Médicis Daughter (18 page)

“Duc, for a man who earlier this day professed to be delighted in my company, you are very quiet.” I try to say it teasingly, as Fleurie would.

“Apologies, Your Highness. It was the dance. It seems to have taken all my breath and my words with it.” His voice is serious and so are his eyes.

I cannot make a careless reply to such a remark. “I felt so too.”

“And do you feel this?” Taking my hand, he presses it to his breast firmly enough that I can feel his heartbeat.

“It races.”

“Does yours?”

“Yes.” I hesitate, then move our combined hands from his breast to mine. As his palm presses over my heart I feel the breast containing that heart swell with longing. He draws a sharp breath. Lifting his hand, with mine atop it, he kisses first my knuckles and then my wrist. I shiver all over.

He draws closer—so close that it would be an embrace if only our arms were around each other.

“Your Highness,” he says gravely, “I am besotted. Since our eyes met at Montceaux one year ago, no woman save you has been worth looking at twice.”

“Not the Princesse de Porcien?”

“She? She is not worth looking at once.”

“Is looking enough, Sir?”

“It will be if you say it must be, otherwise no.”

“I want you to hold me as you did when we were dancing.”

He slips an arm around my waist. “Like this?”

“Not exactly.” I put my hands on his shoulders as they were in
la volte
. “That is better.”

He slips his other arm about me. “And this better still.”

I give a deep sigh and relax against him until I can hear the heart that a moment ago I felt. It has not slowed.

The Duc drops his head beside my neck and inhales. I give a little start as his lips touch the place where my ear meets my neck.

Pulling back, he looks down into my face. “Do I offend?”

“No. My lips are only jealous of my throat.” It is as close as I can come to asking for what I want.

“As a gentleman, I cannot have that.” Gently he takes my chin between his thumb and first finger and tips it upward. His mouth descends, hovers where I can feel and, to my surprise, taste his breath. At last it presses into mine. His lips are softer than I expected for a man whose body is all muscle. They give beneath mine just as mine give beneath his. His lips part slightly and mine mimic them. A small breath leaves his body and enters mine, animating me in a manner I have never known. I believe I can feel, and even hear, the blood in my veins. When his tongue follows, I am overcome with sweeping pleasure. My hands tighten on his shoulders as my own tongue reaches back in answer to his. His fingers leave my chin and his arm slides behind my neck, supporting my head as I let it fall back in ecstasy. There is no other word for it. I hear light laughter and wonder if it is my joy taking on a form of its own, before realizing it must be Henriette on the balcony. I want to remain as I am for as long as possible, but a soft, insistent rapping separates us.

Henriette steps back into the room.

“I feel much better,” she says. “And by the looks of it, you two do also. We had best return to the party before Her Highness is missed.”

The Duc nods and reaches out a hand for mine.

“Your Grace, you and the Seigneur should go by the ordinary way. Her Highness and I will slip back as we came. If she has been missed, nothing can be suspected if we are not in the same part of the room.”

As I move toward the hidden door, Henriette stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

“So?” she asks, her eyes eager.

“I got my kiss.”

“I promised you it could be managed.” She smiles indulgently.

“Oh, Henriette, I think I am in love.”

“Every girl thinks she is in love with the first gentleman who kisses her. It will fade.” She rolls her eyes. “Do not look so sullen and misunderstood. It is right that infatuation should fade. Unchecked, it is as destructive as it is wonderful. Enjoy the feelings of the moment—wallow in them—then bring them to heel. The sooner you have control of your emotions and urges, the sooner you may pursue them without danger.”

I dare not tell her, but I like the feeling of being out of control. It is very much like being lifted in
la volte
.

Charlotte appears relieved as we slip into the room.

“Trouble?” Henriette asks.

“The Baronne de Retz was looking for Marguerite. I told her that I had just seen Her Highness leave with the Duc d’Anjou.”

“Anjou is gone?”

“Slipped away with
la belle Rouhet
! Can you believe it?”

I can, but the thought kindles no spark of jealousy. Whatever they are doing, it cannot be better than the Duc de Guise’s kiss.

