Even though Rosalind had put a white handkerchief in the window, the Duke did not show. She was restless, her shadow flickering up and down the room as she paced. The Chevalier knelt outside her door, watching her, unsure of what to do.
He knew the reason for her lover's absence, a quarrel with his favorite Lignerol. It would relieve her, to at least know the Duke would not be coming, instead of waiting. The Chevalier scratched at the door, and the footsteps stopped. He raked his nail up and down the wood until the door opened. Even in the dim light he could see the feverish tint of her cheeks and the disappointment in her eyes. Still crouching, he entered her room.
Sitting on Rosalind's bed, he said to her, "The Duke won't be coming tonight. His favorite is angry with him and he will be busy all night trying to soothe Lignerol's temper."
"Thank you for telling me." She sat beside him. "How is..." She was going to ask him how her husband was, but she did not think she was supposed to know about them.
Her husband's behavior toward her had become mercurial since her affair with the Duke had begun in earnest. Sometimes he would not leave her be, causing her to miss the Duke's visits. Other times, it was though he could not stand to look at her. He would escort her to court, only his fingertips touching her. His eyes would focus on her ear, her chin, but not her eyes.
The Chevalier sighed. There was something he wanted from Rosalind, an intimacy only she could give him. He wished to speak of her husband, to be treated like the Prince's lover. Already he was happy he disturbed her.
He moved to lay back against the pillows, and held his arms out to her. She crawled over to him, laying her her cheek on his chest. "I think your husband is conflicted. He suffers because you love the Duke, because he loves to watch you love the Duke, because he loves both you and me. It seems we all suffer."
"Not the Marechal, or the Duke, or the Princess Mary," she replied with a bitter laugh.
"No, the Duke suffers, I see it in his eyes when he knows you are not watching him. And Mary, she risks much in seeing you. She must pine for you." A large ruby ring caught his eye, the true vermillion that they called pigeon's blood. "Was that ring a gift from her?"
"Yes."
"What does the Marechal say about me?"
Rosalind rolled in his arms to look up at him. There was thoughtful look in her eyes, and he stroked her face, waiting for her to answer. "He tells me never to confide in you."
He bent down to kiss her. "Does he tell you not to lay with me?"
"No."
"Doesn't that strike you as odd?"
She shook her head, fidgeting with the ribbon of her chemise. "The Marechal is odd. I think he's waiting for everyone to grow tired of me."
The Chevalier slipped his hand into her gown to cup her breast. "Is that his plan to win your heart, to loiter?"
"No, he's my friend, that's his plan to woo me."
Her nipple hardened under his fingers, and his other hand reached underneath her skirt to rest on her thigh. "Do you think he's right about me, that you shouldn't trust me with your secrets?"
There was color rising in her cheeks, and she was pulling at his shirt to caress his skin. While the court was full of all manner of exotic rumors, none of them concerned her husband having an affair with another man. In fact, there were very few rumors about an affair between her and the Chevalier. Looking into his eyes, she saw something there she did not expect--a shyness, a trembling need. "No, I think he would be jealous though. It pleases him that there is some distance between my husband and I. He doesn't worry about the Duke; he's confidant that my love for him will flare and die, like a moth consumed in a flame."
She curled one knee in, exposing her sex to him. If he took her now, it would be a secret between them. He had left the Prince fast asleep in his bed, exhausted. His lover had played the man with great fury, and he quickly fell into a slumber when the act was done. "What about me?" the Chevalier asked.
"He fears we could grow to be close friends. I don't know why, but to the Marechal, that is worse than a lover."
"I have heard rumors of his strange passions, and in a way I understand." As he idly stroked her she began to squirm in his arms, arousing him. "Does it worry you, to have so many lovers, in a court so full of gossip?"
"Diana uses her influence to aid me. Regardless of the gossip, there are enough people backing me that it does not matter."
"Did your mother teach you to navigate the court? It would surprise me, you made your debut with that humble elegance of the innocent." The hands touching her were thoughtful now, as if he were tracing her journey through the court, from fresh bud to full blown rose. He did not mean to make her come; his fingers moved by habit, coaxing a hot rush of liquid that coated his hands.
She pushed him away, panting. "No, she did not. The Marechal is teaching me, and the Duke. And you and the Prince, you two teach me discretion."
The Chevalier chuckled. "You are a poor pupil then. You are always being spied upon, having your name whispered."
