Nearer the chateau I can make out a figure stooping to pluck something from a plant.
Fearful of discovery, I gasp slightly without thinking. The figure straightens and for a moment looks outward into the garden. Henri and I sit perfectly still. I would not draw breath were it not absolutely required. After a minute the person—whoever he is—places what he picked into his mouth and turns back. A crack of light grows into a doorway as he reenters the chateau.
“This is what I fear,” Henri says quietly. “Whoever that was might have walked forward and, finding us in this compromising setting, spread gossip or worse. Your brother Anjou harbors a grudge against me. He works to damage me in the eyes of others, including the King. He would love to ruin me.”
“Whatever Anjou says ill of you can only raise you in His Majesty’s esteem,” I reply. “But surely it is not so serious betwixt yourself and Anjou? Can a single battle two months past have done such damage?”
“Things between the Duc and me have never been particularly amicable. He likes me very well as an adversary—at tennis, in wrestling, in the competition for glory that so often accompanies war—but I do not believe I should ever have called us friends.”
I shift uncomfortably. I can think of nothing I have observed to belie his statements, and I only wonder that I never reflected on the point before. “To ruin you with your conduct here, Anjou would have to ruin me. He would not do so. He loves me too well.” And, I think, as he loves me, surely he will come to love the Duc better when he sees that I do.
“I love you well too, and therefore I cannot take such a chance. I should like to pay open court to you”—my heart leaps—“but now is not the time. Let the matter with Portugal be settled first.” Then, perhaps sensing how I tense, he says, “Settled to our liking.”
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime we will be as careful as mice in a kitchen when the cat is about. Perhaps a diversion. I might court another.”
I shake my head no.
“Think about it, Marguerite. It is the surest way to keep the attention I pay you from being discovered.”
“It is the surest way to make me despise another lady.”
Leaning forward, he whispers in my ear, “Your jealousy excites me.” Pulling me to him once more, he kisses me until I cannot remember where we are. All thoughts are of him. All of my body throbs and aches unbearably.
“God give me strength,” he murmurs as he releases me.
Now it is my turn to whisper. Putting my mouth against his ear, I ask, “If I let you create a diversion, will we be able to continue to snatch moments such as these?”
His breathing seems labored. His hand rises to my breast and squeezes through my gown. “To be alone with you … truly alone … is my greatest temptation and my greatest fear.”
Again I move my mouth to his ear. I feel his entire body stiffen. “Why fear what is such a pleasure. Though I am a maid and ought to fear the unknown, when I am with you I would run where I have never walked. I fear detection only, nothing else.”
His mouth moves to my throat, kissing lower and lower. I have visions of reclining on the bench, of letting him … I do not know what, for in truth I am aggravatingly na?ve of the details of such things. But it is as I said to him: I am not afraid. I lean back, pulling on his shoulder, willing him to follow me. I feel him hesitate. “The Duchesse de Nevers’ sister pines for you,” I say. “I have never had any fondness for her. Let her be the object of your feigned pursuit. Send her letters. Kiss her hand.” I pull him toward me again. “Only, for mercy’s sake, kiss me before the fire your last kiss ignited consumes me.”
He hesitates. “I will kiss you,” he says, “so long as I feel sufficient self-control to be certain that I do nothing else.” Then, leaning forward, he presses his mouth to the cleft where my breasts meet above the line of my bodice. I give a soft moan and in response he darts his tongue into that crevice, making my back arch with pleasure. I bury my hands in his hair, clutching it so that he cannot escape me. The Princesse de Porcien is forgotten. All is forgotten save the sensations of my flesh and the faint smells of the garden wafted over us by the late August breeze.
CHAPTER 10
Autumn 1569—Chateau of Plessis-les-Tours, La Riche, France