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wife’s direction, he held his hands out before the fire. Most men would do so for the warmth of the flames, but from the way that Monsieur turned his hands, snowy-white as two doves, he seemed more intent on admiring how the flicker of the fire lit the jewels in his rings.
    “How can a wish for peace between France and England serve to undermine you, Philippe?” Madame asked. “If your brother trusts me sufficiently to meet with my brother on his behalf, then why can’t you do the same?”
    “Diplomacy should never be put into the hands of a woman,” he said, unaware of the irony of his words as he continued to admire his own unblemished fingers: or perhaps he understood perfectly, being Monsieur, and more a lover of men than of women. “My brother cannot possibly trust you with such a grave negotiation. He may tell you so, to flatter you and to amuse himself with your pathetic rejoicing, but he would never believe it.”
    “It is you who are pathetic, Philippe,” Madame answered contemptuously. “Louis is secure in his manhood. He can trust women because he has no reason to fear them.”
    “Insults will not soften me toward your request, Henriette.” His voice now carried a most masculine edge to it, and a menace that oddly seemed all the more dangerous on account of his decorative appearance. “You know I expect obedience in all things of you as my wife.”
    “But this is for the good of the country, Philippe, and for the benefit of the French people,” she pleaded, her hands twisting together as her earlier defiance seemed to shrink away. “If I can but speak to Charles, in person and in confidence, then—”
    “You will not go to England,” he said, his voice as chill and unrelenting as ice itself. “You will not speak to your brother without my permission. You will remain here with me in France.”
    “Please, Philippe, please,” she cried plaintively. “I beg you, for the love of God and France!”
    “For the incestuous love you bear your brother, you mean,” he said. “I’ll not condone such unnatural affection between you Stuarts.”
    “Lies!” she gasped, and shook her head with such vehemence that her tightly arranged curls began to loosen and come unpinned. “The love I bear for Charles is pure and honorable, a just love between brother and sister. For you to speak of unnatural love, you for whom every unspeakable perversion is—”
    “Silence,” Monsieur said sharply, swinging around to confront her. “God has given you to me as my wife. Not your brother, not my brother, but God Himself. If I say you are to remain at my side, then you will.”
    She made a harsh gulping sob of despair and held her clasped hands out to him. “Please, Philippe. It has been nearly ten years since I’ve stood on English soil, ten years since I’ve seen my brother.”
    “It will be another ten years and more if you continue to grovel like this,” he said with disgust. “You are the daughter of a king, yet you carry yourself with all the dignity of a common slattern.”
    “What do you want of me, Philippe?” I still could not see her face, but I knew she was weeping. “What must I do to please you, and earn the favor of a husband for his wife?”
    “How dare you ask me such a ridiculous question?” he demanded. “Are you a simpleton, a half-wit? You know full well your duty to me, just as you know how you willfully withhold from me the one thing I most desire.”
    Madame’s hands dropped back to her sides, her shoulders sagging. “Oh, Philippe, not that,” she whimpered. “I beg you, not again!”
    “It is your duty as my wife, Henriette.” He took a step toward her, and she shrank away. “Your mother knew her role as a devoted wife, and as a true daughter of France. She gave your father three strong sons, while you refuse to grant me the only reason I have for tolerating you.”
    “Children are God’s will, His blessing on a marriage,” she said, her words tumbling over one another