Excerpt from The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence by Alyssa Palombo, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Once on the ground floor, we went out into the open-air courtyard; it was a lovely and mild late April evening, and so my father had seen fit to greet our guest out of doors.

"Ah, here she is," I heard my father say as my mother and I appeared. "Simonetta, figlia, surely you remember Signor Vespucci?"

"Of course," I said, offering my hand. "How do you do, Signor Vespucci?"

"Abundantly well, donna, now that I am in your presence once more," he said, bowing low over my hand as he kissed it. He straightened up, a small, nervous smile playing about his thin lips. I cast my eyes quickly over his person again. Yes, he was handsome, and young; perhaps nineteen or twenty to my sixteen years. His dark hair and pointed beard were neatly trimmed, his eyes were large and kind, and his nose proportionate to the rest of his features. His clothes were sober grays and browns, but made of the finest stuff.

"Do come inside, Signor Vespucci," my father said, "and take a glass of wine with us."

"I would be honored, Don Cattaneo," he said.

We adjourned into the receiving room, and my mother sent a servant for a bottle of our finest vino rosso. I sat on one of the carved wooden chairs, careful not to wrinkle my skirts.

I could feel Signor Vespucci's eyes on me, but directed my gaze modestly to the floor, pretending not to notice. Are you going to speak to me, signore, or merely gaze at me all evening as though I were a painting? I wondered crossly.

"You are a vision, truly, Madonna Simonetta," Signor Vespucci said at last. "I wonder that the sun dares shine and the flowers dare bloom in your presence."

I bit forcefully on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing. All men, it seemed, fancied themselves poets, but few were worthy of the name. Signor Vespucci was no exception.

"I thank you, signore," I said after a moment, once I had mastered myself. "Your words are too kind."

"And quite lovely," my mother interjected, from a seat at an angle to my own. "Ah, you young men and your poetry!"

I bit down on my cheek again and was glad to return my gaze to the floor.

"All men—young and otherwise—can only dream of such a muse to inspire them," he said, still looking at me. Despite decorum, I lifted my eyes and met his straight on, trying to read his sincerity. He surprised me by holding my gaze for a moment, as though he were appraising something other than my beauty, if only briefly. Yet then I saw his cheeks flush, and he looked away.

"So tell us how your studies go, Signor Vespucci," my father said, once the wine had been poured.

My suitor took up this topic eagerly, telling us in great detail everything he was learning about the art of banking, and how he hoped his new skills would serve him well when he returned to Florence, the city of those famous master bankers themselves, the Medici.

I could not bring myself to be interested in his talk—numbers and ledgers and accounts were hardly my forte. Yet what intrigued me was the light in his eyes as he spoke, the life in his voice and his enthusiastic hand gestures. He sat on the edge of his seat as he went on, leaning forward toward my father, as though his excitement was such that it was all he could do to keep to his chair.

I softened a bit toward him then. Maybe he found in his numbers and ledgers the same thing I found in poetry: a love of something outside oneself that nevertheless felt like it was a part of one's very being. And at that moment, that spark of recognition, as though I could see his soul, was far more attractive to me than his handsome face.

As the hour grew later and the conversation dwindled—perhaps through my parents' design, I had not, in fact, had much chance to say anything—Signor Vespucci noticed the book left on the varnished wood table nearest him. "Ah, of course," he said, noting the title. "La Divina Commedia. And who is reading Dante?" He glanced up at my father, assuming he already knew the answer to his question.

Excerpted from The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence by Alyssa Palombo. Copyright © 2017 by Alyssa Palombo. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Griffin. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.