“As long as the French betrothal holds, the Catholics will bite their tongues. It means no hope of getting out of it this year, but I never really expected to marry Minuette for at least another two years. Also, I have Northumberland’s son in prison and the duke himself banished from court at the moment, so there’s some measure of balance.”
“But to see to the future balance—that is why I’m going to France.”
“I have an assignment for you while there. Besides Minuette, I mean. I need you to speak with the Spanish ambassador in Paris.” There wasn’t currently one in England, the last having been expelled during the Norfolk debacle.
He could have bet Dominic would figure it out. “Elizabeth,” his friend said simply.
“Elizabeth,” William agreed.
“A marriage to Prince Philip.”
“Right.”
“To appease the Catholics when you spurn the French and marry Minuette.”
“Can we quit stating the obvious and talk about how you need to approach this?”
“I know how to approach it,” Dominic said flatly. “I worked for Rochford, remember? Does he know? About Minuette, I mean.”
“My uncle knows I need to marry Elizabeth strategically. He is not opposed.”
Dominic stood. “May I?” he asked. William waved his permission, and Dominic began to pace. “If Elizabeth marries Philip, she’ll leave England to become the future Queen of Spain. You’ll be choosing a rather permanent alliance.”
“I’ll need it,” William remarked wryly.
“Why don’t you want Minuette to know?”
William shifted uncomfortably and reached for his wine goblet. “Because Elizabeth is not happy about it. I don’t need dramatics from Minuette as well.”
“Why not? You’ve never minded Minuette arguing with you before.”
“But now I need her support!” He jumped up, and once again it was familiar, William pacing in agitation while Dominic stood motionless and watched. “I need her, Dom. She is my center, my still calm in a stormy sea. She keeps me balanced and that is good for England. You are my right hand, Dom—but Minuette is my soul. I need you both. You can see that, can’t you?”
Dominic, after a weighted pause, answered tonelessly, “Yes, I see that. Of course I’ll do what you ask.”
“Thank you, my friend. And remember—the Spanish ambassador is secondary. Keeping Minuette safe is always your first mission.”
“I won’t forget.”
They talked together for another hour, politics and treasury and military—nothing pressing, just the easy conversation of two young men who inhabited the same world. When they separated for the night, William waited five minutes, then made his way to Minuette’s room. He knocked softly, hoping she was expecting him, and sure enough she opened the door to him herself. William grinned, sweeping her into a kiss and closing the door behind him with his foot.
Dominic did not sleep. He had heard William go to Minuette’s room, and he had counted every minute that the two were together. He had promised himself that if it were any longer than thirty minutes, he would get Carrie to intervene, but after twenty minutes he heard William’s footsteps return and his door close firmly. It had stayed that way the rest of the night.
So it was partly fatigue and partly jealousy and partly exasperation that sent him to William’s door at dawn. He knocked once and let himself in, seeing as William was not accustomed to being entirely alone and probably wouldn’t know how to open a door himself.
The king was still in bed, but awake enough to scowl. “What are you doing?”
“We’d best get an early start.” Even to himself he sounded clipped and angry.
Yawning, William sat up and swung his legs out of bed. He had been given the nicest chamber in the house, which had once been that of Minuette’s parents. Dominic thought it quite pleasant with its dark wood and embroidered linens and the diamond-paned windows that overlooked the rose garden.
It did not suit William at all—he looked like a Barbary horse kept incongruously in a farmer’s field. “Why do I think I’m about to get a lecture?”
“Do you deserve one?”
With a roll of his eyes, William replied, “Just get it over with, Dom. It’s about last night, isn’t it? You’re going to tell me I shouldn’t have been in her chambers.”
“No, you shouldn’t. Court gossip is one thing—but this is Minuette’s home. It’s not fair to put her in the position of either refusing you or losing her people’s respect.”
