NOTORIOUS in the Tudor Court: A Sinful Alliance / A Notorious Woman

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 built and built, faster and faster, the lines growing tighter and closer until at last the great finale arrived. Nicolai lifted her again, spinning her until she gasped dizzily, laughing in sheer delight. She stared down at him, at his smile, his glowing face. Had she thought his eyes cool? Nay, they burned with the light of a dozen suns, and she basked in their heat.

The song ended in a crash, and Nicolai lowered her for the last time, slowly, slowly, their bodies in a delicious friction of satin on velvet, flesh on flesh. In the rush of the crowd, Marguerite pressed her forehead to Nicolai’s shoulder, inhaling the heated scent of him, her breath tight in her throat.

She had the fearful sense that, if she let go of him, she would fall.

His hands held on to her arms, strong and solid, warm through the thin silk of her sleeves. She felt the rise of his chest as he breathed, and her own breath moved in unison with his. For this one, ephemeral moment, she sensed what it was to have something to cling to when the cold winds of the world howled.

But then the moment was gone. Nicolai stepped back, and the winds swept around her again. Marguerite threw her shoulders back, held her head high, resisting the urge to wrap her arms tightly around herself against that icy hollow in her belly.

Nicolai did not smile, did not even really look at her, gazing somewhere above her head. “Shall I take you back to your seat, mademoiselle?” he asked tightly.

Marguerite shook her head. She couldn’t face Father Pierre just yet, nor even Dona Elena with her sweet smiles. “I cannot breathe in here,” she murmured. “I think I shall walk outside for a moment.”

“Let me go with you.”

She shook her head again. He was part of her confusion, the very worst part! When he was near she could not think clearly. She could not be the Emerald Lily, cold, merciless. “You should return to Señorita Alva.”

Nicolai laughed. “In truth, Mademoiselle Dumas, I cannot catch my breath in here, either. There are far too many people, too many wine fumes. And I would not like to encourage Dona Elena where any of her ladies are concerned. Please, at least let me see you safely to your lodgings.”

Marguerite longed to protest, to run away, but she feared her legs would not carry her. She felt lightheaded, and so very sad. She nodded, and he took her hand in his and led her through the milling, laughing crowds. The press of people, the roil of their drunken chatter, King Henry’s loud bellow—it was all too much. It was her world, the one she had fought so hard to belong to, make a place in, but tonight she couldn’t bear it.

What was wrong with her? Surely she just needed fresh air. Needed to clear her muddled head and regain her sense of purpose.

Maybe the only way to do that was by pushing Nicolai Ostrovsky into the Thames!

As they emerged from the banquet hall into the chilly night, Marguerite chuckled at the image of Nicolai cartwheeling into the river. Vanishing under the waves, leaving her to be as she was before, whole and cold and untouchable. The only trouble was, he might very well drag her in with him.

“And what makes you laugh so, mademoiselle?” he asked, as they turned down one of the pathways, shining white in the starlight. They ducked behind a concealing hedge, away from curious eyes.

Marguerite shook her head. “Merely a jest of my own.”

“I am glad to see you catch your breath enough to make jests.”