Henriette is no more indisposed than I. Clever friend, she merely sent her litter through the wicket empty and went to collect Guise once he had lost his match. I slipped away moments later.
The Duc’s hands, which had been clasped round my waist, slide upward over my torso. I nearly cry out with delight as they come to rest on my breasts, but content myself with biting his lip as his hands tighten.
We are in the Salle des Caryatides, tucked into one of the columned recesses. It would be the perfect hiding place but for the echo. Henriette shushes us again from her place two windows away. Our only light comes from a sliver of half-concealed moon, so it is difficult to see Guise. I do not mind. I can feel him, taste him, and I find the darkness liberating.
His lips move from my mouth to my throat. I put my hands in his hair and pull his head down until his mouth reaches my breasts where they peek from the top of my bodice. He must kiss them through my partlet, and though it is very sheer, I wish it gone—wish I could feel his lips on my flesh.
“Oh, Henri,” I whisper.
His head pops up. “You said my Christian name.”
“Say mine.”
He hesitates, though why he should be shy to do so under the circumstances I cannot imagine, then whispers, “Marguerite.”
I kiss his neck. “Again,” I command.
“Marguerite.” There is urgency in his voice.
I put my lips back at his throat and run them down, past his collarbone, as far as the lowest point of the open neck of his shirt. I can taste the sweat of his recent exercise.
He groans. His groan brings another “Shh,” and a few moments later Henriette clears her throat. “Your Highness,” she whispers, “it is time for you to return to the sport, before questions are asked.”
“No,” I gasp, knowing she is right.
The Duc kisses me again then whispers, “As I love you, I would not see you embarrassed.”
He loves me.
“I will dream of you,” Guise says. Then he moves away through the moonlight.
I sigh. “He will dream of me.”
Drawing me out from behind the columns, Henriette says, “He will do more than that.” Then she laughs. “Ah, to be fifteen, and to have a seventeen-year-old lover again.”
I slip back into Anjou’s apartment and press into the crowd circling the wrestlers and shouting encouragement. Anjou, who has not yet lost a match, is still on the floor. He pins Saint-Luc and, his victory declared, springs to his feet, shouting, “Enough. I have had enough. It is time for wine.” Someone hands him a glass and he moves in my direction. “Sister, you have a pleasing flush upon you. Can it be my wrestling has stirred your blood as well as my own?”
“I have no doubt wrestling accounts for my color,” I reply, unable to resist the double entendre. “Your luck was certainly in this evening. What about last?”
My brother takes a seat and pulls me onto his lap. “Are you asking about my amorous fortunes?”
“Indeed. Have I chosen better for you than you chose for yourself?”
“As for my past choice, yours bests her easily. As to my future choice, I will be so bold as to say I have faith she will eclipse Louise de La Béraudière.”
“You intrigue me.”
“I hope so.” He offers me what is left in his glass and I finish it.
“When do you leave?”
“Before the week is out.”
So few days. So few moments left with Henri. It is delicious to think of the Duc by his Christian name, but even better to whisper that name to him.
My brother looks at me closely. “It pleases me to see your face fall at the mention of my departure. Mother will come part of the way; perhaps you can travel with her.”
“Oh, I hope so.” Closing my eyes, I can see Anjou at the head of His Majesty’s army, beautifully armored and mounted, a royal banner waving at his one side and the Duc de Guise, handsome in his battle dress, at the other.
*
“Please, Henriette,” I whisper. “It has been three days, and they leave tomorrow.”
My friend looks in Mother’s direction before replying. “I may not be the Baronne de Retz, Margot, but nor am I foolhardy. Better no meeting than a meeting discovered.” She takes another stitch. We are hemming a few last shirts for the departing gentlemen, she for her husband and I for my brother. “I am no friend to you if you are compromised.”
Finished with her shirt, Henriette folds it neatly and picks up another. Charlotte lets out a mild oath as her thread breaks. “Perhaps the gentlemen will not be long absent.”
“Oh, dear God, I hope they are.” Henriette pulls a face. “The Duc de Nevers is the best husband when he is the furthest removed.”
Charlotte laughs. “Paris is not large enough for the both of you?”
“Generally, yes, but I fear the Duc ‘fortifies’ himself for an absence of some months. Very tedious, particularly as Bussy will be leaving as well.”