She broke into a bright smile. “Come along, then.”
As easily as that, I was swept into the queen’s wake, eating chocolates and sipping pink champagne, standing all night on silk heels because only those of certain rank were permitted to have a chair. It ought to have been more difficult a thing to accomplish proximity to the queen, but I did not yet know how capricious Marie Antoinette could be, sometimes pronouncing herself dazzled by a young lady and making her an instant favorite. I was not yet that, but I was invited to the queen’s next ball. There my sister and I danced, fluttered our fans, and listened to gossip, and by the time we fell giddy into our beds, we felt sure we could report back to my father all he wished to know.
Louise—who saw only the best in everyone—was pleased to tell our father that some of the queen’s ladies were pious and sweet, perhaps deserving of the jewels and other gifts the queen bestowed on them. Knowing I had a more critical eye, my father asked me, “And the others?”
The others seemed to be promiscuous carousers, like the beautiful Aglaé d’Hunolstein, whose features were as delicate as a doll’s, but it felt wrong to name her. “Others are immodest and occupied with trivial gossip.”
“And the men?” my father asked.
I reported that the queen surrounded herself with a cadre of chivalrous young aristocrats who called themselves the Society of the Wooden Sword. Their leader was the twenty-seven-year-old duc de Chartres, who feted the queen with every manner of amusement. Hearing this, my father steepled his fingers beneath his chin, plainly wondering if the queen had taken a lover. “Where is our new king at these fetes?”
“Seldom at the queen’s side,” I admitted.
Social mingling was not to our new king’s taste—something His Majesty seemed to have in common with my husband. Oh, Gilbert dutifully escorted me, but chafed at every silly servile court custom. The king had different reasons. Some said he preferred to hide in his hobby workshop, playing locksmith. Others said he did not care for Marie Antoinette and their childless marriage served as evidence. “Can the king do it or can’t he?” Marc jested, then colored when my sister dropped her gaze, for after a year of marriage, Louise had begun to worry she could not conceive.
I wondered if it were not also the case with the queen, but knew better than to whisper such a thing, for queens had been set aside for less. I’d overheard that the queen had never missed her monthly courses—so not even miscarriage could explain her childlessness. Gossip of this nature was precisely the information my father wanted most, but I did not need to believe in God to know it was too cruel to share.
I also declined to tell my father when, at the next ball I attended, the queen approached me to whisper, “Don’t look now, but the duc de Chartres is staring at you like a mooncalf in love.”
I gave an embarrassed flutter of my fan. “Oh, no, Your Majesty. I’m sure he’s looking at you.”
The queen let out a throaty laugh, a feather from her wig tickling my ear. “You’re blushing, ma petite marquise! I see no harm in it. Philippe has certainly admired less worthy ladies.”
The duc de Chartres was a well-known libertine, and not knowing how to respond, I said, “I cannot claim to be worthy of his admiration and plead marriage in any case.”
“Oh, but you’re only a little bit married,” the queen said with rouged lips. “No one as young as we are can be entirely married. Go, dance with Philippe. Why not enjoy his attentions while you are still a novelty at court?”
The duc de Chartres was ten years my senior and a puckish mischief-maker who often goaded the queen and her ladies into drunken carriage racing in the streets. I did not wish to encourage him. Still, with the queen’s prodding, I agreed to dance. When he extended an arm, I rested my fingertips upon it. “Your Serene Highness—”
“You must call me Philippe.”
I blushed. “I couldn’t.”
“Don’t you like me, Adrienne?”
Surprised that he knew my given name, I dared a glance into his lupine eyes. “We are scarcely acquainted.”
“Give it time, and perhaps we shall become good friends.”
“Perhaps.” I did not wish to lie.
“Mayhaps more than friends.”
I gave a slow wave of my painted fan, meant to warn him off. “What more could you wish?”
“I like your sleepy bedroom eyes,” he said, leering. “Though someone should have told you to pluck those brows . . . it makes a man worry the hedges are not trimmed below.”