“Brother, come in. Your meal awaits.” Henriette smiles at Henri. Then she turns to the servant. “That will be all,” she instructs.
Henri moves to me, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. “Margot.” His voice, usually so sonorous, is low and broken. He pulls me into his arms, his lips close over mine. After five long, lonely months I taste him once again. His breath is my breath. I am engulfed by his delicious smell.
“Ahem.” The sound of Henriette clearing her throat has an immediate effect. Henri and I pull apart, staring at each other, dazed. His cheeks are flushed and I imagine that mine are as well.
Glancing at the Duchesse sheepishly, Henri bows, then says, “Forgive me, sister, but a starving man has little use for manners.”
“Ah, but, Your Grace, I must insist on decorum.” Henriette’s look of mock severity causes us all to laugh. “Have a glass of wine. I will prepare your beloved for bed.”
I cannot seem to get enough air. My stomach spasms, and something else as well, as if those lower lips which man has never parted have come alive.
It appears that Henri is also affected, for as Henriette draws me away, he picks up the nearest glass and drains it.
In Henriette’s chamber the bed is turned back and flower petals are strewn over the sheets. Soon I will slide between those sheets with Henri beside me. We are, strangely, almost reverently silent as Henriette undresses me down to my silken chemise. When only that remains, she leads me to her dressing table. Opening a case, she draws out a necklace of enormous sapphires and fastens it around my neck. “The effect against your skin is beautiful,” she says, beginning to take down my hair. When she has finished brushing my tresses, Henriette loosens the neck of my chemise. Unstopping a bottle on her dressing table, she pours some perfume into one of her palms, rubs her hands together and then, quite unexpectedly, reaches over my shoulders and runs her scented hands beneath my chemise and over my breasts. I am both embarrassed and fascinated to see my nipples harden though the fine silk of my garment.
I climb into the bed, allowing her to arrange the pillows. Standing back, she nods her head, satisfied. “Beautiful. One more thing.” She bustles to her dressing table and then to a decanter of brandy, opening the libation for no purpose that I can ascertain. “I fear from the Duc’s looks that you, my dear friend, are the undoing of his much-vaunted self-control. We must take precautions that, if it is so, your womb will not be quickened. There will be time enough for the Duc to give your cousin an heir once you are wed.” She laughs as if delighted by the thought of my cuckolding the Prince of Navarre.
She holds out her hand. In her palm I can see a small piece of sponge. “It is doused in brandy,” she says. Her explanation means nothing to me.
“What am I to do with it?”
“You must push this past your dame du milieu, do you understand? It will hurt, but it will offer your womb some protection.”
I look away as I part my babichon and push the sponge inside. It stops momentarily and then, in a single, swift thrust, it is gone. I yelp with the pain of it and my eyes water.
“Good,” Henriette declares, satisfied. And then she is gone.
A moment later Henri enters. He stops just over the threshold to stare. “Mon Dieu, you are a thing too beautiful to be real,” he says. Slowly he walks to the foot of the bed, unfastening his doublet as he comes. As he undresses I finger Henriette’s sapphires, arching my neck, hoping to look my best. Henri’s eyes never leave me.
When he stands in nothing but his shirt—a garment as fine as my chemise—I summon him. “Come to me,” I say, opening the neck of my chemise even further. “Lay claim to what should have been yours. To what is yours by my own volition. For I swear to love you always and no other.”
He eagerly complies. Lying beside me, his hands run over me—cupping breasts, caressing my waist and belly, slipping between my thighs. “I have dreamed of this since first you caught my eye as a slip of a girl,” he murmurs, kissing the side of my neck. As he pulls me against him I can feel the organ of his manhood pressing against my belly. It is as a rod of iron. Fascinated, I reach down to touch it. As my fingers meet his flesh—surprisingly soft—he cries out in delight. His delight emboldens me and I stroke him again and again. His hands fall to my hips and begin to gather up my chemise.
Rolling on top of me, he asks, “Shall I make you mine, then?”
The tenderness in his face makes my heart ache. I draw up my knees, rubbing them along his haunches. The smoothness of his skin sliding against mine causes me to moan.
“Yes.”