The Rivals of Versailles by Sally Christie

Author:Sally Christie
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2016-04-05T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Forty

Argenson inspects me and pronounces me fit for a king. How unimaginative. I simper at him and clutch my hands to my heart, or my breast.

“Come,” says Elisabeth, taking the lantern from the table and lighting it with a candle. “We shall go.”

“Now, Madame d’Estrades,” says Argenson reprovingly, “I do not think it would be wise to be seen with our young Rosalie, as though leading her to a tryst.”

Elisabeth reluctantly relinquishes my arm. “Right as usual, my love,” she says. “Now remember, girl, nothing more than the breasts. Breasts only!”

“Breasts only,” I repeat, then mouth the same to Argenson, who gapes at me with a drooping jaw. I hurry out with the lantern lighting the way to my future. My heart pounds with a strange mixture of anticipation and excitement, as well as, if I am to be honest, a little nervousness. It is finally beginning—the King of France and I!

I step out into the black night of the Gardens, down past the terraces and a group of men examining a white horse. The moon is not yet up and the night is soft and still. I duck into a small yew-framed alley and make my way by lantern light to the Star Grove, my excitement rising, alive to the possibilities the night will bring.

The grove is deserted and I find the statue of Diana, not naked as implied in the note but draped in a Roman costume. I set the lantern on a bench beside her and rub her cold stone cheeks, draped in cobwebs and gleaming white through the night. Ugh, I hate spiders. Diana the huntress, I think, tracing the statue’s stone nose . . . the Marquise dressed as Diana to catch her king: Is this an omen or a more positive sign?

Then, a rustle of footsteps, a whispered soft order from behind a hedgerow—“Wait here, gentlemen”—and the king emerges by solitary lantern into the gloaming.

“Madame,” he says, and his voice is different from the voice of majesty in the large formal rooms of the palace, different even from his voice in the carefree intimate suppers. These words and this voice are only for me, curling through the dewy night to drape me in velvet. My knees go weak and I sink down on the stone bench by the statue.

“Oh, Sire, I—I am overcome.” And I am.

“Now, now,” he says, coming to sit beside me. “Do not be flustered on my account.” His voice is young, eager, the boy inside him bouncing in anticipation.

I look shyly into his eyes and they twinkle back at me.

“It is just, it is just . . . But I am overcome,” I say again. I bury my head in my hands and wait to see what he does next. Breasts only, I must remember, but already there is a tingling between my legs and on instinct I lean in closer.

“If you permit . . . ?” He reaches over a hand and caresses the back of my neck with surprisingly lithesome fingers.

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