The Boleyn Deceit (26 page)

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 seductive
volta
—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.”

“Near enough,
mon ami.
So come and dance with my Nicole. She will make you cheerful.”

She very nearly did, for Renaud’s wife was one of the most peaceful women Dominic had ever met. Short, slightly plump, dressed neatly but unexceptionally in dove gray silk, Nicole seemed wrapped in contentment whether here at the heart of court or in her Loire Valley home. As they danced a pavane, she smiled up at him and said, “I wish to thank you,
monsieur le duc,
for your care of my husband last summer. Although defeat is never easy for a soldier, I know you treated him with great kindness. I am grateful that you sent him home to me so quickly and unharmed.”

“It was my honour, madame,” Dominic replied truthfully. “And how is your new daughter?”

Her smile widened, lighting her face with beauty. “Six months old and already Renaud claims that he will have to kill many men in future to protect her virtue. He dotes upon her.”

“And your sons?” They had two, sturdy boys.

“Both are well and growing so fast! I am glad that there is now peace between our countries, monsieur, for this is the first summer in many that my husband has not been at war somewhere. He will return home with me soon and that is all I ever want.”

Studying Nicole LeClerc’s glowing face—a woman serenely in love with her husband and children and home, so glad to be at peace that her husband might be safe—Dominic realized just how many people William had it in his power to injure. When the king broke the French marriage contract, it wasn’t just
Elisabeth de France who would be affected, nor even her royal father. Their pride would suffer, but if it came to war again many men and women stood to lose much more.

He has to marry Elisabeth, Dominic realized, and not just because I want Minuette. It is wise, and it has always been my job to tell him what is wise. Had not William often said he relied on Dominic to be honest when no one else would be?

Sustained by the righteousness of that thought, Dominic bid Nicole a heartfelt farewell and determined to pin down Minuette tonight if it was the last thing he did. He felt the need to apologize to her—though he wasn’t stupid enough to tell her about Aimée, he still felt guilty—and to discover why she was so unreachable tonight.

Dominic wound his way through the Salle des Fêtes, slowed by the increasingly volatile Frenchmen whose tongues and tempers were loosened by drink (not to mention the Frenchwomen whose boldness increased as the evening wore on) and by the necessity to behave courteously. He had to change directions once to avoid Aimée, and finally caught sight of Minuette, burning bright in her crimson gown. She stood against one of the frescoed walls speaking to Renaud.

Or rather, Renaud was speaking to her, leaning in close, and when he straightened, Minuette looked directly at Dominic as though she had known precisely where he was. Renaud stepped away. Dominic could almost see Minuette’s indecision and the moment when she steadied herself before coming to him.

He allowed himself to watch her, exquisite in her crimson gown and lit up like a torch so that no man could ignore her. His desire roused as it always was in her presence; it wasn’t until she asked, “Will you dance, Dominic?” that he smelled the wine on her breath. He had seen her drink more than usual at dinner and afterward, but he had not realized that she was drunk.

Minuette’s expression was all seduction as she took his hand and put it on her waist. “Don’t you want to dance with me?” She stepped into him, and instinctively he led her into the opening of an allemande.

But the second time she fumbled a step, he couldn’t pretend any longer that all was well. Grasping her by the upper arm, he towed her off the dance floor into a window embrasure that gave the illusion of privacy.

“You’re drunk,” he said flatly. “Care to tell me why?”

She opened her mouth, then a shadow of obstinacy crossed her face and he knew they were going to argue. “No.”

“I’m taking you back to your room.”

Her laugh was tipsy, and wrong. “And will you stay?”

“Long enough to find Carrie. You need to sleep this off.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“Too bad.”

She jerked her arm out of his grasp and hissed, “Don’t tell me what to do. If I want to dance, I’ll stay and dance. If I want to drink, then I will.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“And if I want to kiss you …” She tipped her face up to him and her lips parted.

He stepped back hastily. “Not here, Minuette. People will talk.”

Fury darkened her face, for a moment making her look disconcertingly like William in a temper. “And heaven forbid anyone should talk about
you.
” The scathing words spilled out of her, almost tumbling over each other. “It’s your job to be perfect and remote and never give rise to a single rumour.”

“I don’t know why you’re upset, but can we please talk about it elsewhere?” Already, those nearest to their alcove were turning curious heads at the commotion.

Minuette didn’t move. “In your chambers perhaps? Except no, it would not be wise to take me to your bed. You reserve that for a French whore!”

Even while his sickened mind took in the fact that, somehow, Minuette knew about Aimée last night, Dominic knew he had to get her out of this far too public place—and fast. He reached for her hand, desperate to get somewhere private, muttering, “Minuette, please—”

She struck as rapidly as a snake, her palm connecting with his left cheek so hard that it rattled clear through his already aching skull. His vision clouded for a handful of breaths, and when it cleared he could see that she was nearly as shocked as he was, as though her moment of violence had released all her pent-up emotions. When he said, “Please, let me take you to Carrie,” she dipped her head and let him escort her out without a word. A trail of glances followed in their wake—including Aimée herself, who looked so satisfied that Dominic wanted to follow Minuette’s example and slap her.

Minuette did not speak another word, and Dominic could not choose where to begin. How to explain what had happened last night? How to assure her she had no reason for jealousy? (
But doesn’t she?
his conscience whispered.
That last kiss in the corridor was as much you as Aimée.
) Words were never his strong suit, and besides, Minuette was wilting fast from the unaccustomed effects of too much wine.

When they reached her chambers, Dominic said shortly, “Have Carrie bring you some water. You’re going to be sick, and we have a long journey home.”

And this, he thought blackly, is a perfect end to another stay in France. He hoped devoutly he would never lay eyes on this wretched country again.

G
ETTING THE WOMEN
out of France was even worse than getting them there in the first place. They were fewer than half in number: only Lady Rochford, Elizabeth, Minuette, and their attendants. The young girls remained at the French court to serve in Elisabeth de France’s household. But the women who departed were all of them difficult. Lady Rochford was restless and discontented at leaving the French court (or perhaps at having to return to her husband), and Elizabeth was at her most exacting and capricious.

Minuette refused to speak to him at all, which he did not find surprising, for when they left Fontainebleau she was wretched from the aftereffects of immoderate drinking. Good, Dominic thought. She will not make that mistake again. So he had let her alone, and letting her alone became easier the farther they traveled and the quieter she remained. She rode in a carriage with Lady Rochford until they reached the Seine, not once joining Elizabeth on horseback, and on the river she always contrived to be in a different barge than he was.

They spent one night in Harfleur, Dominic rounding the garrison and making notes on their readiness against possible French incursions in future. Harfleur, Le Havre, and Calais were all that
remained of England’s once vast holdings in France, and Dominic did not mean to lose them through any oversight of his. They took ship at Le Havre and Minuette went below before they’d even lost sight of the coast. He stared after her bleakly, wondering if she ever meant to speak to him again, wondering how he was supposed to apologize for a most private matter when they were always in public.