“Nothing happened. You know that, don’t you? She doesn’t have to refuse me, because I’m not asking anything wrong of her. Even you can’t see anything inappropriate in spending twenty minutes alone with the woman I love. It’s not nearly what I want, but it’s the most I can have, so yes, if I can steal a private moment in a private house to kiss her, I will.”
Dominic snatched up the nearest linen shirt and tossed it at William. “Get dressed,” he said.
“Don’t be so self-righteous,” William grumbled. “Just try to put yourself in my place—loving a woman you can’t openly touch. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a woman? Surely you cannot grudge me the smallest of comforts.”
Do you know how long it’s been for me? Dominic wanted to shout. He hadn’t had a woman since Aimée in France more than eighteen months ago. And he wouldn’t, until he could have Minuette.
William pulled on his shirt and said thoughtfully, “You know, Dom, I wasn’t going to bring this up until after France, but I think it’s time you and I had a serious discussion about your own marriage.”
Feeling as though he might choke, Dominic said, “I don’t need you to marry me off.”
“But you will eventually need my permission. Not only are you a duke, but you also have royal blood through your grandmother. Honestly, can you not see how the women are angling for you these days? You’re going to have to choose soon. And as to that choice … I would like you to seriously consider Jane Grey.”
Dominic had no patience for this conversation. All he could think of was William and Minuette alone last night, kissing (And more than kissing? he wondered savagely. Where do Will’s hands wander when he’s alone with her?), and he had to force himself to respond.
“I don’t think Jane Grey likes me,” was all he could manage.
“Jane likes you fine. And her mother definitely likes your title. If they can’t have me, they’ll settle for you.”
“How flattering,” Dominic muttered.
“Look, I know that whoever this one beautiful woman is that John Dee claimed is in your future, it isn’t Jane Grey. But it would be an outstanding marriage for both of you. And she’s a nice, sweet girl. She’ll make a pleasant home for you, give you lots of children, and not be unduly difficult when you find your beautiful woman.”
“Can we not have this conversation right now?” Dominic asked. Because if it went on much longer, he was going to have to think seriously about hitting his friend in order to shut him up.
William sighed. “Just think about it, all right? We’ll talk it over at the end of the summer.” He hesitated, then said, “I do hope … that is, if you are already in love, Dom … I don’t know if you are, but if so, clearly it’s with someone unsuitable or you would tell me about her. And if you are …”
Dominic thought his heartbeat must be audible not only to his king but to the entire household. “If I am? Say what you mean, William.”
“I do hope it’s not Elizabeth.”
After a long, blank moment, Dominic laughed aloud. William at first looked affronted, but then joined in. “I take it that’s a no,” he said merrily.
Dominic shook his head. “I am not in love with Elizabeth. I like her very much, but that is all.”
“I’m glad. Not that I don’t think you good enough for my sister, but there are always political complications.”
“Always.”
“And truly, Dom, if you are going to love just one woman, I wan
t it to be a woman who will love you as you deserve. Perhaps it won’t be the woman you marry, but I suppose we’ll see.”
The laughter died. “I suppose we will.”
CHAPTER TEN
DOMINIC’S FIRST VISIT to France had been as a poorly concealed spy for Lord Rochford in 1553. He had been greeted courteously, treated generously, and watched endlessly. His second visit had been with the English army in the summer of 1554, and that had entailed more than four bloody months of sieges and battles and their aftermath.
This third visit in three years was by far the most dangerous. Dominic was the senior peer escorting a gaggle of females ranging from Elizabeth and Lady Rochford to six young girls, none of them older than fifteen, who would be taken into Elisabeth de France’s household for the foreseeable future. All of them came with their own maids and attendants, and between seasickness and feminine sniping, Dominic figured his most difficult task was simply getting all of them from England to the French court. Without tossing one of them overboard or making more than three of them cry in any given day.
He could swear that every time he saw her, Minuette was laughing at him.
After the voyage from Dover to Le Havre—conquered and garrisoned by the English armies last year—it took nearly a week to get them to Paris by river. They were accompanied by officials from the French king’s household, supervised by Cardinal de Guise, and treated to every courtesy and comfort along the way.
