Those standing nearest laugh heartily, as does the gentleman himself. He bows and kisses Mademoiselle’s hand with an elaborate show of gallantry. Mademoiselle de Saussauy is all dimples and good humor in return and the two stroll off arm in arm.
“Fleurie is so beautiful,” Charlotte comments wistfully. “That golden hair … And so charmant. If she does not snare a wealthy suitor in the course of our upcoming travels, I shall be surprised. Someone of more substantial rank than Monsieur de Carandas.”
“Oh, but he is very fair of face,” I remark. Under the influence of Mother’s ladies, I have begun to notice such things.
“‘Fair of face’ is a fine consideration for flirting but of little import in marrying,” the Duchesse de Nevers says, stepping between us and placing one arm around each. “Remember, girls, marriage is a matter of politics, finance, and family. Looks are for lovers.” Then, releasing us, she disappears into the deepening darkness.
While we are standing there, looking after her, Saint-Luc approaches. “Ladies,” he says, inclining his head. Charlotte and I look about and then realize he speaks to us. Are we to be the object of flirtation this evening as well? How delightful! If Mademoiselle de Saussauy may practice on a lesser noble from Picardy, why should I not try my skills on Saint-Luc? He is from an ancient and preferred Norman family.
“Seigneur”—I flutter my eyes as Mademoiselle de Saussauy does—“will you escort us?”
“It would be my pleasure.” His voice squeaks a bit as he replies, and I notice there is color in his cheeks as he bows before offering one arm to each of us.
Charlotte squeezes my hand then lets it go. “You two go on.” She scampers off, leaving Saint-Luc to me.
I take his arm and feel … nothing. What I expected to feel I do not know, but surely something, because I have observed the eyes of many a lady widen as she takes a gentleman’s arm.
We walk in silence a short way. In the torchlight I can see Saint-Luc’s Adam’s apple move as he swallows. “I greatly look forward to Your Highness’s performance in the pastoral,” he says at last.
I cannot help but think of my cousin’s scowls at the thought of my recitation. “More than the sugared fruits?” I ask, offering what I hope is a coquettish smile and wishing I had dimples like Mademoiselle de Saussauy.
“Of course! How can sugar hope to compare to the sweetness of your voice?” Saint-Luc is warming up to this game. We are two courtiers trading compliments. I feel very grand and grown-up.
“Would you believe there are some”—I lower my voice to a faux whisper and experiment with raising my eyebrows—“who would prefer a pocket full of nuts?”
“Impossible!” His attempt to sound shocked exceeds the mark a bit, but I appreciate the effort.
We have reached the edge of the dining area. Henri and Charlotte wait, already nibbling on dainties. A glorious table covered with confections of every sort, including a fanciful sugar paste fish decorated with golden scales, stands at the center of a ring of torches.
“I assure you, the Prince of Navarre confessed as much earlier.” I give my head a sad little shake as if I am ages older than my cousin. “He plans to run and hide while I perform.”
“Someone should thrash him.”
“Would you? Would you give him a beating for me?” I press Saint-Luc’s arm with my free hand. I can visualize him dressed in the golden armor of this evening’s entertainment … and my cousin in the horns of one of the devils.
“Who is Saint-Luc going to beat?” Henri asks, sauntering up. He holds out a rolled-up sugared crespe so I can take a bite.
“The Prince of Navarre,” Saint-Luc says, “for insulting your sister.”
“Oh-ho, I should like to see that, Saint-Luc. Our cousin may be ill-dressed and ill-spoken, but I believe he is a capital wrestler, thanks to his upbringing, and handy with a sword.”
A nice little group has gathered about us, drinking, listening. I want to say something clever—something capable of evoking laughter.
“Do not let my brother dissuade you”—I turn to Saint-Luc and offer him a kiss on the cheek—“for surely the Prince of Navarre has a short sword compared to the one which hangs in your scabbard.”
My jest has the desired effect. Those around us titter appreciatively.
Suddenly I feel a hand upon my shoulder. It is the Baronne de Retz. She is not laughing. In fact, her face looks very severe. “Come,” she says. Turning, she moves through the crowd. It is necessary for me to walk very quickly to keep up. By the time we enter the palace, I am breathless.
Rounding on me the Baronne says, “Mademoiselle Marguerite, I am shocked to hear you make a jest about a gentleman’s intimate anatomy!”
I am flabbergasted. I did not say anything about Saint-Luc’s person. Only his sword. I am about to say as much, but the Baronne presses onward. “What would Her Majesty think?”