Yes, she thought. That had to be it. Because the alternative, that she had willingly imagined such a thing of her own husband, in the middle of an art studio no less, was far too mortifying to consider.
Drawing in a slow breath, Lucrezia fixed her attention firmly on the opposite wall, where charcoal studies of horses galloping across open fields offered a far safer subject for contemplation. Still, she couldn't help but replay the image in her mind.
It was not scandalous curiosity, at least, that was what she tried to tell herself, but rather the innocent bewilderment of someone who had spent her entire life being told such things existed without ever being shown them.
Lucrezia wiped her sweaty palms on her cloak. They still trembled, but it was bearable.
A few patrons moved slowly between displays, murmuring in appreciation. At that moment, Lucrezia realized that no one bowed here or stiffened, which made her feel a sense of satisfaction.
