The Chevalier (Châteaux and Shadows) by Philippa Lodge Page A

distraction. She watched the mare disappear around the corner, tears springing to her eyes.
    Gradually, she became more aware of him at her elbow. “I haven’t had my own horse since I was sixteen.”
    He sniffed slightly. “I got my first horse when I was thirteen. My father gave him to me when he took me from my mother.”
    She nodded. “You felt it was a bribe.”
    He inhaled sharply. “I did. But it was what I wanted more than anything. My mother wouldn’t let me have my own. Said I had to practice dancing instead. She hoped I would dance in the king’s ballets.”
    Catherine grinned and turned to see Monsieur Emmanuel still scowling in the direction the mare had disappeared. “I’m sorry,” she said, though she wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for.
    He looked at her, and his scowl eased somewhat. “I have a lot of horses now.” He smiled suddenly, but it was more like bared fangs. His eyes were still angry.
    “I don’t know how I’m going to afford this one,” she said before she realized it was true.
    He shrugged. “I don’t think my mother thought that far ahead.”
    Catherine winced. “I have some income from renting out my property, but I’m saving it for the future.”
    He glanced at her with a question in his eyes, but she didn’t want to answer any questions about the future, since it was uncertain.
    “I’m not entirely at your mother’s mercy, Monsieur de Cantière.”
    He looked her in the eye, finally. “I’m glad, Mademoiselle.”
    “I can sell Flamme. I know others who might want a gentle mare with spirit.” It would tear out her heart. Maybe she could ride the little horse for the summer.

Chapter Five
    With his whole heart, Emmanuel wished his trunk had arrived either an hour earlier or much, much later.
    As it was, his clothing arrived just before his mother and Mademoiselle de Fouet left for the evening entertainment. The baronesse said it was some variation on Molière’s Le Misanthrope . Manu found it perfectly fitting, as he was feeling rather misanthropic. His mother insisted he join them as quickly as possible.
    He had already sponged himself down as best he could and put on his one clean shirt, even though his mother told him he still stank of horse. When the trunk came, all he had to do was put on his very best coat, breeches, stockings, and the high-heeled shoes—the ones he hadn’t worn since buying them in Poitiers a year before, at the urging of his sister—and make his graceful, mincing way to the assembly rooms. It was more like his stumbling, clunking way. His best boots had a slight heel, but nothing like this. The footmen hid their amusement poorly until he grimaced comically at them, at which point they smiled in something closer to sympathy. Luckily, he didn’t encounter many nobles until he more or less had the hang of it. Still, a half mile or so down reeking staircases and through corridors—he got lost twice—and his legs and feet were cramping.
    He arrived at the door to the assembly rooms and a hot breeze laden with every perfume and every sort of body odor imaginable swept across him. His stomach contracted. His stables—which he insisted be kept quite clean but were still stables—smelled better. He wrinkled his nose, then paused and scanned the backs of the heads of the nobility. He didn’t immediately see his mother’s wig or Mademoiselle de Fouet’s dark hair, but then, there were two or three hundred people crammed into the room, watching actors dance around on a low platform.
    Was this a Misanthrope ballet? Manu barely kept himself from snorting derisively.
    A footman glared at him and told him to wait for the end of the scene before going in. Since many of the nobles were carrying on conversations—some not even in whispers—Manu didn’t see it as fair, but the footman had more experience than he in court etiquette, so he obeyed.
    During the smattering of applause after a particularly awkward scene, the footman nodded and Manu