of his artistic gaze on me, the force of his charisma, only filled me with regret again. The confusion of pleasure and pain in my heart fought over my lips,
turning them up and down until I was convinced the tension of comedy and tragedy in my expression would result in a very odd picture.
    Several hours had passed and Leonardo had begun to lay down a coat of oils. At last he looked at me and sighed and said, ‘It’s not finished, but come on, sulky. Come and see how
beautiful you look.’
    ‘OK.’ Though I dragged myself up to the canvas, I have to admit that I was secretly excited. Hopefully he would have airbrushed out my wrinkles, softened my features with his sfumato
technique and added a halo to my head.
    And then I saw it.
    My jaw dropped. I opened my mouth to say something, but the words never even made it to my throat; instead they pounded inside my heart in shock.
    ‘I know it doesn’t look totally like you. I just wanted an impression of you, of what it has felt like to know you. I wanted to capture your sense of mystery. And I’ve made you
slightly androgynous.’ He turned to me, nudging me gently, waiting for me to respond. ‘You know – to capture the fact that your little game . . .’
    ‘It’s incredible,’ I said at last. Suddenly I wished Anthony was here. And my parents. And my sister. And the bitch who’d bullied me at school. And anyone I’d ever
met.
    ‘Guess what I’m going to call it.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Well, since your surname is Liza and you have turned out to be a
miss
rather than a mister, I thought
Mona Liza
would be perfect . . .’
    I was about to erupt into shocked laughter when Leonardo’s eyes widened and he put a hand on my wrist. We heard the sound of approaching footsteps, followed by an excited rapping at the
door. Before Leonardo could shout ‘Wait!’ Bramante had burst in, his face flushed pink with excitement.
    ‘Leonardo, I have amazing news. That old dog Michelangelo has been commissioned to— Oh . . .’ He stopped short, eyeing my dress in confusion. Then his unfocused gaze pinpointed
my breasts. Instantly my hands flew up, only highlighting their reality. Then Bramante saw the picture. Leonardo leapt in front of it, but it was too late: Bramante had twigged.
    He didn’t shout or make a scene. He just stood very still, and said in a quiet, intense voice, as though I wasn’t there: ‘I always knew there was something suspicious about
him, Leonardo.’
    ‘
Her
,’ I corrected him hotly. ‘You mean
her
.’
    ‘In two minutes’ time, the Duke’s men will be here. They have come to fetch . . .’ Bramante waved his hand at me, unable to decide on the correct pronoun, ‘. . . to
take him, or her, back to the Duke’s palace to read the Duke’s fortune. She . . . he . . . has been promising for days to read it and now the Duke is red-hot with impatience.’
    ‘Let them,’ said Leonardo defiantly. He wrapped a protective arm around me.
    ‘But he – she – is a woman.’
    ‘Really?’ Leonardo mocked him.
    ‘Women,’ Bramante stamped his foot, ‘have their