had to laugh. Was that not what she always did? Dance when commanded? First for her father, then King François. Why not for Dona Elena?
But did it have to be with Nicolai? She watched warily as he drew nearer, the abandoned Spanish girl taking his departure with a pretty little pout. He went down on one knee next to Dona Elena, smiling up at her. Marguerite saw, though, that he was also cautious, his blue eyes shadowed.
“I am at your command, as ever, Dona Elena,” he said gallantly. “What is your desire? Shall I fetch oranges from Madrid? Cinnamon from the Indies? Pearls from the depths of the seas?”
Dona Elena laughed merrily, patting his cheek with her soft hand. “Perhaps later! For now, I have a far simpler task, one I think you will enjoy.”
“Merely name it, my duchess, and it is yours.”
“You must partner Señorita Dumas in the next dance. I want to see her dance, and there is no more skilled a partner than you.”
Marguerite remembered Nicolai on his tightrope, the light, effortless movements of his bare feet, the powerful contraction of his lean body as he leaped in a backwards arc. Oui, he would be a skilled dancer indeed. She shivered as she imagined his steps guiding hers, his touch on her body. The friction and caress as he lifted her. Could she trust him?
Could she trust herself?
Nicolai glanced at her from the corner of his eye, as unreadable as a cat. “It would be my pleasure to dance with Mademoiselle Dumas, if she will have me as a partner,” he said.
Dona Elena smiled with obvious satisfaction, like a soft, devious kitten who had just filched a dish of cream. That was what the entire Spanish contingent was like, then—a pack of cats, sly, changeable, beautiful, untrustworthy.
As Nicolai came around the long table, Father Pierre suddenly seized her arm in a hard grasp. Marguerite stared at him, startled. He was so silent she had almost forgotten he was there, lurking beside her.
“You should not be so involved with these people, mademoiselle,” he hissed. “They are not what they seem!”
Marguerite tried to laugh lightly, tried to extract her arm from his dry, fevered touch. What had possessed him? True, she did not care at all for his intent stares, but he had never grabbed her before. “La, Father Pierre, I am only dancing with the man! I am not running away to Madrid with him.”
Though, at that moment, fleeing this place, all these people with their hidden agendas, for the sunny dustiness of faraway Spain was tempting. She wrenched her arm away just as Nicolai reached her side, and gratefully accepted his hand. He led her to the edge of the floor, where they waited for the saltarello to end. The king and Anne Boleyn were lost to sight now amid a press of dancers, a shifting constellation of bright silks and flashing feet. The thunder of stamping and clapping.
“Who is that skeletal young man?” Nicolai asked.
Marguerite glanced back at Father Pierre, who still watched her, and shivered. He did look rather skeletal, like a figure in an old memento mori painting, death come to the banquet. Pale and solemn, an ever-present reminder of duty and fate.
As if she needed him to remind her she was damned! She knew it every moment.
“Father Pierre LeBeque,” she answered. “He is one of Bishop Grammont’s attendants.”
“He seemed most reluctant to let you go, though I can scarcely blame him.”
“I do not know what he wants,” she said impatiently. She turned resolutely away from the priest, fiddling with a ribbon at her sleeve. She had to keep her fingers busy, to prevent them from reaching instinctively for the beckoning golden flame of Nicolai’s hair. It rippled down his back like a smooth, bright banner, warm as the summer sun after a long winter.
But his eyes were so, so cool.
“I am sorry Dona Elena importuned you,” she said. “I told her I did not care to dance tonight.”
Nicolai shrugged. “As the duke said, once she has a thought in her head you will never get it out again. Besides, it is no great hardship to dance with the most beautiful lady at the banquet.”
Marguerite laughed, ridiculously pleased at the gallant, empty compliment. “More beautiful than your Spanish companion? She seemed so very fascinated by all you had to say.”
“You noticed that, did you? How very observant you are, mademoiselle.”
“I like to know all things about all people.”
“An ambitious goal indeed. And yes, Señorita Alva is quite pretty.”
“Dona Elena told me how convinced she is that a fine wife and home would surely add greatly to your happiness, Monsieur Ostrovsky.”
Nicolai gave a startled laugh. “She confides in you already, does she? You do have a gift for drawing people in.”
“We took a stroll by the river this afternoon. I think that Dona Elena would not be a difficult person to ‘draw in’ by anyone. She seems a very sweet-natured lady, so open and artless. Perhaps it was the convent that made her so?”
“Ah, Mademoiselle Dumas, and here I thought you knew better. The people who appear the most artless are usually the most dangerous of all.”
The music ended and the floor cleared, sets forming for the next dance. Once again, King Henry and Mistress Boleyn were at the head. Nicolai led Marguerite to their places at the end of the line.
But she had to ask one more thing before the steps of the dance parted them. “Will you marry your Señorita Alva, then?”
Nicolai laughed. “Mademoiselle Dumas, marriage is not for such people as you and me. Another lesson I thought you had learned.”
The music began, and he blew her a kiss from his fingertips. Marguerite could vow she felt it land softly on her cheek, where he had kissed her earlier.
The dance was a passamezzo, a livelier version of the pavane and much less dignified. Henry and Anne clasped hands and twirled down the line, all the other couples peeling off after them. Marguerite’s hand reached out for Nicolai’s, and they, too, spun away.
The steps were quick—as the duke said, prancing and trotting. Marguerite hopped and swirled around Nicolai, until his hands caught her about the waist and lifted her from the floor, spinning her around and around. The crowd shifted and blurred, a humid, wild tangle, like a dream. Marguerite laughed helplessly, leaning her hands on his strong shoulders as he lifted her higher and ever higher. Surely, with his touch she could fly!
It was even better than running away to Madrid. This was leaving the ugly, deceptive earth altogether, free of everything but his touch, which kept her safe.
At last he lowered her back to the floor, grounding her, yet she still felt as light as the earth itself.
Yes, he was a fine dancer, just as she suspected he would be. He turned and moved her so easily, she was hardly aware she moved at all. The banquet hall, the other dancers, even all that awaited her when the music ended, disappeared.
The music
