to be resisted. “If you will manage the golden bows, I will see our tunics trimmed to match.”
“Excellent. You must wear your new golden wig, curled in a Grecian style.”
Ordinarily I would object, for wigs make me hot. But an image of the Duc de Guise’s face stops my tongue. Perhaps a little suffering in the name of beauty is called for. Everyone says fair hair highlights my eyes and suits my pale complexion.
“And you must stop telling me how to dress and run to get your costume. Put it in my room and I will determine what is best to be done.”
With a kiss on my cheek, he is off. Rather than returning at once to the château, I wander farther into the lush garden, eager to soak up the autumn sun. Sitting on a bench with the sound of distant conversations washing over me, I lean back and close my eyes.
A throat clears. If it is Henri back to disturb my peace with more instructions, I will strangle him. I open my eyes. The Duc de Guise stands over me. Goodness, he is tall, and even more handsome in close proximity than he was viewed down the length of the alley. His hair is golden without need of a wig. It waves and curls gently. A faint mustache rests on his smiling lips.
“Your Highness”—he bows—“I have just returned to Court and would present myself.”
“To me?”
“You are the only one here, are you not?” His eyes betray an amusement that borders on insolence.
“Ah, that explains things, then,” I quip. If he can be impertinent, so can I. “When others are absent, a princess of France must do.”
“Not at all. Were the full Court present, I should still seek Your Highness’s attention.” He nods at the bench next to me as if asking permission to sit, than takes the place without waiting for my reply. Very aware of his proximity, I stand.
“And, Your Grace, were the entire Court present such a meeting might be proper, but alone in a secluded corner of a garden … Are these the manners of the Austrian court?” The Duc’s expression shows no trace of embarrassment. Rather, he smiles at my challenge. His smile thrills me. I am flirting, but console myself with the thought that the Baronne de Retz would be proud of me for recognizing the impropriety of my situation. Never mind the amount of effort it takes to think of reputational niceties with the Duc’s eyes upon me. I had best go before I lose my resolve to do so.
I take a step and the Duc is on his feet. Another bow. Utterly perfect. “May I present myself at a more appropriate time?”
“You may.” Oh how I hope the Duc picks a moment when Charlotte and Henriette are with me. His attention, pleasing in itself, would be rendered more agreeable still by the notice of others.
“Until a more auspicious moment, then.” He offers me another smile. “I shall leave you in peace.” He walks away without looking back, which is just as well, for if he did, he would perceive that my eyes follow his figure. Peace, he calls it! Not with my heart pounding so. I run all the way back to my room.
When I burst through the door, my gouvernante is waiting. Beside her is a girl I do not recognize. At the sight of me, panting and flushed, both rise. The Baronne gives a sigh.
“Mademoiselle Marguerite, do you not get exercise enough hunting?” she asks. “Must you run about like a child when left to your own devices? Such is the behavior of the Prince of Navarre, not a princess of France.”
The comparison stings. I’ve seldom thought of my cousin since his mother outwitted mine and took him from Court shortly after the New Year. Jeanne d’Albret told Mother she would show the Prince his patrimony. She had Mother’s blessing for that, but then she rode onward to Poitou and Gascony beyond, without Mother’s leave—or Charles’. Everyone says it is unlikely we will see the Prince of Navarre in France again, unless the peace breaks and he is at the head of an army. This talk vexes Mother. But while I recognize my cousin’s absence
“Excellent. You must wear your new golden wig, curled in a Grecian style.”
Ordinarily I would object, for wigs make me hot. But an image of the Duc de Guise’s face stops my tongue. Perhaps a little suffering in the name of beauty is called for. Everyone says fair hair highlights my eyes and suits my pale complexion.
“And you must stop telling me how to dress and run to get your costume. Put it in my room and I will determine what is best to be done.”
With a kiss on my cheek, he is off. Rather than returning at once to the château, I wander farther into the lush garden, eager to soak up the autumn sun. Sitting on a bench with the sound of distant conversations washing over me, I lean back and close my eyes.
A throat clears. If it is Henri back to disturb my peace with more instructions, I will strangle him. I open my eyes. The Duc de Guise stands over me. Goodness, he is tall, and even more handsome in close proximity than he was viewed down the length of the alley. His hair is golden without need of a wig. It waves and curls gently. A faint mustache rests on his smiling lips.
“Your Highness”—he bows—“I have just returned to Court and would present myself.”
“To me?”
“You are the only one here, are you not?” His eyes betray an amusement that borders on insolence.
“Ah, that explains things, then,” I quip. If he can be impertinent, so can I. “When others are absent, a princess of France must do.”
“Not at all. Were the full Court present, I should still seek Your Highness’s attention.” He nods at the bench next to me as if asking permission to sit, than takes the place without waiting for my reply. Very aware of his proximity, I stand.
“And, Your Grace, were the entire Court present such a meeting might be proper, but alone in a secluded corner of a garden … Are these the manners of the Austrian court?” The Duc’s expression shows no trace of embarrassment. Rather, he smiles at my challenge. His smile thrills me. I am flirting, but console myself with the thought that the Baronne de Retz would be proud of me for recognizing the impropriety of my situation. Never mind the amount of effort it takes to think of reputational niceties with the Duc’s eyes upon me. I had best go before I lose my resolve to do so.
I take a step and the Duc is on his feet. Another bow. Utterly perfect. “May I present myself at a more appropriate time?”
“You may.” Oh how I hope the Duc picks a moment when Charlotte and Henriette are with me. His attention, pleasing in itself, would be rendered more agreeable still by the notice of others.
“Until a more auspicious moment, then.” He offers me another smile. “I shall leave you in peace.” He walks away without looking back, which is just as well, for if he did, he would perceive that my eyes follow his figure. Peace, he calls it! Not with my heart pounding so. I run all the way back to my room.
When I burst through the door, my gouvernante is waiting. Beside her is a girl I do not recognize. At the sight of me, panting and flushed, both rise. The Baronne gives a sigh.
“Mademoiselle Marguerite, do you not get exercise enough hunting?” she asks. “Must you run about like a child when left to your own devices? Such is the behavior of the Prince of Navarre, not a princess of France.”
The comparison stings. I’ve seldom thought of my cousin since his mother outwitted mine and took him from Court shortly after the New Year. Jeanne d’Albret told Mother she would show the Prince his patrimony. She had Mother’s blessing for that, but then she rode onward to Poitou and Gascony beyond, without Mother’s leave—or Charles’. Everyone says it is unlikely we will see the Prince of Navarre in France again, unless the peace breaks and he is at the head of an army. This talk vexes Mother. But while I recognize my cousin’s absence
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