“She never does anything gracefully.”
“Too true. While you are all grace. I will wager that your caresses are as graceful as your dancing.”
I take my hand from his and, bringing it to the tabletop, play with my fork. “And who shall replace Mademoiselle?”
“I thought you would not want her replaced.”
I remember Mother’s advice back on that dark night in Meaux. “A man must have a mistress, is not that so? It is the fashion. Why not someone with the refinements Mademoiselle lacked?”
My brother swallows audibly, picks up his glass, and drains it in a single gulp. “Who would you suggest?” His voice drops.
I have not given the matter serious thought. Casting my eye over those dining, I spot Louise de La Béraudière. “If I were to choose for you, I would choose la belle Rouhet.”
Anjou looks disappointed.
“She is polished, and such a pedigree. Has she not been the mistress of a king? That suggests she must possess a certain grace in the dance of amour. You deserve a graceful partner.”
“As you wish me to have her, I shall obey.” He takes my hand, fork and all, and brings it to his lips. “I will consider her training against the day when I next choose my own partner, because I aspire to be worthy of one so graceful she shames the muses.”
Can he mean the Baronne de Retz? He will need luck there, to be sure, for I have never heard it rumored she strays from her husband.
Charles rises. “Come,” I say to my brother, “shall we stroll before we dance? I am very full.” We pause while the King, with Mother on one arm and Marie on the other, descends, then follow. As Charles makes his way to his seat beneath a canopy of cloth of gold, the other tables empty. I offer Guise a smile as we promenade past and my heart quivers when he returns that smile. I am eager for dancing to begin, for after Anjou I mean to dance with the Duc.
My brother, always attuned to my moods, senses my impatience. Stopping before Mother he says, “Your Majesty, the King may not be eager to dance, but some of us are.”
She turns to Charles, who is whispering prettily with Marie. The King nods indulgently and tries to pull Marie into his lap.
On Mother’s signal the music begins: a galliarde—perfect. Anjou’s natural athleticism always draws eyes, and if I perform enthusiastically, I may offer a flash of ankle to Guise, who I very much hope is watching. We are not the only pair dancing with more than usual vigor. As I search among the moving bodies for the Duc, it strikes me that there is a general wildness about the dancers. People are breathless. Ladies glisten and gentlemen’s eyes stray from faces to breasts rising and falling. The Duc partners the Princesse de Porcien. Hot anger fills me until I notice how often his gaze leaves her and finds me. Do I read longing in his looks, or do I merely imagine I do because I long to have him beside me?
As the dance concludes, Anjou holds out his hand. I cannot bear any more delay in my evening’s plan. So, rather than taking it, I wave a chastising finger. “I believe you have a lady to seduce.”
“As you command.” He kisses my hand ardently and is gone, leaving me to look for the Duc. I need not look far. Turning to my right, I find him nearly beside me.
“Your Highness, will you dance?”
Oh, most willingly. I muster all my self-restraint to keep from responding with just that unfashionable enthusiasm, instead tilting my head in the affirmative very coolly. We wait side by side. His hand is so close to mine, they nearly touch. Nearly is dissatisfying. I will the musicians to begin. And as if in response to my will, and to my need to feel the Duc’s hand, they strike up. La volte!