She stiffened in his arms for a moment. "It is just you and my husband who watch at my doors, right?"
"Don't worry, the only man I have caught peeping in at you is the Duke, which I doubt you mind."
"You're right, that I don't mind." Taking his hands, she put his finger in her mouth.
"Do you want me to make love to you?" the Chevalier asked. There was a feral look in her eyes as she took a measured breath. He rolled so she was under him, his sex pressed between her legs.
"There's no one watching," she said, tangling her fingers in his hair.
The Chevalier ran his hand along her thigh, hitching up her chemise. "Maybe the Duke will see us, maybe the Prince will wake." He pulled down the top of her gown so it bunched around her waist, leaving her pale and exposed beneath him.
Her hands reached down, undoing his breeches. She moved her body under him, rubbing him against the crease of her sex. Her little tongue was at the base of his throat, curling up to touch behind his ear, a pressure of teeth before the hot rush of her mouth. She inhaled, sending a cold trickle through his ear to his brain and he shivered. He pressed the head of his sex into her, and she arched her back, taking him deep into her. They surged against each other, coming together, then apart. After, they lay beside one another, kissing each other, stroking their sweat slicked skin.
"Do you want to meet again?" the Chevalier asked.
"Maybe, maybe knock on my door again if there is no one around." She lay there, looking into his eyes. "I liked talking with you."
"I like talking with you too." The Chevalier kissed her goodnight, and slipped away smiling.
* * * *
There was a constant ache in Rosalind's hips and thighs from all the positions she had been wrenched into by her lovers. Her lower back would ache if her corset didn't prevent her from moving her torso. She had to flee from this place. When the Prince accompanied the King to Compiegne, she would retire to Colomiers, never to return.
She should have left a long time ago, long before Princess Mary began showering her with gifts, before the she and Marechal could read each other through their skin, before she fell asleep in the arms of the Chevalier and woke to the kisses of the Duke. Dark shadows clung under her eyes, her lips were always swollen and raw, and a constant ruddiness tinged her face. Despite her cumbersome garments, she managed to glide with a sensual slowness.
Even Diana was envious of her. In all her years, not even the infamous Duchess de Valentinois had been able to charm so many of the court's greatest gallants. As a token of admiration, she sent Rosalind a large gold chain. The Marechal added an amber pendant to it.
Rosalind thought about her mother, how glad the Mme. de Chartes must be that she was dead and therefore unable to witness the failures of her daughter. Of course, if the Mme. de Chartes had been there to support and guide her, Rosalind might have avoided folly and temptation. Her upbringing had been so genteel that she had caught every eye in court. While it's doubtful the Mme. de Chartes could have made the young woman love her husband, she may have remained faithful to him. At least, that is what she wanted to believe. She could accept her present sins if she believed that, perhaps, had life taken a different turn, she could have been the wife the Prince deserved.
The only thing Rosalind could do was run. It was shameful for the Prince to have a wife who was always sore from the ardors of the bedroom. If she were able to flee from the court, from the Duke and Chevalier and Marechal and Princess Mary, she could be faithful.
The only difficulty was the Prince. She wished to purge her soul, and the conversation she'd had with her husband, after the betrayal of his friend, haunted her. He'd said he would admire any woman who confided with sincerity. Would he really feel that way were Rosalind to come to him with her love for the Duke, and her desire to escape him? Somehow, she did not feel that the betrayal of her body was as great as the betrayal of her heart.
She did not love the others with such fervor it altered her demeanor when they entered the room. She rose to greet them, and she smiled and laughed. When the Duke entered the room, she had to turn away from him, and pull her features into a stern expression. It was hard to ignore him without appearing to do so. She could feel his eyes moving on her, and if no one was looking, she would gaze at him.
Always she caught something new, a charming gesture, an artless curl tumbling down his shoulder, the glint of honey in his eyes. She worshipped him like he were her patron saint.
During their trysts, the Duke made his own discoveries. He explored her body with different caresses and rhythms, bringing to her to a variety of climaxes. Even now in the hall she shuddered at the memory of him.
She had to leave. She would speak to the Chevalier and he'd help her with her husband. Most likely he was lounging about the tennis courts. If she could catch his eye, and avoid that of the Marechal, her plan could be set in motion today. He did not approve of the budding friendship between her and the Chevalier--even if it helped her escape the Duke, he would still be jealous.
