We separate but I do not mind. I have much to look forward to and anticipation will only make it better. As the Duc bows I notice the muscles of his calf, the neatness of his ankle. He comes toward me; I take his outstretched hand, not merely resting the tips of my fingers on it but letting him have the whole weight and flesh of it. The feeling is delicious and all too fleeting. We turn and separate. My breath quickens. When we meet next, he will lift me into the first series of turns. Just the thought of this causes unexpected sensations: I am conscious of my breasts in a way that I never have been before, my stomach tightens and, below, that place cloaked in dark seems to twitch.
His hand is on my waist. I raise mine to his shoulder and swear I can feel the heat of him through his doublet. As he twirls me, my other hand takes his other shoulder; it is as if we would fall into an embrace. Then his knee rises and I sit upon it, letting it lift me high into the air. I have done this dance before, but it has never felt like this. I am flying, my senses jumbled. Candles, faces, the silken and velvet fabrics of the other dancers’ clothing, the ceiling of the room—all blend in a swirl of dazzling color. Every inch of my skin is strangely sensitive. I can feel the air upon me, caressing my face, as I turn again and again. When the five turns are done and I must retreat from Guise, I feel unsteady on my feet, as if I have drunk as much as one of my brother’s gentlemen. I pass Henriette as I come around; she smiles a knowing smile and purses her lips into a kiss.
Again and again I return to the Duc’s arms. Then, rather abruptly to my mind, the music stops. I must curtsy; he must bow. When I rise, his hand is ready: it draws mine through his arm as naturally as if the gesture had happened many times before. We walk without speaking to join those who make slow circles around the floor. My breathing will not return to normal. I do not know what to say. De Guise seems likewise struck dumb. Those around us laugh and talk gaily. But we move in silence, except for what the Duc can speak by looks. In his eyes I see unguarded admiration, excitement, even wonder—all the things I feel, mirrored back at me.
Henriette approaches on the arm of Bussy d’Amboise.
“Heavens, it is hard to believe we are nearly done with September.” Henriette makes a great show of fanning herself. “I was just saying to the Seigneur that some windows ought to be opened before we are all stifled. Duc de Guise”—she steps forward, taking that gentleman’s arm and drawing him away from me, much to my dismay—“perhaps you and the Seigneur could open a window for Her Highness and me so that we might be refreshed?”
“If you like,” Guise says, not seeking to disguise his confusion.
“As we do not wish to chill anyone dancing, perhaps we ought to find a window in some convenient corner.” She winks at Bussy.
“A window in the next room would be better still,” the Seigneur says, his voice thick.
“Come, Duc, you would not, I think, be sorry to take some air away from this crowd.” Henriette nods at Bussy, who offers me his arm. With Henriette and the Duc in the lead, the four of us stroll the length of the room. I see Charlotte standing in the far corner, beside a small door used by servants. When we reach her, she says, “The Baronne de Retz is not looking,” and, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, she opens the door and we pass through. We are plunged into darkness and then another door opens. It takes me a moment to realize we are in the small red salon.
Moving to a window, Henriette gestures and says, “Gentlemen, do your duty.” The two men quickly open the casement. “Oh, look,” Henriette exclaims, as if she has never been in this room before, though she has passed hours in it, “Seigneur de Bussy, there is a balcon! Let us go out and take the air.”
Bussy eagerly steps into the late afternoon sun. As she follows, Henriette says, “I fear it is too small for four. You do not mind, I hope, being left behind.” There may be mischief in her heart but she manages to keep her countenance.
The Duc and I are left alone. Staring at each other. Think, you fool. You have seen women draw men in numberless times. What would Fleurie de Saussauy say at such a moment?
“Duc, for a man who earlier this day professed to be delighted in my company, you are very quiet.” I try to say it teasingly, as Fleurie would.
“Apologies, Your Highness. It was the dance. It seems to have taken all my breath and my words with it.” His voice is serious and so are his eyes.
I cannot make a careless reply to such a remark. “I felt so too.”
“And do you feel this?” Taking my hand, he presses it to his breast firmly enough that I can feel his heartbeat.
“It races.”
“Does yours?”
“Yes.” I hesitate, then move our combined hands from his breast to mine. As his palm presses over my heart I feel the breast containing that heart swell with longing. He draws a sharp breath. Lifting his hand, with mine atop it, he kisses first my knuckles and then my wrist. I shiver all over.
He draws closer—so close that it would be an embrace if only our arms were around each other.
“Your Highness,” he says gravely, “I am besotted. Since our eyes met at Montceaux one year ago, no woman save you has been worth looking at twice.”
“Not the Princesse de Porcien?”
“She? She is not worth looking at once.”
“Is looking enough, Sir?”
“It will be if you say it must be, otherwise no.”
“I want you to hold me as you did when we were dancing.”