Margaret Moore (7 page)

With the greatest difficulty, Elissa kept a sneer from her face. She already knew enough about Sir Richard Blythe.

As the servant pulled out her chair, she realized that Mistress Winters was conversing with the king in the most intimate manner and leaning toward him so provocatively, nearly the whole of her breasts were exposed. Elissa would have believed the brazen creature was the latest of the king’s conquests, save that Mistress Winters also looked at Sir Richard as if he were a piece of succulent roast beef and she starving.

Perhaps the rumors that Charles had many lovers concurrently and did not care if his women did the same were true.

“Now, my dear, is this not delightful?” the king asked her companionably.

She was about to mutter something innocuous when the king suddenly clapped his hand on her knee.

She nearly jumped out of her chair.

“Majesty?” she said, her voice little more than an alarmed squeak.

“As the wife of an earl, you will have to come to London often.”

He started to caress her leg. How was she going to make him stop? How could the King
of England be so disgustingly familiar? “I… I… there is much to be managed on the estate, sire.”

“But would you not like to come to court?”

Fighting the urge to slap his roving hand away, she stared down at the table. “The court is too fashionable a place for me. My husband may come, if he so desires.”

“We cannot believe that any man would willingly desert your bed, even for our court. We shall have to command your presence, perhaps,” he said softly, with a very sly smile.

She was so desperate for an end to this impertinent stroking of her leg, she cast a pleading glance at her husband, hoping he wasn’t too enamored of the obvious and earthy charms of Mistress Winters to see his wife’s distress.

Fortunately, at that precise moment, Richard looked at his wife, who sat as stiff and upright as a stone pillar.

He struggled to ignore the sensation of Mistress Winters’s heavy breast as she pressed against his arm. Elissa Longbourne must be made of ice to sit so when it was obvious that Charles was exerting himself to be charming and make her feel important at court. Their sovereign could be a very delightful companion, and most women would be flattered.

Charles raised his goblet to his lips.

Where the devil was his other hand?

Richard felt as if he had been struck on the
head by a falling limb. The king was fondling his wife’s leg! “Charles!”

His Majesty turned to Richard with a shocked expression, as if Richard had suddenly yelled an obscenity.

“Sir Richard?” Charles inquired, by his expression not at all amused at the way Richard had just dared to address him.

Richard tried to contain his temper, especially when he saw both of Charles’s hands above the table. “Forgive me, sire. I am rather anxious about my earldom.”

“Ah, yes!” Charles sighed, apparently mollified. “Lord Clarendon has the papers at hand, which we shall sign in the morning.”

Mistress Winters giggled and leaned against Richard even more. “It will be quite a night, I’m sure,” she murmured, her wine-soaked breath hot on his cheek.

Richard ignored her and watched the king’s hand slip beneath the table again. He knew the king was not by nature a jealous man, but he could be possessive, especially of a new mistress. So Richard cleared his throat, momentarily catching Charles’s attention.

Then, as if he were unaware of that Charles was looking his way, Richard slowly lifted Mistress Winters’s hand and kissed it, letting his lips linger on her perfumed skin as long as he could stand it.

The stupid woman giggled again and batted
her eyes, yet she made no effort to take her hand away.

“Perhaps it would be best if the newly wedded couple sat together,” the king proposed.

Richard gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. “Majesty?”

“Here, sit by your wife. You may regale her with tales of your past.”

“As you wish, sire.”

Obediently, Richard exchanged places with the king.

And then, with a satisfied little grin, he put his hand lightly upon his wife’s knee. “Did you miss me, sweet?”

“Take your hand from me,” she demanded quietly. “Or should I be grateful you only grabbed my knee and nothing else, even though we are surrounded by a crowd of people?”

“Am I to understand from this reaction that you countenance such liberties only from the king?”

“I did not want him to do it, either, but I knew no way to make him stop.”

“You say, ‘Stop fondling me, sire.’”

She gave him a sour look. “Thank you for the advice. Stop fondling me, sir.”

