Médicis Daughter (17 page)

Gillone dutifully picks up the rejected items she so neatly arranged and heads for my wardrobe.

Going to my dressing table, I unstop bottle after bottle, searching for just the right scent. I wish I had some of the perfume just arrived from Florence for Mother. Her ladies passed it around and it was universally proclaimed to be enchanting. I certainly wish to be enchanting. I resign myself to a scent I already own, pour a generous amount between my hands, then plunge them through the neck of my chemise between my breasts. I finish by rubbing the last of the scent up either side of my neck to the base of my hairline.

Gillone returns. Moving in to lift off my chemise and replace it, she stops, sniffs, and looks at me wide-eyed.

“I am not a little girl,” I say, “and tonight I want to smell like the other ladies of the Court.”

I want to flirt like them too. And I desire help in doing so. So the moment I am dressed I go to the wicket to wait for Henriette. She spots me from her litter and motions for me to climb in as the conveyance comes to a stop in the courtyard.

“Marguerite, what is it?”

I look in the direction of the drawn curtains.

“Have no fear, I select my litter bearers and I pay them from my own purse. They are, therefore, willingly deaf, blind, and dumb.”

“The game with the Duc de Guise begins again, and I know precious little of what comes next.”

“What do you want to come next?”

“A kiss.”

Henriette laughs. Then, sensing my mortification, she lays a hand over mine. “My dear, I am not laughing at your ambition. I am delighted by the moderation of your demands. It has been a long time since I have been in the company of such innocence in a woman of fifteen. It is utterly charming—and, I might add, precisely what will make you irresistible to the Duc. I have told my sister more than once that with a man of his sort, fervently pious, bound by tradition, and wishing to uphold all that is good in France, brazen availability will get her nowhere.”

I am very glad to hear it.

“Surely you know how to kiss.” She pauses and considers me. “Or if you do not, believe me, it is a thing entirely natural and you will need no instruction. So the only help you will need is in creating an opportunity. One may receive a kiss on the hand at a ball without raising scandal—even where one is a princess—but no more. Hm. Well, I will make an opportunity for you. Leave it to me.”

She raps on the ceiling to put the litter in motion so that we may disembark near the steps. “But promise me, my dear friend, that we will speak again should you want more than a kiss,” she says as we draw to a stop.

I do not know how to feel about her casual mention of things beyond kissing. My understanding of them is limited and the impressions I have received so disparate. The ladies Mother employs in seduction often joke about the burden of it, but clearly many enjoy their love affairs. Henriette certainly does. She is seldom without a lover and appears to relish each until she tires of him. Yet I have been made to feel that my value lies in my chastity and certainly it is a biblical virtue. Finally, the unfortunate glimpse I had of Anjou
in flagrante delicto
turned my stomach. I cannot imagine wanting a man to pin me against the wall and paw me. Perhaps I ought to admit all this to Henriette, but she is so much more sophisticated than I, and while she might find my naïveté charming, I wish to be perceived as knowing more than I do. So I merely toss my head and try to look bored and knowing.

We go in arm in arm. There is a different energy in the
salle voûtée
today, a very masculine one. Men seem to become more so as they prepare to go to war. They swagger more. They drink more—though in the case of Anjou’s friends that is nearly impossible. They jest more loudly. Dinner is a boisterous affair. I sit next to Anjou and he reflects the general mood.

“How good it feels to be merry,” he says. “We gentlemen must stock up on the civilized pleasures. In a few days we will be marching through autumn rains, looking to draw blood and cover ourselves in it. There will be no fine wine, no music, no soft forms and faces.” Under the table his hand brushes my knee.

“I happen to know you take wine with you.” I smile at him while trying to decide how I feel about his hand where it rests on my chair, next to my thigh.

“I wish I could take you.”

“I would like that very much. Not the mud, but to see a battle—how exciting.”

“It
is
exciting. But too brutal for your eyes, Margot. Would you like me to bring you a trophy? Perhaps Condé’s head?”

“Oh, please! I could keep it in a box.” I laugh at the idea and Anjou laughs with me.

“If I get his head, I suspect Her Majesty will wish to have it for a pike.”