The French court itself welcomed them exuberantly at the great royal château of Fontainebleau. The present King Henri’s father had expanded and decorated it extensively, and Henri was continuing that work. Dominic, usually indifferent to style and décor, had to admit to awe at the Salle des Fêtes, newly completed in the Italian Mannerist style (or so he was told—he didn’t know Mannerist from Gothic). The gallery was flooded with light from the tall windows, the better to appreciate the frescoes between the windows and the paintings that filled every wall. The geometric design of the ceiling was highlighted in gold gilding. It was the most impressive single room Dominic had ever seen, and a stunning setting for the elegant, languid grace of the French court. The royals themselves did not attend this opening reception—Elizabeth was dining privately with King Henri II, Queen Catherine de Medici, and William’s betrothed princess. But everyone else of importance was in the Salle des Fêtes on this late afternoon in June, and once Dominic got his bearings, he amused himself with watching Lady Rochford, who stood out amongst the others like a crow in the midst of peacocks.
Minuette detached herself from two of the young ladies-in-waiting who had come from England and moved to Dominic’s side. “Lady Rochford does look as though she cannot decide whether to allow herself to be dazzled or if it would be better to behave as though all this is nothing to her.”
“Which do you think it is, really?”
“Envy,” Minuette decided, after a considering moment. “If she didn’t frighten me so much—and if she wasn’t so relentlessly offensive—I would feel sorry for her. She is always seeking to make people pay attention. It can’t be easy to be married to someone who spends so much of his time in other women’s beds.”
Why did their every conversation turn to marriage? Dominic said abruptly, “Have you met Madame de Poitiers yet?”
“No. Is she here?” Minuette craned to try to see Europe’s most famous courtesan.
Oh, she was here. Dominic had felt her keen gaze the moment he’d entered the room. He’d had only one private conversation with the French king’s mistress during his last visit, but a rather memorable one. He was quite sure Diane de Poitiers would want to speak to him, so he might as well get it over with. In public, where perhaps she would not be so bold.
Or perhaps she would be so bold. Her first words, as Dominic bowed, were, “Could this possibly be the young lady we once discussed?”
He felt his face begin to flame and wished he could openly curse a woman. Or at least tell her to keep her mouth shut. “Madame, this is Mademoiselle Genevieve Wyatt. She is the principal lady to our own fair Princess Elizabeth.”
As Minuette curtsied, Dominic wondered what her impression would be of King Henri’s notorious mistress. In her mid-fifties now, Diane had the figure and vigor of a much younger woman and her skin was still radiantly fair and lovely. She knew how to turn every gift to an advantage, from her beautiful shoulders and bosom to the styling of her dark hair to the exquisite detailed embroidery done in threads of gold along the lower skirts of her brocade dress. But it was not her looks alone that had kept the much younger French king at her side for twenty years. She was a brilliant advisor and administrator who was known to sign state papers with the joint names HenriDiane.
Also, Dominic had seen the royal initials everywhere represented in the Salle des Fêtes, and Henri’s bold H was not joined to his wife’s C, but twined with his mistress’s voluptuous D. That was the action of a man truly in love.
Diane de Poitiers had expressions that could hold entire conversations on their own. Now she favoured Dominic with one that said I see straight through you but perhaps I’ll humour you for the young lady’s sake.
“Genevieve.” She rolled the word. “A good French name.”
“My mother was French, madame la duchesse. She was a companion to the late Queen Anne and went to England in her service.”
“Ah, how charming your French is! Not quite native, but not pure English, either. Very good, mademoiselle. I shall look forward to speaking with you more during your sojourn here.”
“Merci, madame.”
Diane turned her focused gaze to Dominic. “And you, le duc nouveau, I shall quite look forward to continuing our last conversation when we can be … more private.” She leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial aside, “I should beware Aimée, however. She has not forgotten your last visit and may wish to redress matters.”