“This does not bode well for this evening’s nuptials,” Richard remarked evenly as he obeyed. “I have every right to touch you, since we are husband and wife.”

“Do not remind me.” She gave him a
pointed, sidelong glance. “Or should I address you as ‘my lord’? Perhaps your sudden elevation to the rank of earl is intended to encourage you to bring me back to London, where I will be forced to endure more humiliating experiences at the hands of the king or others at court.”

Richard’s eyes flashed. “My
sudden elevation
is a reward for loyal service to the king.”

Elissa remained silent, and took a drink of wine herself.

“Where is your son?”

“He is at Mr. Harding’s.”

Richard gave her a coolly measuring look. “How handy. Lawyer and nursery maid all in one. ‘Tis enough to make a man wonder what other services such an accommodating fellow would provide.”

“You are disgusting!” Elissa retorted between clenched teeth. “But you are quite right. He is much more than a lawyer to me.”

Elissa was too angry and upset to note the expression that came to Richard’s eyes.

“He is my friend,” she continued, “and a good, kind gentleman who treats me with the utmost courtesy and respect, which is something you and these other
ornaments
of the court could not possibly comprehend.”

“I am shocked, then, you have not married him.”

“I do not want to be married to anyone.”

Richard ran his impertinent gaze over her.
“That would be a pity and a waste.”

“How is it that
you
are not already married? It appears many ladies here would be only too anxious to be your bride.”

“I could not afford a wife.”

“I cannot afford a husband.”

His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “I shall have to earn my keep, then?”

“If you can.”

“Oh, I can, my dear, and I will.”

She flushed and tried to ignore any implication in his deep, seductive voice or dark, passionate eyes. “How? By writing?”

“When we journey into Leicester, I shall not write anymore,” he replied, rather abruptly businesslike.

Momentarily confused by the change, she nevertheless regarded him skeptically. “Indeed? You will give up your fame?”

“I will gladly give up what I did out of necessity, since it will no longer be necessary.”

“And how will you find Leicester after London, I wonder? We shall all be too dull for you, I’m sure.”

She did not doubt he would find the countryside boring—and her, too, probably, after his fame in London and life among the courtiers, which was perfectly fine. She had no desire to live the kind of supposedly exciting, indulgent existence he did.

“The country life will be a pleasant change, if nothing else,” he replied, regarding her with
a cool smile which unaccountably seemed to raise her temperature.

Or perhaps it was the close confines of the Banqueting House and the multitude of people in it that were responsible for making her perspire as if she were under a midsummer’s sun.

“Richard, Mistress Winters confides she is confused by your new play, charming though it is,” the king said loudly enough for all to hear. “Will you have the goodness to explain it to her?”

“Delighted, Majesty,” Richard replied.

In spite of his ready agreement, as he shoved back his chair, he muttered under his breath, “It would take that woman an eternity to understand anything except lovemaking.”

“Like most of the court, I imagine,” Elissa added in a mutter of her own.

To her surprise, her husband’s lips twisted into a wry smile.

“I’faith, madam,” he whispered, bending toward her so that only she could hear, “I would keep such opinions to yourself, lest you find yourself in the Tower. Again, a most disastrous way to spend a wedding night and not at all what I desire.”

I
f these silly, giggling, drunken women didn’t leave this bedchamber soon, Elissa thought, she would scream. She had put up with their unwelcome escort from the Banqueting House to the bridal chamber, and they were supposed to assist her in her preparations for retiring. Instead, they talked and joked about the activities to come and made disgustingly rude speculations about Richard Blythe’s physical attributes.

The ladies of the court also seemed far more intent on talking about the various other noblemen who had been in attendance, and their looks and their habits and who had noticed whom, and what they had said to each other than on helping her.

The exception was Mistress Winters. She didn’t do anything except stare in rapt fascination at the large brocade-curtained bed in
the gaudily decorated room near the king’s apartments.

Elissa felt as if she were in a brothel, not a palace.

Not that she had ever been in a brothel. However, she could easily imagine that the atmosphere would be similar, if not the furnishings.

“Thank you. Now you all may leave,” she declared.

