Well, maybe he can tell me later.
I stand and curtsy. “My friends are picnicking in the park right now, so if you don’t mind?—”
“Stay,” Mother cuts me off in her most commanding tone.
Taken aback, I shut up.
Instead of explaining why I should stay, Mother looks at Uncle Richard.
He turns to me. “I have summoned Henri de Bellay to the palace. He’s waiting for you at the library.”
Stunned, I lose my tongue.
Uncle Richard continues, “I thought it would be best if you spoke with him first, informally, seeing as you used to be friends.”
“N-now?” I stutter.
He nods. “It need not take long. Your goal is to prep him for tomorrow’s meeting by impressing upon him that he’s going to have an opportunity of a lifetime to work side by side with the royals in the service of his country. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” I say.
I’m sure Henri will be thrilled.
CHAPTER FIVE
With my heart thumping in my chest, I enter the palace library. Henri is nowhere to be seen. As I wander down the central aisle, I’m thankful the carpet silences my kitten heels.
To calm myself, I contemplate the rows of towering bookshelves that seem to stretch up endlessly. The air is heavy with the scent of aged leather and centuries-old woodwork. Above us, the arched ceiling looms, reminiscent of the Library of Trinity College Dublin. The ceiling of our library boasts a gorgeous unsigned fresco by an Italian master who some experts believe to be Michelangelo himself.
Like the rest of the royal palace, the library gives off a sense of opulence and pomp. But the woodwork, the subdued lighting, and the earthy colors of the leather-bound tomes give all that grandeur a touch of much-needed warmth that’s lacking in the rest of the Château des Neiges.
Suddenly, I see Henri. He’s gazing at some books a few meters away. Gone is the whimsical Regency attire from the carnival. Today, he embodies the sophistication of an affluent modern male dressed for a formal occasion.
As long as he hasn’t seen me, I slow down and ogle him. His well-cut suit hugs his broad shoulders and tapers down to his narrow hips. A crisp white shirt with cuff links glinting subtly at the wrists. No tie. The top button of his shirt is undone. Formal as the occasion is, this isn’t a business meeting.
Henri’s hair is usually a rebellious wave of brown, but tonight, it’s slicked back. It makes him look more mature, more composed. His beard is trimmed shorter than I remember from our encounter two months ago, and it frames his perfect jawline in a way that’s both glamorous and manly.
He finally notices me and straightens up, and a flicker of recognition—or is it surprise?—passes over his face.
I stride up to him.
“Your Highness,” he greets me.
“Monsieur de Bellay,” I reply, mirroring his formality.
There’s an awkward silence.
“You’ve blossomed since we last met, Your Highness,” he comments politely.
Could he be referring to the carnival?I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem like he has the slightest clue the “Cindy” he tangoed with at the carnival was me.
His banal compliment also makes me realize how exasperating it’s going to be to keep up this level of falseness while the experts and I are at his estate. During that time, I’ll have much bigger fish to fry than getting along with Henri, and I’ll need all my mental space for it.
“Please, call me Gigi,” I say. “Denying that we used to be close might quickly grow tiresome. It’s ancient history now, Henri. There’s no need to pretend it never happened.”
He nods. “Agreed.”
“And thanks for the compliment. You look nice, too.”