“She is old enough to be his mother!” Charlotte continues.

“Let her have her fun,” Henriette replies. “I have just reveled in Bussy d’Amboise’s kisses. I found them sufficiently exciting to warrant an invitation to my little house this evening. There I intend to enjoy every inch of him, grateful throughout that he is only nineteen. I am a firm believer in the old adage ‘young flesh is a great nourishment to love.’”

Charlotte laughs.

“Let us go and make ourselves obvious to the Baronne.”

For the space of two dances I stand beside my
gouvernante
while she talks of the everyday. I do not hear a word. I am watching Guise across the room. My Duc returns to my side for a dance. Where we could not find our tongues before, now, as if loosed by the kiss, we both talk eagerly. He praises my dancing, my looks, my voice. We speak of the war to come and I profess my faith that he will be the commander most distinguished in it. We flirt in the customary way of the Court but it feels very uncommon to me, because underlying every quip and look is an attraction that makes mere proximity intoxicating. We dance three dances in a row without even noticing before Charlotte assails us.

“Your Grace, you have not danced with me and I am very vexed with you. I am sure Her Highness will surrender you, particularly as her
gouvernante
has been watching the two of you
closely
for some time.”

*   *   *

The Baronne de Retz holds her tongue until I have almost convinced myself she will say nothing. Then, when I stand ready for bed, she says, “Mademoiselle Goyon, I will finish here.”

Turning back my covers she says, “Your Highness danced a great deal with the Duc de Guise.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed I busy myself removing my slippers. “His Grace is a good dancer.”

“I suppose he is. The question is, is he something more?”

“He is a commander in His Majesty’s army, a cousin by marriage, and a friend of my brothers. Is that what you mean?”

“No. I mean: Is he of special interest to you?”

Sliding beneath the covers, I am furious at myself for the blush that rises to my cheek. “And if he is?”

The Baronne sits down on the edge of my bed and looks at me earnestly. “Your Highness, you mistake me. I do not censure you. I merely wish to know your situation. It is the province of the young to fall in love—so long as that love is pure and the behavior it occasions blameless. It is my duty to make sure that your behavior is as it should be. Dance with the Duc. Promenade with him. Discuss music, art, even politics—quietly. I will be content.”

I feel quite guilty for the way I snapped at the Baronne. Then she speaks again. “Only pray be cautious in who you seek counsel from lest an innocent flirtation turn into something worthy of censure. Remember
I
am the
gouvernante
Her Majesty selected for you.”

“Madame, I hold myself ever open to your instruction. As for inappropriate counsel, I cannot pretend to know who you mean.” If the Baronne will defame my friends, she had best be willing to be explicit.

Tucking the covers around me, she says, “We will speak no more of this … for the moment.”

Good. I have more pleasant things to ponder—like the taste and feel of the Duc de Guise’s lips. I have barely extinguished my light, however, when the very friend my
gouvernante
cautioned me against slips into my room.

“Henriette!” I cry, sitting up to be embraced. “I thought you were going to the Rue Pavée.”

I am not embraced. Standing at the foot of my bed, her face illuminated by the light she carries, the Duchesse shakes her head. “And so I am. But I must keep Bussy waiting because you found it prudent to dance all night with Guise.”

What? Is this to be my second lecture of the evening? “I let the Duc kiss me with your blessing,” I say, confused.

“That kiss was not the problem. Your lack of common sense afterwards was. Discretion is Cupid’s best friend, Marguerite.” Walking around my bed, she sets her light on my table and takes the same spot where the Baronne sat to deliver her admonitions. “Do you wish to be able to steal the occasional kiss before the wars have the gentlemen and we do not?”

“Of course.” I would be embarrassed if my friend knew how much.

“Then do not make a spectacle of yourself by dancing all night with the Duc, or, mark my words, you will be watched as you are not accustomed to being.”

“Baronne de Retz has already made that clear.”

“I am not surprised. She holds her honor very dear, and her position as
gouvernante
means she must hold your honor dearer still. Your maidenhead is coin of the realm, to be saved and then spent by the crown in pursuit of its interests. If she fails to keep you chaste and Her Majesty discovers as much, punishment will be severe.”

