As we entered the Louvre, His Majesty was accosted by his secretary with a letter from Portugal. Dom Sébastien declared himself too young to marry and declared me well able to wait. Tears I had held in check all day, through every sort of agony, began to fall. Not because I wanted Dom Sébastien, but because I ought to have been wanted by him—by someone. At seventeen, I was the most beautiful woman in France and yet also three times spurned. My heart staggered under that blow. It was nearly stopped by the next. As I wept into my hands, Mother and His Majesty pronounced that they were done with Dom Sébastien. That instead they would use my hand as a seal upon the Paix de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, forging an unbreakable bond between the Catholic and Protestant branches of our family by marrying me to Henri de Bourbon, Prince of Navarre. My cousin, the ill-kempt and ill-mannered pest from my girlhood. A notorious heretic.
“But what?” Henriette challenges. “You are unhappy. You have been denied your heart’s desire. How will you fight back? All women are pawns of their families—bartered and bedded for the aggrandizement of their houses. I was so myself. Yet you do not see me weeping, waiting for my beauty to fade. I am the Duchesse de Nevers, not by marriage but in my own right; I have money, I have looks, I have love—and on my own terms. I engage in the battle for my fate by living as I like.
“You must rise and do the same. You want Guise in your bed. Have him. He is someone else’s husband. My sister’s, in point of fact. You will be another man’s wife—possibly the Prince of Navarre’s. But all this only makes it easier.”
“Easier?” I bristle. “How can marriage to a heretic make anything easier?”
Henriette leans in toward me. “Who is more chaperoned, the maiden or the wife? The maiden, of course. You know that to be true by your own experience. When you are Princess of Navarre, unless you are caught in flagrante, who is to know if the gentleman who makes you sigh and sweat is your loathsome husband or another?”
Here is an unexpected thought. For a moment I am stunned—but I am also awakened from the torpor that has held me fast in its grip since last October. “You urge me to embrace a match with Navarre so that I may take Guise as lover?”
“That is what I ought to advise, but I look at you and despair that you will fade to nothing before that. The time for caution is past and you were never very adept at it anyway.” She smiles slightly for the first time since she began speaking. “So I urge you to live again, without waiting for your marriage or any other event. The Duc is at Court after months of absence. Instead of pining for him impotently, remind him why he loves you.”
A sense of power and purpose swells in my breast. I throw off my covers and swing my legs out of bed. Stalking to my mirror, I examine my figure. I am thinner than I was last fall, but I know I am still an object of Henri’s desire. I saw as much in his hungry eyes when he first entered my presence two days ago. Felt as much in the lips that brushed my hand during our brief greeting. And I still want Henri—God, yes. At the thought of him, my stomach quivers.
Turning to my friend, I say, “I will have the Duc. I have been accused of him and beaten on account of it. Let me have the pleasure now; I have been punished for it already.”
“Bravo!” Henriette’s eyes sparkle. The color rises in her cheeks as it has in mine. “I think you must dine with me at the H?tel de Nevers this week.” She beckons Gillone forward with a clean chemise.
“You mean…”
“What could be more natural than that the Duc should also be my guest?” Henriette pulls my shift off and drops fresh linen over my head. The fabric soft and crisp against my skin is delightful. “He is my brother. My sister will not come. She can scarcely keep a mouthful of food down since the Duc put her with child, and she cannot bear to watch others eat.”
I wince at the mention of the Princesse de Porcien’s condition. The thought of her carrying my beloved’s child—something I hoped to do myself—remains unbearable, though it is no longer news.
Henriette, sensing my discomfort, takes my hand. “Let me arrange it all. It will be my little gift.”
I draw a deep breath. Henriette’s tone is light but the gift she offers is anything but little. “Make it soon,” I plead.
Henriette gives a delightful laugh by way of reply.
“And now,” I say, inclining my head as if I do her a great favor, “you may make me as dazzling as you like.”
*
Never has the ride to the H?tel de Nevers seemed longer. From behind my kidskin mask I see men working on the monuments for my sister-in-law’s entrance into Paris. Bless Elisabeth and her coronation. She is the reason my beloved is in the city. Without her I would not be riding to see him, anticipating his strong arms around me—and so much more. My very flesh is alive with anticipation of the surrender of my virginity. I quiver. I could not eat this morning.
Henriette greets me, drawing me to her comfortable and familiar apartments. Covered dishes are in place and wine has been poured.
“For appearances,” she says. “And you may be famished after.”
My throat constricts and my heart beats inside my ribs like a caged bird. Lifting a glass from the table, I take a gulp. A knock sounds.
“The Duc is prompt,” Henriette says with a smile. She takes the glass from my trembling hand, sets it back on the table, and then calls, “Enter.” A servant swings open the door to reveal Henri. His eyes meet mine. For a moment he is motionless, staring at me as if I am the very queen of heaven.