“He does?” The voice is male, and familiar. Without warning, the Duc de Guise steps out of the adjoining cabinet.
“My gift,” Henriette says, as if no other explanation were needed for the sudden appearance of a gentleman I have not seen in more than half a year. I freeze, the miniature portrait of Dom Sébastien clutched in my hand. The Duc is thinner than when I saw him last. And taller, if that is possible. I thought him a man when he held me in his arms at Paris, and perhaps he was, but he is somehow more so now.
“Perhaps, Your Grace, our surprise is not entirely welcome.” The voice is serious. The eyes meet mine only for an instant, then pull away.
“Say something,” Charlotte whispers, nudging me.
“Your Grace”—Is it odd that after so many months I do not use or even think of him by his Christian name?—“please do not mistake astonishment for displeasure. I simply cannot account for seeing you are here when I thought you with His Majesty’s army.”
“I brought a message to the King.”
“It must be a very important dispatch if they send a duc.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Henriette rises and, moving forward, plucks Dom Sébastien’s likeness from me. “He sought the errand.”
I glance back to the Duc. It must be true, for he colors. I feel rather than see Henriette retreating, taking Charlotte with her. My emotions are in a jumble. Last autumn when he left I thought of Guise so often. But lately, I realize, my mind has seldom moved in his direction. Is this because I have had so much to think about as Her Majesty’s confidante? Or is it because I no longer care for him?
His Grace takes a step forward and I catch my breath. No, it is not the latter, for that single step closer has made my heart race.
He looks me straight in the eye. “Perhaps I should have stayed at Cognac.”
“I would rather have you here.”
“Would you?” He takes another step.
“Yes.”
“What need can you have for me if you are to marry the King of Portugal?”
“It is not certain. I only just learned that His Majesty pursues the match.”
“He is eager for you to have a foreign husband.”
“He is eager for me to wed a king,” I reply, vaguely irritated. Charles loves me and wants what is best for me. So does Mother. Why should the Duc make it sound as if they wish to be rid of me?
“I would rather you did not.”
“Henriette told me you did not wish me to marry the King of Spain. How did she know that?”
“I told her.”
“You write to her?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Of course not.” I do not believe I sound convincing.
“You have no reason. It is I who have rivals, not you. I have been gone seven months and already you are offered to two kings.”
I do not wish to speak further about Dom Sébastien or my marriage; the topic is making me increasingly uncomfortable. As is the Duc’s proximity. I wish things were as before he marched away—that he would simply take me in his arms and kiss me. Yet he stands without so much as raising a hand to touch me.
I try to turn the subject. “You have come from Cognac. How goes the siege?”
“You wish to talk of the war?” He smiles wryly. “Fine. We will raise the siege. We make no progress, and so will go instead to intercept the Duc de Zweibrücken’s German soldiers before they can reach the main Huguenot force.” He shakes his head. “Satisfied?”
“No.”
“Nor am I. I left the fighting to other men and rode halfway across France so that I could see you”—he pauses—“touch you.”
“Why do you not?” I whisper, but he hears me. His hand rises and caresses my cheek. His skin is rough. I like that.
“Because in the first moments I thought we were strangers again.”
“I do not believe we will ever be strangers, Sir.”
“What, then?”
I do not answer because I do not know.
“I would devote myself entirely to you,” he says. “While I have been away, I have seen many gentlemen do things that will require confession. I did none.”
My heart leaps. “Whatever sins I have confessed during these long months, Sir, the type you allude to are not among them. I may have failed in my duty as a daughter, a sister, and a Christian, but my lips have trespassed with no other.”
He takes me in his arms at last. “If I considered our embraces sin,” he says solemnly, “I would abstain from them even as they are my greatest desire. But I know that my feelings for you are honorable, and that my desire to preserve your reputation unbesmirched is stronger even than my baser longings.” He lowers his lips to mine. The kiss is just as I remembered: utterly, overwhelmingly wonderful. When our lips part, he looks down into my face with eyes that no longer show doubt. “I leave tomorrow.”
“No!” Having been reminded of everything I feel for him, it seems cruel that he will be gone again so soon.
“It is my duty and it presses upon me, for I have not yet sufficiently distinguished myself.”