“Only return safely and that will be enough for me.” I know it is a bit of a
faux pas
to turn things in a serious direction, but the danger my brother faces is real, and his life precious to me.

“Returning will not be enough,” he replies, maintaining his own cavalier tone. “I must return victorious. I cannot bear to repeat the disappointments of the second war.”

“My poor darling!” I lay my hand over his where it still rests against my skirts. “Do not even think of such a possibility.”

He leans in to kiss my cheek and lingers there. “What is that scent? It is mesmerizing.”

I am pleased to hear this. If my brother finds it so, then I pray the Duc will as well.

“Shall I send you my bottle to take with you?” I ask, looking for Guise. He is but a table away. His eyes are on me. I meet his gaze boldly, then half lower my lids and purse my lips slightly.

“Please.”

“Consider it done.” With my eyes still met by the Duc’s, I imagine the hand resting on my chair is his and it suddenly seems to radiate heat.

I turn my gaze back to Anjou. “You may still have the first dance as well.”

“I am favored indeed. Or do you do this only to anger Mademoiselle de Rieux? Jealous fool.”

“Which of us is the fool, Mademoiselle or I?”

“Both, in different ways. You were a fool to ever be jealous of her, for she was nothing to me other than a means of exercise, just as my horse or my sword might be. I never loved her. She because she cannot accept being set aside with grace.”

“She never does anything gracefully.”

“Too true. While you are all grace. I will wager that your caresses are as graceful as your dancing.”

I take my hand from his and, bringing it to the tabletop, play with my fork. “And who shall replace Mademoiselle?”

“I thought you would not want her replaced.”

I remember Mother’s advice back on that dark night in Meaux. “A man must have a mistress, is not that so? It is the fashion. Why not someone with the refinements Mademoiselle lacked?”

My brother swallows audibly, picks up his glass, and drains it in a single gulp. “Who would you suggest?” His voice drops.

I have not given the matter serious thought. Casting my eye over those dining, I spot Louise de La Béraudière. “If I were to choose for you, I would choose
la belle Rouhet
.”

Anjou looks disappointed.

“She is polished, and such a pedigree. Has she not been the mistress of a king? That suggests she must possess a certain grace in the dance of
amour
. You deserve a graceful partner.”

“As you wish me to have her, I shall obey.” He takes my hand, fork and all, and brings it to his lips. “I will consider her training against the day when I next choose my own partner, because I aspire to be worthy of one so graceful she shames the muses.”

Can he mean the Baronne de Retz? He will need luck there, to be sure, for I have never heard it rumored she strays from her husband.

Charles rises. “Come,” I say to my brother, “shall we stroll before we dance? I am very full.” We pause while the King, with Mother on one arm and Marie on the other, descends, then follow. As Charles makes his way to his seat beneath a canopy of cloth of gold, the other tables empty. I offer Guise a smile as we promenade past and my heart quivers when he returns that smile. I am eager for dancing to begin, for after Anjou I mean to dance with the Duc.

My brother, always attuned to my moods, senses my impatience. Stopping before Mother he says, “Your Majesty, the King may not be eager to dance, but some of us are.”

She turns to Charles, who is whispering prettily with Marie. The King nods indulgently and tries to pull Marie into his lap.

On Mother’s signal the music begins: a
galliarde
—perfect. Anjou’s natural athleticism always draws eyes, and if I perform enthusiastically, I may offer a flash of ankle to Guise, who I very much hope is watching. We are not the only pair dancing with more than usual vigor. As I search among the moving bodies for the Duc, it strikes me that there is a general wildness about the dancers. People are breathless. Ladies glisten and gentlemen’s eyes stray from faces to breasts rising and falling. The Duc partners the Princesse de Porcien. Hot anger fills me until I notice how often his gaze leaves her and finds me. Do I read longing in his looks, or do I merely imagine I do because I long to have him beside me?

As the dance concludes, Anjou holds out his hand. I cannot bear any more delay in my evening’s plan. So, rather than taking it, I wave a chastising finger. “I believe you have a lady to seduce.”

“As you command.” He kisses my hand ardently and is gone, leaving me to look for the Duc. I need not look far. Turning to my right, I find him nearly beside me.

