So Henri noticed the Duc. This should not surprise me: my brother has inherited Mother’s sharp eyes. “Walk with me.” He holds out a hand expectantly. “I have an idea for how we may bring all eyes to us at tomorrow’s ball and make Mother proud.”
I allow him to draw me through the crowd and across the lawn, toward the garden.
“It came to me last night in a dream,” Anjou says, looking over his shoulder to assure himself we are out of hearing of other courtiers. “We must play Artemis and Apollo.”
“But Henri, my costume is finished. You know I am Terpsichore. What shall the other eight muses do if I abandon them?”
“What care I for the other muses? And what should you? This is a sojourn dedicated to sport. We hunt nearly every day. Why, then, we must be the twins—the best pair of archers among the gods. Did you not tell me just the other morning how you thought you loved a hunt even better than a ball?”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. Are we not brother and sister as Artemis and Apollo were? And what brother and sister can be called more devoted to their mother’s honor than we—except, perhaps, that ancient pair? The analogy will please the Queen, and to make sure it is brought to her mind, I’ve written a little verse recounting the tale of Niobe.”
“And whose progeny shall we be threatening to slay?”
“Oh, I have kept it very general—nothing impolitic.” He waves one hand, swatting my question aside as if it were a fly. “I merely wish to make clear that ’twould be the height of foolishness for any house to claim themselves the equals of the Valois.”
I throw up my hands, for I am clearly defeated. The image of my brother and me hand in hand, declaring our devotion to Mother, is too pleasing to be resisted. “If you will manage the golden bows, I will see our tunics trimmed to match.”
“Excellent. You must wear your new golden wig, curled in a Grecian style.”
Ordinarily I would object, for wigs make me hot. But an image of the Duc de Guise’s face stops my tongue. Perhaps a little suffering in the name of beauty is called for. Everyone says fair hair highlights my eyes and suits my pale complexion.
“And you must stop telling me how to dress and run to get your costume. Put it in my room and I will determine what is best to be done.”
With a kiss on my cheek, he is off. Rather than returning at once to the chateau, I wander farther into the lush garden, eager to soak up the autumn sun. Sitting on a bench with the sound of distant conversations washing over me, I lean back and close my eyes.
A throat clears. If it is Henri back to disturb my peace with more instructions, I will strangle him. I open my eyes. The Duc de Guise stands over me. Goodness, he is tall, and even more handsome in close proximity than he was viewed down the length of the alley. His hair is golden without need of a wig. It waves and curls gently. A faint mustache rests on his smiling lips.
“Your Highness”—he bows—“I have just returned to Court and would present myself.”
“To me?”
“You are the only one here, are you not?” His eyes betray an amusement that borders on insolence.
“Ah, that explains things, then,” I quip. If he can be impertinent, so can I. “When others are absent, a princess of France must do.”
“Not at all. Were the full Court present, I should still seek Your Highness’s attention.” He nods at the bench next to me as if asking permission to sit, than takes the place without waiting for my reply. Very aware of his proximity, I stand.
“And, Your Grace, were the entire Court present such a meeting might be proper, but alone in a secluded corner of a garden … Are these the manners of the Austrian court?” The Duc’s expression shows no trace of embarrassment. Rather, he smiles at my challenge. His smile thrills me. I am flirting, but console myself with the thought that the Baronne de Retz would be proud of me for recognizing the impropriety of my situation. Never mind the amount of effort it takes to think of reputational niceties with the Duc’s eyes upon me. I had best go before I lose my resolve to do so.
I take a step and the Duc is on his feet. Another bow. Utterly perfect. “May I present myself at a more appropriate time?”
“You may.” Oh how I hope the Duc picks a moment when Charlotte and Henriette are with me. His attention, pleasing in itself, would be rendered more agreeable still by the notice of others.
“Until a more auspicious moment, then.” He offers me another smile. “I shall leave you in peace.” He walks away without looking back, which is just as well, for if he did, he would perceive that my eyes follow his figure. Peace, he calls it! Not with my heart pounding so. I run all the way back to my room.
When I burst through the door, my gouvernante is waiting. Beside her is a girl I do not recognize. At the sight of me, panting and flushed, both rise. The Baronne gives a sigh.