“I would never be so rude as to answer that question,” he replies. Within minutes, the husband bursts in, finds Casanova innocently reciting poetry to his fully dressed wife, and ends up apologizing. That night, Casanova wins again.

Venice, 1753, shimmered like a gilded cage. And inside that cage, fluttering from one beautiful window to the next, was Giacomo Casanova. To the city’s husbands, he was a scoundrel. To its wives, a revelation. To the Church’s Holy Inquisition, he was a heretic in silk stockings.

Complications pile like carnival masks. Francesca is promised to the grotesque, sausage-fingered Papprizzio, a Genoese meat tycoon. Meanwhile, the real Bernardo—a timid scholar—shows up, threatening to blow Casanova’s cover. And Pucci arrives from Rome, determined to make Casanova a public example.

“The real Bernardo sends his regards,” he says. “He is now a monk.”

Fascinated, Casanova decides to conquer her—not with a glance, but with his mind. He poses as a quiet, awkward book salesman named “Bernardo.” To his own shock, he finds himself listening to her, laughing genuinely, and even discussing the stars without once mentioning a bedchamber.

She crosses her arms. “You lied to me. You wore a mask.”