At the Louvre, dancing commences at once. I dutifully let Charles lead me to the floor. The King of Navarre partners the Queen Consort. Henri is collected by Henriette. When the dance ends, she smiles at me as if to say Do you dare?
I do. Without hesitation I move in their direction. “Sir, will you be my next partner?”
“Your next and, were it up to me, your only.”
So much has happened since we last stood this close. For more than a day only our eyes have touched, so I feel the first contact between his fingertips and mine with every nerve and sinew. I can tell Henri is equally overwhelmed, for his hand trembles.
When we come together for the third time he finds his voice. “What will Navarre think to see us dancing?”
“Nothing, I assure you. My husband and I have a happy understanding. We plan to live as so many other successful couples do … blind to each other’s faults.”
“So I am a fault?” He smiles to let me know he is not serious.
“You are certainly a vice, from the perspective of more than my husband.” I tilt my head in the direction of Mother. She is in conversation with the admiral, but her eyes are on us.
“That only heightens your enjoyment of me, does it not?”
“Of course. A wise man once advised me stolen kisses were the sweetest.” I run my tongue across my top lip.
“Then I will steal one now.” Henri draws me from the pattern into one of the room’s great window alcoves. Bussy d’Amboise stands in the shadows with his hands upon one of the Court’s lesser ladies. At the sight of us he makes a hasty retreat, pulling his conquest behind him. While we are screened by the departing couple, Henri pulls me behind one of the draperies standing as substantial as a pillar beside the glittering window.
“You cannot imagine my agony last night,” he murmurs. “I paced until dawn and slept only once I had your note.”
Putting my hands on either side of his face I pull his head down so that his lips meet mine. Wrapped in a world of soft velvet and music, I move my mouth to his ear and whisper fiercely, “I promised you. Why did you not believe me?”
“I will never doubt again.”
His hand rises to my neck and then runs downward to the part of my breast exposed above my gown. His mouth follows the same path. I sigh, wishing the day over, wishing away not only my cousin but the whole of the Court who laugh, drink, and dance so close that their footfall is distinctly audible from where I stand. “Henri, we cannot!”
“No,” he concedes, pulling me against him. “We cannot, but dear heaven how I want to.”
“You are coming tonight?”
“Tonight, and the next night, and the next—every night for the rest of my life.”
Of course I know he speaks hyperbole—he will leave Paris, as he often does; I will doubtless go to the Navarre—but it is what I want to hear, and I have no doubt he wishes it were the truth. I give him a last lingering kiss. “Until later,” I whisper. Then I slip back into the light, wandering with a forced nonchalance toward the Duchesse de Nevers. When I am halfway to my friend, my husband steps out of a clutch of his gentlemen.
“Madame, shall we dance?”
“Can you dance?” I know my smile is mocking, but I cannot help myself.
“I gather that my efforts in that vein last night did not impress you, but you granted me only one chance. You must give me an opportunity to better prove my abilities. Besides,” he says, taking my hand, “it is expected. We do not want people to talk, or at least we wish to control what they say.”
This time my smile is genuine. Casting an eye over him as he leads me to the floor, I am surprised to find nothing out of place. He will never be fashionable, but this evening he is entirely presentable. For the first time I realize that his pearl-gray suit trimmed in silver complements my gown.
My husband’s eyes must read mine, for as he pulls me into position he says, “You have promised me sound advice, Madame. A guide is useless if not heeded. And I must say my valet de chambre was delighted by my new interest in fashion. I believe Armagnac is destined to become devoted to you.”
Gazing into my husband’s laughing face, I find myself wishing him well, or at least not wishing him ill, as I did for many months. We might be happy. Not in the traditional way that husband and wife sometimes are, but parallel to each other. We are harnessed together like horses, and like horses we may move the fates to our benefit if we pull together. It is a pleasant speculation.
*
Another day, another celebration, another ride in a litter with my cousin. “Who are you portraying?” I ask as we sit in a long line in the Rue d’Autriche, waiting for our turn to climb out at the H?tel du Petit Bourbon.
“A knight.”
“It is a very odd costume. May I assume from it you are not on the winning side?”