“An interesting impression,” Henriette says.
“And now the Duchesse leaves me in an awkward position,” the Duc replies. “For if I protest there was nothing interesting in our last meeting, I insult you in a backhanded manner. But if I say anything else, I fear compromising conclusions may be drawn.”
“Oh, I hope they may,” Henriette says. She, Charlotte, and Fleurie exchange looks.
“I must disappoint, Your Grace,” Guise replies. “I happened upon the Duchesse of Valois in the gardens yesterday. Being a lady of the highest breeding and well schooled in propriety, she took herself off before anything sufficiently scandalous to divert you could occur.”
“And what, Sir, would have happened had I remained?” I make my tone teasing, but my curiosity is real.
“Ah”—the Duc pulls a solemn face—“we will never know. Perhaps, however, if you will do me the honor, we may discover what will result of our dancing together. The music has started.”
“So it has.” Henri’s voice behind me makes me jump. I turn to find him standing with Charles and Marie.
“Guise.” Charles pulls the Duc into an embrace. Anjou’s acknowledgment is less enthusiastic.
Turning his attention to me, Anjou says, “Come, let us dance.”
I want to say that I have promised the dance to the Duc, but it is not the truth. Besides, I am used to complying with Henri’s wishes. I lay my hand on my brother’s arm. Looking at Guise, he says, “Tennis tomorrow, before the hawking party sets out?”
“If I win, I dance first with the Duchesse de Valois tomorrow.”
Henri shrugs. “I am always eager to take a wager I cannot lose. And when I win you must forgo dancing with my sister entirely demain soir.”
I follow Henri to the floor. As we leave the others, I hear Fleurie say, “I will be your partner, Duc, I have the same hair as Her Highness and mine is real.”
How vexing.
“Shall I come and cheer you at tennis?” I ask Henri as we execute a turn.
“If you are not too tired. I want Guise to admire the prize that slips through his fingers.”
I want Guise to admire me as well.
As our dance ends Henri says, “Here comes the Duc. Shall I let him dance with you?” My heart beats faster. It never occurred to me that Anjou would monopolize me, though in truth he often does. Mademoiselle de Rieux moves past, throwing my brother a look that could light a taper. He colors. “I believe I will. Give him a taste of what shall be out of his reach tomorrow.” Kissing my hand, he hurries after the Mademoiselle. Oddly, this does not vex me.
“Your Highness,” Guise says, arriving beside me, “will you allow me to partner you?”
The dance is slower than the last, well suited to conversation. For the first pass, however, Guise merely looks at me. I am frequently told that I am beautiful. I hope the Duc finds me so. I am not intimidated by his stare. I meet his eyes with confidence, daring him to say what he is thinking.
Finally, as the second pass begins, he says, “Why do you wear that wig?”
This is not the compliment I expected. “Why do you wear that doublet? We both of us follow the fashion.”
“Your own hair suits you better.”
“You are very free with your opinions.”
“I am,” he replies. “Strong opinions make a strong man, as do strong convictions.”
“That may be,” I say indignantly, “but they are unlikely to make one popular when so candidly expressed.”
He laughs. “Who is being forthright now? But you are right of course: there are many ways to say the same thing. I will try again.” He puts on a mild, courtly smile. “Your Highness looks exceptionally well this evening, but I would be so bold as to say that a wig cannot improve upon the hair God gave you, which is quite perfect.”
My irritation vanishes, replaced by a stomach full of butterflies. To think that Fleurie hoped to beguile him with her honeyed tresses. I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile. As we turn and come together I ask, “How do you find the Court after your time in Austria?”
I expect a standard stream of praise. Instead Guise says, “Blessedly free of heretics.”
Confronted again with the Duc’s candor, I do not know where to look. I myself was chastised by Mother for comments expressing pleasure when Coligny and his confreres declined to come hunting. “Ah,” I say, trying to sound clever, “they are not heretics when we are at peace. They are our Protestant brothers.”
“They are always heretics,” Guise responds quietly. “And I believe you know as much, for your jest is halfhearted.”