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Joanna recalled Wilberforce’s comment about the king. A clumsy figure in immense boots. He did not appear clumsy tonight but, for a king, his demeanor was certainly unassuming. Not that of a haughty monarch. She had heard he liked to dabble in matters of science, which might explain his great friendship with Benjamin Franklin.

With Donet’s words, the king’s face resumed a placid expression. “You must meet the queen, my lady,” Louis said to her. “I believe she is entertaining her ladies at the Petit Trianon tomorrow. I know she would want you to attend. It seems you and she have something in common.”

“I would be honored,” said Joanna, trying to fathom what she and the French queen might possibly have in common. To meet Marie Antoinette, about whom she had heard much, would be a great treat.

The man standing beside the king suddenly spoke. “I will be in attendance, my lady, and would be pleased to introduce you.”

Donet’s hand tightened over hers in a gesture she took as possessive. Joanna had been so focused on the king she had not noticed the bewigged nobleman until he spoke. Turning her attention to him, she saw he was almost as tall as the king but, unlike Louis, he was slender of form and strikingly handsome. His features were refined and his eyes brown.

“My younger brother, Charles Philippe, comte d’Artois,” said the king. “He is ever beside my queen as her chevalier.”

The comte’s smile, directed at Joanna, made her uncomfortable for it seemed to her almost predatory. Still, she would not be ungracious to the king’s brother. “Thank you, Monsieur. I would be most grateful.”

Joanna turned her attention back to the king. He asked Donet, “Have you met with my Foreign Minister?”

“I have.” Donet and the king exchanged a look that spoke of an understanding between them not voiced. Whatever had transpired between Donet and the Foreign Minister had been something of which the king was also aware. A matter of importance that concerned them both.

“Will you be here for a while, Lady Joanna?” asked d’Artois.

“My stay in France is of uncertain duration.”

“Eh bien, I shall look for you tomorrow, say about noon?”

Joanna glanced at Donet. He nodded, reluctantly she thought. With Donet’s approval, she turned to the comte d’Artois. “That would be fine.”

“Come,” said the king, walking away, “there is a magnificent repast to be enjoyed.”

She and Donet followed the king but trailed behind him and the others.

“Beware the comte d’Artois, Joanna. He may be the queen’s loyal champion, but his liaisons amoureuses outside his marriage are many. He enjoys beautiful women.”

“Such men are not unfamiliar to me, M’sieur. There are many among England’s aristocracy. ’Tis one reason I have never married.”

“So that is it,” he muttered. “I have wondered.”

“And you? Surely it is not for a woman’s infidelity that you remain unwed.”

“Non, nothing like that.”

He inclined his head, looking at her, but said nothing more. Joanna did not ask. She was quite certain she knew the reason. His dead wife still held his heart.

The next morning, Joanna dressed in her gown of vermilion silk, nervous for the meeting with the queen. On top of her auburn curls, she fixed her straw hat. Circling the hat was a wide silk ribbon. Soaring from it were plumes of white and green. Madame Provot had insisted she wear the feathers if she met with the queen. “All her ladies wear plumes.”

Émile and Zoé had left earlier in a carriage bound for the sights of Paris and the lemonade the quartermaster said they sold on the streets of Paris. She would have gone with them for they were to see Notre Dame, the Louvre and the Tuileries, but how could she turn down an invitation to meet the Queen of France?

Joanna only had time for a brief breakfast of coffee, brioche and fruit with Donet. He seemed preoccupied, saying little of his own destination, only that he’d be riding and would find her later.

She believed his business involved the deaths of his father and brother. Dangerous business, most likely. She desperately wanted to ask, but doubted it would do any good. He seemed disinclined to converse about anything, save the pleasant summer weather.

Being so close to him, as she had been the night before at Versailles and then again this morning, was difficult for her. She wanted to touch him, to kiss him, to make love with him, but she had the distinct impression he was distancing himself from her.

Since their time on his ship in Le Havre, he had left her to sleep alone. Had he suddenly developed a conscience toward her? A disinterest? Or, might it be his preoccupation with his other affairs? She was fretting over the possibilities when his disquieting gaze captured hers across the table. His dark eyes sizzled with desire. The contradiction was driving her mad.

When they were finished, he walked her to the courtyard and the waiting carriage, warning her again of the comte d’Artois. “He is not to be trusted.”

She had listened, glad that he cared enough to be concerned, though she thought his warning overdone. She was not his young niece, after all. What harm could come to her surrounded by the queen and her ladies?

He helped her into the carriage and shut the door. Reaching for her hand through the open window, he pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles. A slight frown clouded his darkly handsome face. “Come back to me, ma chérie.”