It had to be an act, Elizabeth judged. Minuette was never that studied. Everything she did tonight appeared to aim at an effect, from flirting with the French king to drinking cup after cup of wine brought to her by eager young (and not-so-young) men. What on earth could have made Minuette put so much energy into this performance? Was she aware of the swirling rumours about her relationship with William? Although if that were it, Elizabeth would have expected her to act with more decorum, not less. Minuette’s behavior tonight could only reinforce the opinion that she was all but William’s mistress. And after all, perhaps that was the right effect to aim for. If the French believed her to be the king’s mistress, they would not think to worry about her as an impediment to the French marriage.
Elizabeth might have intervened, just to make certain Minuette was behaving with political deliberation, but she saw that Dominic was watching Minuette just as closely. From his expression, he liked what he saw as little as Elizabeth did. Let him deal with it, she thought. Dealing with things is what he does best. Elizabeth returned her attention to the Cardinal of Lorraine and allowed herself to be lulled by outrageous French compliments.
Minuette had never drunk so much at one time in her life. She found the experience quite heady. The wine blurred the edges of her painful emotions—most of them. She could not think of the half-dressed woman leaving Dominic’s room without wanting to hide away and never see anyone again. Especially Dominic.
But the catch was that even alone all she could see was him. His hair tousled from sleep (or not), his body bare (and beautiful, her treacherous mind whispered), the play of torchlight and shadow on the muscles beneath his skin as he passionately kissed the woman who had clearly just come from his bed…the woman it had taken Minuette only a moment to identify as Madame de Poitiers’s lady, Aimée.
Minuette was not an innocent. She knew men took women to their beds whom they would never take anywhere else. One had only to meet Eleanor Percy to know that. It wasn’t as though she herself was sleeping with Dominic, so why should he not seek release elsewhere? A woman at the French court was ideal in many ways—a momentary thing, a woman he would not see again nor probably even wish to. Just because Dominic took most things far more seriously than William, that didn’t mean bedding a woman was one of them. No doubt he did that as casually as most men.
But she could not bear the thought of any woman touching him, kissing him, being undressed by him…He said he could wait for me! she raged.
She was silent as Carrie dressed her for the closing banquet and dancing. The maid tried to engage her in conversation multiple times, but Minuette deliberately ignored her. If she once admitted what had happened last night, the hurt of it might overwhelm the anger. And she needed to remain angry. It was anger that had fueled her so well last night that she had flung the dead rat out of her window by its tail (after removing the velvet shroud) without flinching. The broadside she had burnt. At some point she should let Dominic know about it. But not tonight. Tonight she was going to make Dominic regret with all his heart that he hadn’t waited for her.
Drinking definitely helped fuel her anger—and her recklessness. It also seemed to make her plenty desirable, since she could hardly choose with whom to dance. Even the French king partnered her in a galliard, and she smiled headily and laughed at all his witticisms, most of which she did not understand.
At each moment her every breath alerted her to Dominic. She had never felt so sensitive to his presence. Tonight she wanted him to watch her. Tonight she wanted him to want her.
A tiny whisper of a conscience (this time sounding like Elizabeth) kept up a commentary of sarcasm beneath all her actions.Oh yes, this is the final impression you wish to leave on the French court—that you are tipsy and wanton.But another, deeper voice, echoed beneath that one, Dominic’s whispered words at Framlingham:Wanton is not always wicked.
She didn’t think he would say that to her tonight. She didn’t have to look at him to feel the force of his disapproval from across the ostentatious, overly decorated Salle des Fêtes. You don’t like this, she thought, sipping wine and giggling inanely at a gentleman whose name she hadn’t bothered to learn. Well, isn’t that too bad. At least I have all my clothes on.
The worst moment was when she found herself accidentally face-to-face with Aimée. From the rich waves of her hair and the insolent way she held herself, she might as well have been wearing only the thin gown she’d worn last night. Minuette turned abruptly away, and heard the lilt of Aimée’s laughter and a phrase spoken with mock pity:la pauvre vierge anglaise!
Poor English virgin.
Conversations began to wane in and out of her attention. She wasn’t interested in talking—she moved from dance to dance and from man to obliging man. The French were nothing if not obliging. So obliging that Minuette often found herself having to step out of a too-intimate embrace or pretending not to understand the coyly worded invitations to join a man somewhere more private.
Only one man reached through her recklessness. Renaud LeClerc danced with her quite late in the evening and warned softly, “In my experience, mademoiselle, arguments are better settled with either words or a sword than with wine.”
“You think I need a sword?” Maybe she did at that.
“I think directness is always preferable to games, mademoiselle.”
She tilted her head in unthinking flirtation. “I thought the French liked games.”
He leaned in closer. “But Dominic is not French. And you are only bewildering him.”
He drew back and held her eyes with his, until her heart pounded in her ears.
“Did you ever think that perhaps Dominic is the one bewildering me?” she whispered.
“Yes, talking things over is not Dominic’s strong suit. All the more need for you to take the lead.”
He bowed and kissed her hand, then squeezed it before leaving her on the edge of the room with her head swimming and eyes stinging with tears she dare not shed. What was she doing? He was right. It was Dominic she should be dancing with, not these men whose names she did not know and whose faces she would never see again.
Time to remedy that.
Being hit on the head and then surprised by the wrong woman in his bed was not conducive to being well rested. It wasn’t so much Dominic’s head that ached as it was his entire being. He was sore and sick at heart and eager to return to England’s cleaner, sharper air. If last night’s encounter with Aimée had done anything (besides frustrate him), it had made him ponder how much longer he could endure pretending not to love Minuette. He was loyal and he was disciplined—but he was also a man. Something had to give sooner rather than later. If he could make her understand how he felt, how desperately he wanted her and how achingly difficult it was not to throw himself at her every time they were alone, then maybe she would agree to tell William the truth.
At the banquet they were separated, all of the English scattered amongst the bright plumage of the French royals and nobles: Lady Rochford next to the dauphin (she didn’t look pleased at being paired with a boy, no matter his title); Elizabeth with King Henri; and Minuette with the Cardinal de Guise. Dominic himself was seated between Elisabeth de France and William’s cousin, Mary Stuart. The need to be gracious to two royal ladies, however young, kept his attention diverted when all he wanted was to catch Minuette’s eye.
When the banquet was finished and the dancing began in the Salle des Fêtes, Dominic drew a breath of relief at being finally free. He would dance with Minuette—perhaps a seductivevolta—and begin to let his armour slip. Just enough for her to glimpse the passion he kept well-buried.
But he could not get near enough to Minuette to even ask her to dance. She passed from Frenchman to Frenchman without so much as a glance his way. The only time she stopped flirting or dancing was to drink from the abundant wine offerings. Did she not know how she was tormenting him?
He was unconscious of staring until Renaud murmured in his ear, “What has the young lady done to make you scowl so?”
Dominic shook his head and immediately regretted it as the pain flashed sharp. “Am I scowling? I thought that was how I always look.”
