Free To Serve a King by Donna Russo Morin

the king preferred to watch than to strain his aging body. The memories were pleasing in and of themselves.
    Young, vigorous, and full of life, the exuberant Charles jumped to do his father’s bidding. The youngest son, he possessed neither the seriousness of his now deceased oldest brother nor the sullen-ness of the current Dauphin. Having been born third in line to the throne, Charles had never entertained any thoughts of possessing the crown and this nonchalance permeated both personality and purpose. The death of his brother had thrown such dalliance into disarray, and he now donned the itchy cloak of second-in-line without much grace, indeed scratching at it whenever possible.
    “We must dance,” Raymond cried, grabbing Geneviève’s hand, hauling her to her feet and onto the floor before Albret could make a counteroffer. With grace, he partnered Arabelle and the couples stood side by side waiting for the notes to begin.
    Anne glanced down the row at Geneviève. Her cheeks rosy with excitement, she offered her new maid a smile of encouragement. At the last minute, as the musicians struck the first notes of the stirring song, another couple joined the throng, taking their place beside Anne and Charles. Anne’s smile faded like the glow of the sun behind rushing storm clouds. Alongside his brother, the Dauphin Henri now stood, his partner, the inimitable Diane de Poitiers.
    Twenty years his elder, Diane had been Henri’s mistress for the last nine years, since he was no more than fourteen years of age. The rivalry between the mistresses had begun as soon as their acquaintance. And yet this woman, though older, clad as always in black and white, challenged both the beauty and grace of the duchesse d’Étampes. The entire court looked on in vicious delightas the two feminine powers vied for attention, as they threw their bodies into the dance to outdo the other in agility and mastery of the difficult dance.
    The athleticism required for the leaping movements and entrechats suited the baron and his young, powerful physique. Geneviève entrusted herself to the strong arms of the nobleman as she had the series of dance teachers Tante Elaine had hired for her. The loss of honor he would suffer at any faltering would hurt him far worse than any physical bruise she might endure. As they swirled about the dance floor, Geneviève watched the duel between Anne and Diane, and the baron watched Geneviève, a dance within a dance until the music reached its climax and the dancers applauded, a glistening sheen of sweat on their faces, the air thick with their body warmth and odor.
    “You are a magnificent dancer,” Raymond murmured in Gene-viève’s ear as he led her back to their table, one hand poised with propriety upon the small of her back. The warmth of his palm lingered upon her flesh, as if the moist silk of her gown evaporated beneath his touch.
    “I am only as proficient as he who leads me,” Geneviève replied, jumping into the fray that is courtly volleying, with the acumen of a veteran. But in truth, she was inordinately pleased and flustered by the man’s compliments and attention, happy to have him as company as they returned to sit once more with Arabelle and Albret.
    The meal resumed and continued for hours, exactly as the men warned: course after course accompanied by intermissions of entertainment. Acrobats and jugglers punctuated the fowl and game course. A solo performance by Il Divino himself , Francesco Canova da Milano, introduced the fish. And more dancing preceded the dessert course.
    Once more Geneviève partnered Raymond, having taken a turn with Albret and other young courtiers eager to meet the newest of the duchesse’s ladies. She had lost track of time and her feetached, yet her lips spread demurely as the gaillarde brought them together and sent them pirouetting down the length of the hall, allowing her to place her hands upon his hard, strong shoulders. Only one blemish spoiled the