Free Médicis Daughter by Sophie Perinot Page A

am fastened into the most elaborate of my new gowns. No black for this occasion. It is silver and scarlet, detailed with countless pearls.
    I have, I flatter myself, become rather good at the art of flirting over the past two years. Yet none of my tricks have worked to pique the interest of Don Carlos. Something more will be needed. “What must I do?” I ask as Henriette applies color to my cheek.
    “Touch him,” she replies without hesitation. “Take his arm. Let your hand brush his if he puts it on the table.”
    “Better still, let your knee brush his beneath the table,” Charlotte adds.
    I cannot imagine doing such a thing—at least, not with the Prince.
    “And flatter him,” Henriette continues. “I know what you are thinking: ‘What is there to flatter?’”
    “He is truly horrible,” I say.
    “ Ma pauvre chérie, so he is.” Henriette shakes her head. “How fortunate for you, then, that you must only arouse his desire, not satisfy it. Indeed”—she drapes a necklace of enormous pearls about my neck and fastens it—“remember that where marriage is sought, to surrender too much is to lose the game. Do not allow him to do more than kiss you.”
    Charlotte, who is arranging my hair, makes a face which I can see reflected in the glass.
    “You sound like Baronne de Retz.” I try to laugh, but the seriousness of my situation and the weight of the loathing I have begun to feel for the Prince defeat the attempt. “I would rather never be married than kiss Don Carlos.”
    “No, you would not.” Henriette’s voice is firm and practical. “But from the sound of things, there will be no match.”
    “Her Majesty will be furious, but if it is so, then why must I embarrass myself over the Prince?”
    “Because you are likely right: Her Majesty will be furious, and you do not want her fury directed at you.”
    *   *   *
    I find Don Carlos as the barge slips its moorings and sets sail for the Isle of Aiguemeau. He is seated near one end. Not surprisingly, he is alone. I force myself to sit on the same bench. He does not acknowledge me.
    “Your Highness, I believe we can expect to be serenaded by sea gods on our journey.”
    “More French poetry and preening. Do you never tire of showing off?”
    “That is unfair, Sir; all that is done is done to honor and entertain Her Majesty the Queen of Spain, yourself, and your countrymen.” Then, realizing that being peevish will hardly achieve the desired ends, I struggle to subdue my indignation and fold my hands, which were fluttering like angry moths, in my lap. “If you do not like poetry, what do you like?”
    “To be left alone.” The response is openly hostile. “You seem to appear wherever I am.”
    And yet, you told Elisabeth you hardly notice me. Dear God what a mortifying task this is. “I am trying, Sir, to be a good and attentive hostess.”
    For the first time since we began speaking, he turns fully to face me. His expression suggests he is about to say something caustic, and then, in an instant, his eyes change. “You look like your sister in this light.”
    Fine . If I must trade upon that, I will. “In the Court of France, I am often said to be very like her.” Do I imagine it, or does he move ever so slightly closer? He is about to speak, when a small boat draws alongside and a musician begins to sing. Don Carlos winces. Without a word he jumps up and strides off, passing my cousin the Prince of Navarre as he goes. Before I can rise, that Prince settles into Don Carlos’ place.
    “I had a dog like that once,” he says matter-of-factly, inclining his head in the direction that the Spanish prince went.
    “What?”
    “He got hurt in a hunt. He was struck by a glancing blow, but he did not die. At first I was so glad—he was one of my favorites—but later I was sorry.”
    “Sorry he did not die?” Comparing the Prince of Asturias to a dog is the sort of wholly inappropriate thing my cousin would do, but he is the first one to