When Henri and I are together—dancing, stealing a glance across a room or a kiss in some darkened corner, exchanging witticisms—I feel alive as I have not since he left Paris last. But only when he moves inside me is the cause of my soul’s oppression blotted completely from my mind. Henri jokes that I have become insatiable, but he relishes it. And I relish finding new ways to leave him breathless in my power.
The first thing Henri gave me when he returned was a small ladder of a length to reach from my window to the dry fosse below. It is remarkably light. I laughed when he told me it could support his weight and allow him to be with me in secret. But the first time I saw his face appear above my windowsill, I stopped laughing. That night Henri gave me the string of pearls that I am wearing for my portrait. I wear it now as well—it and nothing else—as I wait for the signal to lower the ladder. The blessed low whistle sounds! I swing open my shutters, the cold winter air meeting my skin and invigorating it. Moments later Henri climbs over the sill and drops to the floor. Without a word I take his icy hand and press it to my breast. He tries to pull me to him but I use my other arm to hold him off. I draw his hand up to my mouth and begin to gently bite his palm. He gives a deep groan. Again he reaches out and I swat his hand away.
“Patience,” I murmur. “You made me wait and now it is your turn.”
“I made you wait?”
“It must be an hour since you took leave of the King.” I reach up, draw his head down, and run my tongue over his lips before releasing him.
“I had to allow time to make sure the King’s other guests were safely away and most of those who live au Louvre were abed,” he says pleadingly.
“I thought maybe you’d gone home to your wife.” My tone is teasing but, in truth, I continue to think of the Princesse as a rival.
“Why would I do that?”
I lead him to the bed. “Sit down,” I order. I remove his ruff, his doublet, and then his shirt—all very slowly—pushing his hands away again and again as they seek to help, allowing him only brief caresses of my flesh. Once he is naked from the waist up, I kneel and draw off his boots. As I do so, I can feel his hand in my hair, twisting. I unhook and roll down his hose, then begin to unfasten the front of his haut-de-chausses. As soon as there is a large enough opening, his prick pushes out. I slide my mouth over it—something Henriette advised me to try.
Henri cries out. I feel the hand in my hair tighten into a fist. Without warning I rise and lower myself onto him. His head snaps up and his arms close around my waist. Leaning in, I bite his ear, his neck, and then plant my lips on his, kissing him violently. When we are done, we are both exhausted. We lean against each other, our sweat and heartbeats mingling. Then he falls back onto the bed, looking with undisguised admiration at me where I sit upright, his member still inside me.
“God, I will miss you.”
The lingering glow of my pleasure is extinguished like the flame of a candle snuffed between wet fingers. “Miss me? You are not coming to Blois?”
“I must wait for the child.”
Climbing off him, I look for something to put on. “The Princesse has months before her confinement.” Finding a surcote, I wrap it tightly around me.
“But the doctors make a great deal of the delicacy of her health. It is not like when she carried Charles—”
“A perfect excuse to leave her here, but no excuse to stay yourself.”
“Marguerite! Would you have me look a monster before the whole Court? I may not love my wife, but I am still a gentleman and value my reputation.” He reaches for me but I take a step back.
“I gave up my reputation for you.”
He has no easy answer for that. “Let us not make this about your honor or mine,” he says uneasily. “I concede you mean more to me than my honor. But the plain truth is Her Majesty would hardly allow me to stand about the halls of Blois while your marriage is negotiated.”
“How can she prevent you coming when the rest of His Majesty’s gentlemen attend him? What reason could she possibly offer?”
Henri sighs. “When has your mother needed a reason to do as she will? She is too subtle to say, ‘Duc, you may not come to Blois, I forbid it.’ Rather, I will be charged with some matter that takes me elsewhere.” He looks up to see if I will yield, but I allow neither my face nor figure to soften. “Or if she cannot be bothered to find a pretext for keeping me from Blois, I will meet with an accident.”
How different this Henri is from the one who nearly refused to leave me, to leave Paris, to save himself before he married. I push the thought away. Of course he is different. So am I. Ought I to begrudge my love his caution when we sacrificed so much to make certain of his safety?
“Enough.” He holds his hands out, palms up in resignation. “I must be mad, but I will follow you—whatever others say and whatever the risk.”