“Indeed, Sir”—I lower my own voice—“I am not sorry they are absent.” It feels thrilling to confess this fact, for which I was so lately punished. I hold my breath to see what he will say.
“I am glad to hear it.” The earnest pleasure on his face makes him extraordinarily handsome. But it is more than his looks that quicken my pulse—there is something exciting about speaking on serious subjects rather than exchanging quips. So much of what passes for conversation at Court is merely cleverness and show, and when there are serious matters to be discussed, I am not wanted. I long to sound him on other topics, but our dance is over, and he leads me back to my friends.
“What a pretty pair you made,” Charlotte gushes. “Half the women in the room—or at least those below the age of thirty—watched with jealous eyes.”
“Including my sister,” Henriette adds. “I think you should make a play for the Duc and then what a marvelous time we will have for the rest of the month!”
“‘We’?”
“Yes, we. You practicing your allurements and we, your dear friends, urging you on. With Guise as a conquest, your reputation will be assured. Women twice your age will imitate your style of dress and manners if you bring the handsome Duc to heel.”
An enticing prospect. More appealing still is the possibility that, while causing the Duc to fall in love with me, I might fall in love myself. I have never been, and I consider that a great scandal, given my age.
“She blushes,” Charlotte remarks triumphantly. “She will play.”
“It is not a game,” I reply hotly.
“Of course it is.” Henriette clucks her tongue. “The most pleasant game imaginable.”
*
I arrive early for my brother’s match, expecting little competition for the Duc de Guise’s notice. Despite the hour, however, the galleries are crowded. The Duchesse de Nevers uses her most commanding look and I my rank to displace some of Anjou’s gentlemen and claim seats worth having. Unfortunately, we have Mademoiselle de Rieux for a neighbor.
“Come to urge the Duc d’Anjou to victory?” she asks.
“Of course. Why else would I bestir myself so early?”
“I cannot imagine,” she replies in a tone that suggests she can.
Henri and Guise arrive at the same moment, my brother at the center of a little knot of his gentlemen. Henri yawns openly, but I cannot tell if he is merely feigning boredom or if his sleep was deficient to the task at hand. Guise looks fully rested and entirely relaxed.
My brother salutes the gallery, then takes his racket from his newest favorite, Louis de Bérenger, the Seigneur du Guast. Guise takes his place for the first serve without glancing my direction.
Both men are marvelously athletic, so from the first the game is strenuous and engages the spectators fully. There is little of the ordinary gossip in the galleries to compete with the cries and grunts of the players or the satisfying thwack of rackets meeting a ball with force. My brother moves with his usual grace, but he is matched in elegance by his opponent—something that rarely happens. I watch the Duc extend his extraordinarily long arm and bring his racket forward in a smooth perfect arc. The neck of his shirt is open and a fine sheen of perspiration makes his collarbone shine like silk. Crouching to await Anjou’s next, his calves appear carved of stone.
Leaning toward Henriette, I whisper, “I could sit and watch the Duc play at tennis the whole day.”
“You and half the women of the Court. Observe: even la belle Rouhet—who might, by having married only slightly earlier than is currently fashionable, be the Duc’s mother—sighs and leans forward now that he has begun to sweat, hoping to catch the scent of him.”
The scent of him. What a thrilling and disturbing thought.
Anjou wins the first set and crows over it. Guise takes the second, a victory he greets with no more than the flicker of a smile. Both men are thoroughly damp now. Hair sticks to foreheads; shirts cling to chests and arms, allowing me to notice the musculature of both. Guast brings Anjou water. A glass is poured for the Duc as well.
“Thank you,” Guise says, draining it in a single long swallow.
“Ce n’est rien.” Anjou shrugs magnanimously. “I will not have you blame thirst when I defeat you in the next.” Henri looks in my direction and winks. Renée giggles. The Duc’s gaze follows my brother’s and meets mine. My heart pounds and my breath quickens.
The final game is fiercest of all. Guise wins, but Henri loudly claims the ball was out. All his gentlemen agree. A good number of spectators take issue and heated shouting begins. The Duc remains silent.
“It seems we must replay the point,” my brother says.
The Duc glances in my direction for an instant. “Your Highness, I am tired. I cede the point and the match.”
Henri’s face goes slack and then becomes angry. “Come,” he urges, “you can surely manage a short time more.”