With a gracious goodbye, Diane de Poitiers drifted off, leaving Dominic completely stunned. Minuette looked at him sidelong and said, “Aimée?”
“No one. Just one of her ladies, I believe.” And please don’t ask me more, he thought. He did not want to explain about a woman who was furious with him for having too soon ended a careless affair he should never have started. He didn’t imagine Minuette thought him unfamiliar with women, should he say?—but nor did he want to have any conversation with her about specifics.
It was a great relief to hear a man hailing him. He would have seized on anyone at the moment, but Renaud LeClerc was much more than just anyone. Despite the fact that they’d last met on the battlefield a year ago, they remained fast friends, two soldiers who understood one another.
“Dominic!” Renaud took him by the shoulders in an awkward hug. “I did not think to have so soon the pleasure of meeting again. I am glad your king sent you, though honestly—guarding women? Is that really a soldier’s job?”
“A soldier’s job is whatever he is ordered,” Dominic replied with an honest grin. Renaud was so straightforward, so unlike nobles and kings and sly mistresses. “How is your wife, my friend?”
“Ah, you can soon see for yourself for Nicole is coming to court. She wishes to meet the English ladies and to thank you for sending me home safely to her. She will be here next week. Now,” Renaud turned to Minuette, “we are both being inexcusable. Will you introduce me to this charming jolie fille?”
“Mademoiselle Genevieve Wyatt,” Dominic said, “I present le Vicomte Renaud LeClerc, Marshall of France and commander of His Majesty King Henri’s armies.”
Renaud bent to kiss Minuette’s hand, then regarded her with the naked appraisal that only the French could get away with. He definitely approved, but then who wouldn’t? In this gathering of experienced, elegant, jaded women, Minuette had the freshness and splendor of an English rose amidst exotic and heavily scented bouquets. Dominic felt a rush of possessive pride that he struggled to conceal.
“A true English beauty,” Renaud murmured. “It is an honour, Mademoiselle Wyatt.”
<
br /> “The honour is mine, monsieur le comte. I have heard many wonderful things about your family from Dominic.”
Renaud straightened and said, almost to himself, “She is who she is, n’est-ce pas? And as she is …”
He met Dominic’s eyes then, and Dominic knew the Frenchman remembered sitting by the fire with him at his own home and saying, of his wife, Nicole, as she is, was the only one for me.
If anyone could guess his heart, it was probably Renaud. That should worry him, but for a moment he relished being in the company of someone who understood him clearly and without judgment.
On their second day at Fontainebleau, the Englishwomen were formally introduced to Elisabeth de France’s household. The young princess, just ten years old, held court with as much dignity as though she were twice that age, dressed in a stiff French gown of cloth-of-gold and crimson to emphasize her future position as England’s queen. Minuette was the last introduced, after Elizabeth and the Duchess of Rochford and her six young charges from good English noble families, who would remain in France in Elisabeth’s service.
Lady Rochford introduced Minuette flawlessly enough (“a lady of our own Princess Elizabeth”), but there was a sting to her tone that even the child appeared to notice. Though there were, of course, French adults in the room—from governess to priest to the French princess’s own ladies-in-waiting—Elisabeth was the seat of authority at the moment, and she took her duties seriously.
“You are most welcome, mademoiselle,” Elisabeth de France said gravely. It was a royal’s rebuke to an ungracious woman more than four times her age. “I am happy to be acquainted with any friend of my future belle-soeur, and I have been told you are also well known to the king, God save him.”
Minuette rose from her curtsey. “I am, Your Highness,” she answered with matching gravity, her heart touched by the sweet, high voice of childhood. “The king has instructed me to observe carefully that I might bring him reports of your interests and beauty.”
In truth, William had said nothing at all about his betrothed to her, and probably not to anyone outside his council members. Why did that suddenly bother her? Why, in the presence of this wide-eyed, glittering child, did she feel profoundly guilty, struck by the urge to apologize and confess. I did not mean to steal Will’s love, she wanted to say, and I promise to do all I can to turn him to you.
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