“But a kiss—”

“A kiss soon leads to other things.”

“Then why do you aid me?”

“Because”—the embrace comes at last—“I adore you. And because I believe in pleasure where pursued with caution.”

“In other words, I may kiss Guise in secret but ought not to favor him too greatly in open court.”

“You learn love as quickly as Latin.” She smiles.

“All right, I will be circumspect. Only tell me, when can I see the Duc again?”

“Goodness, you are eager! And you are not alone. The Duc asked me the very same question.”

How glorious to know that Guise too is smitten! “What did you tell him?”

“That tomorrow he ought to come to Anjou’s wrestling matches, make certain he loses, and depart early.”

*   *   *

“Did it cost you very much to lose to my brother?”

“Not at all.” Guise draws me into an embrace. “Let the Duc d’Anjou crow over his victory and the paltry sum he took from me. I am about to be richly rewarded.”

“Shh,” Henriette hisses from nearby. “Can you not make quieter use of your lips?”

The Duc dips his head to kiss me. Impatient, I rise to my tiptoes. His kiss is even better than I remembered.

Most of the Court—or at least those who are not old—are in Anjou’s apartments for the evening’s sport. Mother gave me permission to go with Charlotte. More than a dozen other ladies went, but not the Baronne de Retz, who doubtless felt safe staying behind because so many would be present at the event and because the Duchesse de Nevers had left the Louvre early, indisposed.

Henriette is no more indisposed than I. Clever friend, she merely sent her litter through the wicket empty and went to collect Guise once he had lost his match. I slipped away moments later.

The Duc’s hands, which had been clasped round my waist, slide upward over my torso. I nearly cry out with delight as they come to rest on my breasts, but content myself with biting his lip as his hands tighten.

We are in the
Salle des Caryatides,
tucked into one of the columned recesses. It would be the perfect hiding place but for the echo. Henriette shushes us again from her place two windows away. Our only light comes from a sliver of half-concealed moon, so it is difficult to see Guise. I do not mind. I can feel him, taste him, and I find the darkness liberating.

His lips move from my mouth to my throat. I put my hands in his hair and pull his head down until his mouth reaches my breasts where they peek from the top of my bodice. He must kiss them through my partlet, and though it is very sheer, I wish it gone—wish I could feel his lips on my flesh.

“Oh, Henri,” I whisper.

His head pops up. “You said my Christian name.”

“Say mine.”

He hesitates, though why he should be shy to do so under the circumstances I cannot imagine, then whispers, “Marguerite.”

I kiss his neck. “Again,” I command.

“Marguerite.” There is urgency in his voice.

I put my lips back at his throat and run them down, past his collarbone, as far as the lowest point of the open neck of his shirt. I can taste the sweat of his recent exercise.

He groans. His groan brings another “Shh,” and a few moments later Henriette clears her throat. “Your Highness,” she whispers, “it is time for you to return to the sport, before questions are asked.”

“No,” I gasp, knowing she is right.

The Duc kisses me again then whispers, “As I love you, I would not see you embarrassed.”

He loves me.

“I will dream of you,” Guise says. Then he moves away through the moonlight.

I sigh. “He will dream of me.”

Drawing me out from behind the columns, Henriette says, “He will do more than that.” Then she laughs. “Ah, to be fifteen, and to have a seventeen-year-old lover again.”

I slip back into Anjou’s apartment and press into the crowd circling the wrestlers and shouting encouragement. Anjou, who has not yet lost a match, is still on the floor. He pins Saint-Luc and, his victory declared, springs to his feet, shouting, “Enough. I have had enough. It is time for wine.” Someone hands him a glass and he moves in my direction. “Sister, you have a pleasing flush upon you. Can it be my wrestling has stirred your blood as well as my own?”

“I have no doubt wrestling accounts for my color,” I reply, unable to resist the
double entendre
. “Your luck was certainly in this evening. What about last?”

My brother takes a seat and pulls me onto his lap. “Are you asking about my amorous fortunes?”

“Indeed. Have I chosen better for you than you chose for yourself?”