Astonishingly, she was impertinently hushed by a young woman in a grotesque gown of the most brilliant and bilious green Elissa had ever seen. Another young woman whose name Elissa couldn’t recall staggered to the door and opened it a crack. She was so drunk, Elissa expected her to collapse if she let go of the latch.

“I will tell you when they’re coming,” she slurred in a lascivious whisper.

Mistress Winters finally roused herself from her blissful contemplation of the palatial bed.

“Let me help you with your lacings,” she said, moving behind Elissa.

“I think I can—”

Mistress Winters ignored Elissa’s protest. “Odd’s fish, madam, you must be very hot in this gown.”

She took hold of the knot at the back of Elissa’s dress and almost yanked Elissa off her feet. “Not so hot as you’ll be in a little while, of course, but very hot indeed!”

The women laughed uproariously while Elissa maintained a dignified silence.

“Such an unusual choice of color for a bridal gown.”

“I am a widow.”

“Not anymore!” Mistress Winters declared gaily, eliciting more giggles. “And with such a husband, your previous one will soon be forgotten.”

“I shall never be able to forget Mr. Longbourne,” Elissa muttered truthfully.

The young woman at the door started to slip, until Mistress Winters’s next pronouncement made her straighten as abruptly as if she were a marionette being pulled from above.

“Minette Sommerall refused to perform tonight, I hear. In Sir Richard’s play, that is. Claimed she was ill—but we know better, don’t we?” She poked Elissa in the back. “She’ll find another man soon enough, I should think. She won’t pretend to kill herself like his other mistress did.”

Elissa stiffened.

“Oh, have I said something wrong?” Mistress Winters asked innocently.

The other women exchanged amused glances.

A rather plump woman whose rounded bodice displayed more of her breasts than good taste would permit anywhere except the court stumbled toward Elissa, then tugged at
her veil like a fishwife spotting a bargain on a tinker’s cart.

“You’ll tear it,” Elissa admonished, reaching up to take it off herself.

“Ladies, I will undress alone,” she commanded in a tone of finality that was always effective with her servants.

Mistress Winters grinned and shook her head, making her cosmetic powder crack like aged porcelain. “Oh, no, my lady,” she said with a throaty chortle. “We must wait until the groom comes. To do otherwise would be unseemly.”

“Very unseemly,” the woman at the door echoed.

Elissa sighed. If they would not leave, she would simply pretend they were not there. With that in mind, she began to remove her dress herself.

“Here, let me take…” Mistress Winters offered, grabbing the skirt.

“I shall do it,” Elissa snapped.

She stepped out of her dress and laid it on a nearby chair. Clad in her chemise and petticoat, she quickly removed her shoes. Despite the warmth of the room, the polished floor was cool on her stockinged feet as she wiggled out of her petticoat.

“Your chemise is only linen,” Mistress Winters noted with obvious disappointment as she took the petticoat.

Elissa didn’t care that her garment wasn’t
silk or satin. She’d had such a garment once, and she had burned it a week after her wedding.

Paying the women no heed, she yanked the combs from her hair so that it fell loose about her shoulders and tumbled in a mass of waves to her waist.

She heard some of the women suck in their breath and permitted herself one small moment of vanity, for she was proud of her thick hair.

The young woman at the door suddenly staggered backward, nearly colliding with Mistress Winters. “They’re coming! I hear them!”

At nearly the same moment, the door flew open and a half-naked, bootless Sir Richard careered into the room, sliding to a halt on the polished floor.

Behind him lurched a group of equally drunken courtiers like some kind of debauched band of merry men, led by the king himself. She also spotted servants bearing what looked like trays of food and carafes of wine.

Elissa stared at the man who was now her husband. The skin of his muscular upper body seemed to glow in the candlelight. His black hair was wildly disheveled as if he were some kind of savage, and his face flushed. She did not think it was shame or embarrassment that accounted for that; more likely, it was wine.

She was likewise flushed, and she knew why the hot blood coursed through her body. If he was not ashamed by such a display of naked flesh before all these women, she was embarrassed for him.