“Your Highness, will you dance?”

Oh, most willingly.
I muster all my self-restraint to keep from responding with just that unfashionable enthusiasm, instead tilting my head in the affirmative very coolly. We wait side by side. His hand is so close to mine, they nearly touch. Nearly is dissatisfying. I will the musicians to begin. And as if in response to my will, and to my need to feel the Duc’s hand, they strike up.
La volte!

We separate but I do not mind. I have much to look forward to and anticipation will only make it better. As the Duc bows I notice the muscles of his calf, the neatness of his ankle. He comes toward me; I take his outstretched hand, not merely resting the tips of my fingers on it but letting him have the whole weight and flesh of it. The feeling is delicious and all too fleeting. We turn and separate. My breath quickens. When we meet next, he will lift me into the first series of turns. Just the thought of this causes unexpected sensations: I am conscious of my breasts in a way that I never have been before, my stomach tightens and, below, that place cloaked in dark seems to twitch.

His hand is on my waist. I raise mine to his shoulder and swear I can feel the heat of him through his doublet. As he twirls me, my other hand takes his other shoulder; it is as if we would fall into an embrace. Then his knee rises and I sit upon it, letting it lift me high into the air. I have done this dance before, but it has never felt like this. I am flying, my senses jumbled. Candles, faces, the silken and velvet fabrics of the other dancers’ clothing, the ceiling of the room—all blend in a swirl of dazzling color. Every inch of my skin is strangely sensitive. I can feel the air upon me, caressing my face, as I turn again and again. When the five turns are done and I must retreat from Guise, I feel unsteady on my feet, as if I have drunk as much as one of my brother’s gentlemen. I pass Henriette as I come around; she smiles a knowing smile and purses her lips into a kiss.

Again and again I return to the Duc’s arms. Then, rather abruptly to my mind, the music stops. I must curtsy; he must bow. When I rise, his hand is ready: it draws mine through his arm as naturally as if the gesture had happened many times before. We walk without speaking to join those who make slow circles around the floor. My breathing will not return to normal. I do not know what to say. De Guise seems likewise struck dumb. Those around us laugh and talk gaily. But we move in silence, except for what the Duc can speak by looks. In his eyes I see unguarded admiration, excitement, even wonder—all the things I feel, mirrored back at me.

Henriette approaches on the arm of Bussy d’Amboise.

“Heavens, it is hard to believe we are nearly done with September.” Henriette makes a great show of fanning herself. “I was just saying to the Seigneur that some windows ought to be opened before we are all stifled. Duc de Guise”—she steps forward, taking that gentleman’s arm and drawing him away from me, much to my dismay—“perhaps you and the Seigneur could open a window for Her Highness and me so that we might be refreshed?”

“If you like,” Guise says, not seeking to disguise his confusion.

“As we do not wish to chill anyone dancing, perhaps we ought to find a window in some convenient corner.” She winks at Bussy.

“A window in the next room would be better still,” the Seigneur says, his voice thick.

“Come, Duc, you would not, I think, be sorry to take some air away from this crowd.” Henriette nods at Bussy, who offers me his arm. With Henriette and the Duc in the lead, the four of us stroll the length of the room. I see Charlotte standing in the far corner, beside a small door used by servants. When we reach her, she says, “The Baronne de Retz is not looking,” and, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, she opens the door and we pass through. We are plunged into darkness and then another door opens. It takes me a moment to realize we are in the small red salon.

Moving to a window, Henriette gestures and says, “Gentlemen, do your duty.” The two men quickly open the casement. “Oh, look,” Henriette exclaims, as if she has never been in this room before, though she has passed hours in it, “Seigneur de Bussy, there is a
balcon
! Let us go out and take the air.”

Bussy eagerly steps into the late afternoon sun. As she follows, Henriette says, “I fear it is too small for four. You do not mind, I hope, being left behind.” There may be mischief in her heart but she manages to keep her countenance.

The Duc and I are left alone. Staring at each other.
Think, you fool. You have seen women draw men in numberless times. What would Fleurie de Saussauy say at such a moment?