“Does he?”
“Who can say? He thinks whatever Madame Catherine thinks for him at present. No matter. My uncle wants your hand for the House of Lorraine nearly as much as I want it myself. He will be happy to see the right words home to the right ears.
“Now come.” He holds out a hand. “Kiss me again without tears.”
I hesitate. Not because I do not wish to be kissed, but because—as I was reminded so recently—my will to stop at a kiss is severely to be doubted. Henri senses the hesitation.
“Marguerite, I swear to you, on my honor, that as I revere you and hope to have you for my wife, I will not take the rights of a husband until I am bound to the duties of one.”
I need no further reassurance, for I wish to be upon his lap as much as he wishes to have me there. “Do not show too much restraint,” I urge an instant before I offer my lips. Without further thought of the kings of Portugal, Spain, or France, I surrender to the sensations of my body. Until I hear a noise—a low whistle.
Henri hears it too and, springing to his feet, unceremoniously drops me on the floor of the grotto. Moving his hand to his sword, he carefully unsheathes it. The whistle comes again. “Who goes there?” Henri’s voice is almost a growl.
“Put up your sword, fool, who do you think?” Henriette slips in. “Are you so besotted that you forgot I accompanied you here?”
I blush in the darkness, wondering where Henriette was while Henri and I wrestled lustfully.
“Time to go,” she says matter-of-factly. Henri nods. “But first, here.” She removes her cloak and holds it out. “You must act the part of my maid, and I will take you home in my litter.”
“Surely I can slip back on my own.”
“You cannot. While the two of you exchanged pretty words, Entragues found me. It seems one of Anjou’s spies reported that you left the H?tel de Guise, though he could not, praise God and our luck, tell the Prince your destination.”
“No!” I put a hand on Henri’s arm.
“Entragues heard your brother say, ‘Never mind where he has gone: he must come home again and I shall set Angoulême to wait for him.’ So, Duc, you will play my maid.”
Henri takes the cloak and ties it on. I draw up the hood for him. “Take care, Henri. If anything were to happen to you…”
“Nothing will happen. I will feel humiliated but nothing worse.” Turning to Henriette, he says, “I do not see what this achieves. Assuming I am taken for your maid, how am I to get from your litter to my home? You are well-known, Madame.”
“I should hope so.”
“And well-known as a friend to the Duchesse de Valois. If Angoulême recognizes your litter arriving at my h?tel and a woman is seen exiting it, will not a rendezvous with Marguerite be suspected?”
“Not when that woman can be clearly seen to be my sister the Princesse with a servant trailing a step behind. And that is what you shall appear to be: a servant come to make her late-night visit to a man look somewhat less scandalous. We will stop to retrieve Catherine en route. I’ve sent a message telling her you are eager to see her and that we will make a merry party.”
I am far from happy with this development, but how can I object? Henri’s safety is paramount. As he stoops to kiss me one more time, I ask, “When will I see you again?”
“At the ball.”
My breath catches. “Not before?” I know his decision is wise. After the events of this evening it is clearly not safe for him to venture from the H?tel de Guise. But my need for him is such that the thought of a fortnight without sight or touch of him seems unbearable.
“We are at war, remember.” The arm he has slipped around my waist tightens in an almost violent manner. “Sacrifices must be made.”
*
The night of the ball has arrived! Trailing behind Mother with the other ladies, I attempt to check my excitement, or at least the appearance of it. But it is difficult to look calm when tonight my love returns to Court. So much depends on his reception. When we reach the Salle des Caryatides, the musicians are on the balcony playing softly. Charles is seated beneath his velvet canopy with a number of gentlemen gathered about, basking in his momentary favor while Anjou keeps his own court in a corner.