Henri is clearly perplexed by Anjou’s show of affection. Warily he takes the proffered chair. My brother stands behind, putting a hand upon Guise’s shoulder. It is a position of dominance, and I can see by the Duc’s eyes that it is not to his liking. But what can he do? He can hardly shake off the hand of a royal prince.
Looking at me, Anjou gives a chastising shake of the head. “Sister, it was unkind of you not to receive His Grace last evening. You left him to suffer a sleepless night.”
“I assure you, Your Highness, I slept,” Henri says. I am not certain whether he addresses me or my brother.
Anjou replies: “I am glad to hear it. But you would have lain down more comfortably had you seen Marguerite.”
There is insinuation in both what Anjou says and how he says it. Perhaps only I perceive it, but my stomach tightens further and my face flushes.
Anjou cannot let this pass. “Observe the color in her cheeks, Guise. The sight of you does her good. If only Her Majesty were here to see as much.
“Well, I must go,” my brother says brightly. “Her Majesty expects me.”
The Duc begins to rise. “I should go too.”
Yes. You should.
“No, Guise, stay where you are. I insist. If anyone is looking for you, I will tell them where you can be found.” Passing the Baronne de Retz, Anjou says, “Madame, I believe your husband seeks you.”
Clever. I take hold of Charlotte’s hand and mouth the words “Do not leave.” She looks puzzled but nods.
Charlotte’s presence will, I pray, be sufficient to guard me against evil rumors, but she is no impediment to the Duc. The moment the others are gone, he leans forward, hands on knees, and says, “I have been mad with worry. We heard that you were ill but then nothing—nothing but the daily report of who had succumbed. I had no recourse but to hold my breath and pray your name would not be among the dead, for I have no claim that would have permitted me to inquire about you.”
“I am sorry I worried you.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.”
“How can I believe that after—” He stops short. “Surely, Baronne, you might withdraw a little further. Please.”
Charlotte looks at me.
I am at war with myself.
“If you would sit by the door,” I say at last.
The Duc releases his breath in a single long puff. “Why did you write me that terrible letter?”
“Your Grace—”
“Henri.”
“Your Grace, it has been brought to my attention most forcefully that our…” I pause. Our what? What word can I use? “Affair” suggests more than we have done. “Dalliance” trivializes our encounters and they were anything but trivial to me. “… that our amour has led me to transgress, to behave in a manner unbefitting a princess of France.” I look at my lap. “I must ameliorate my ways before I embarrass His Majesty.”
“I am an embarrassment?”
Glancing up, I find his eyes as full of pain as they were in the courtyard last evening. How I wish I could stop hurting him. “No,” I say. “You are a gentleman of honor and well-earned reputation; I am not embarrassed of my admiration for you. But it has led me into sin.”
“A kiss is a sin?”
“Not one.”
“How many, then? How many does it take to make a sin?”
“Sir, we have surely exchanged enough kisses to cross the threshold wherever it lies. And not all kisses are equal.” I feel myself blushing.
“I consider myself a devout man, and yet I do not believe anything we have done is sin,” he replies earnestly. “Not the embraces we have exchanged nor the professions of love.” Taking a hand from his knee, he runs it through his hair.
“Others think our flirtation less innocent.” I lower my voice. “They mistake me for another sort of dame de la cour.”
“Who? Who thinks such things of you?” He springs to his feet. “I will call them out and run them through!”
His fierce, protective tone, the angry tilt of his jaw—I believe I have never loved the Duc more. I ache inside.
“I cannot say.” I drop my head. For a moment nothing happens. Then the Duc sits down. I feel his fingers upon my chin, drawing it upward until we are eye to eye once more.
“Such gossip is poison, but you must not let it fell you. You know that you are not such a one. I know it.”
I wish I felt the confidence he so obviously does on the point. But Anjou’s words blaming me for his attraction—and Guast’s wolfish glances—are not so easily dismissed.
“There is more. The Duc d’Anjou believes I spy for you.”
“He is a fool!”
He is far worse.
“Is this why you distance yourself from me—to silence unjust gossip?”
I nod. He smiles. I am stunned.
“What can there be to smile about?”
“I thought you had ceased to love me.” He takes my hand. I know that I ought to retrieve it, but his touch, unlike that of the other men who have lately sought my hand and more, comforts.
“I kept telling myself it could not be so, for you cried when you wrote that dreadful letter—”
“You noticed.”