My cousin, it seems, is both shrewd and well informed. Still, he ought to have repaid my effort to be civil with civility, not bitter accusations.
As if recollecting as much, the King of Navarre squares his shoulders and, laying a hand with obvious effort upon my own where it rests at the crook of his arm, says, “You are as pretty as you were as a girl.”
I nearly laugh out loud. “Faint compliment, Sir, allowing that a woman has become no less attractive! If this is how wooing proceeds in the Navarre, I am surprised anyone is ever wed. Then again, you do not need to woo me—I am already won, or perhaps better say bargained for.”
My cousin hands me into my seat, then takes the chair next to mine. “Madame, it was not my intention to insult you, nor shall I be cunningly drawn into agreeing with any statement which makes you sound like chattel. That would reflect well on neither of us.”
I long to snap that it is the truth, no matter how badly it reflects. But if my cousin is prepared to play his part in this pageant, I will not be outplayed by this awkward man.
“Perhaps, Sir, it is politic for us to agree that both of us have improved immensely since last we were in company, and that each of us is delighted by that discovery.”
“If you like.” He shrugs. How could I have forgotten that shrug? My cousin looks past me. Then, without warning, he takes my hand from the table and brings it to his lips. When he lays my hand down once more, he leaves his own atop it. “I am quite delighted to find one thing has altered since we were children,” he says rather more loudly than before.
“What is that?” I try to slide my hand from beneath his but he merely closes his fingers around it, holding it fast.
“Do you remember how, when we were young, you insisted I would never be allowed to kiss you?” He lifts my hand again and draws it upward toward his lips. I tense every muscle in my arm, but my efforts are no match for his strength. All I can do is grit my teeth and watch as he very deliberately turns my hand over and kisses my wrist. He offers me a wide, oddly polished smile—the sort any gallant might offer in paying an elaborate compliment. “Well, it seems that I am to have the pleasure of kissing you after all. What man with eyes would not envy me in this?”
Somewhere to my left there is the sound of breaking glass.
My cousin’s eyes light up and he releases my hand. Nearby, the Duc de Guise’s wine glass lies fallen and shattered against his plate. The hand beside it is clenched into a fist.
So this was my cousin’s business! His first swipe at Henri.
Servants move to clear up the mess. My mother’s voice draws my attention away from the Duc. “Better glasses than heads broken,” she quips to Charles. “Is not peace a wonderful thing?”
Her comments draw a smile from Charles and appreciative laughter from some of those surrounding. I want to slap my cousin despite my promise to his dead mother, but with the eyes of so many upon me I can hardly offer such a naked show of displeasure. Instead I fix the smile of a coquette on my face and, placing my hand on his arm, lean in until my lips nearly brush his ear. I feel him twitch slightly at my proximity. But I am caught off guard as well. There is an unperfumed odor about my cousin—a combination of perspiration and horse—that makes me eager to be at a greater distance. Steeling myself against it, I whisper, “I promise you that a hand is the only thing of mine you will ever kiss.” Then, as if I have whispered something very charming, I sit back and give a gay little laugh.
My mother nods in approval. What a fool she is. What fools they all are. And my cousin the greatest fool among them.
For the rest of the meal I do not say another word to the King of Navarre, merely nodding in response to whatever he says. To his credit he is quick to perceive this pattern and turns his attention and conversation in the direction of my sister-in-law: complimenting the Queen Consort on her healthy looks, congratulating her on her upcoming confinement, and expressing earnest wishes that the King should have a healthy son.
The person nearest me on the left is the admiral. Since the peace he has risen so much in status and favor that he never sits far from the King he once fought. Charles adores him. Coligny blathers on about all the good my impending marriage will do for France, and all the excellent attributes of my husband-to-be of which I may be unaware. Truly I am in hell.