Trapped at the Altar (32 page)

Instead of the usher with the wine and tartlets, however, it was a flunky in the King's livery. He bowed. “His majesty requests madam's presence in the royal box in the interval,” he stated in a monotone. “And that of her escort.” The last was a perfunctory addition, and he departed
as suddenly as he'd come. Clearly, an answer was not expected.

“So, let the games begin,” Ivor murmured, and Ari felt a shiver of apprehension not unmixed with excitement. She glanced towards the King's box. Ivor was right. His majesty was chatting with his companions, taking scant notice of the action on the stage.

The noise in the pit was subsiding now, and the actors could at last be heard, but Ari's pleasure in the stage was diminished by the prospect of the upcoming royal audience. It seemed almost fanciful to imagine that she, of all people, the unruly daughter of an outlawed earl, ill schooled in the finer things of life, let alone the conduct and expectations of a royal audience, was about to be presented to King Charles himself. At least, she thought, she looked the part, which was some comfort, and after a while, the novelty of the play itself took over, and she lost herself in the witty dialogue and absurdity of the situation being played out before her.

When the intermission began, the audience instantly started its conversational rounds once more, and the noise of voices rose from the pit. “So what do we do?” she asked Ivor in a whisper as she saw the King turn towards their box. His majesty raised a beringed hand and beckoned. As he did so, the door to their own box opened, and the flunky from before stood expectantly in the opening.

“Sir, madam.” He bowed. “How are you to be introduced to his majesty?”

“Sir Ivor and Lady Chalfont,” Ivor said smoothly, offering Ari his arm. He laid a hand lightly over hers in a
gesture of encouraging reassurance as they followed the flunky along the corridor to the royal box. Doors to the other boxes stood open now, and gentlemen were moving between them, paying social calls. Ari noticed that the women were not on the move. Only the gentlemen, it seemed, paid calls at the theatre. Except, of course, for a summons to the royal box.

The royal box had double doors, and these stood open, flunkies on either side. King Charles was standing with his back to the theatre, a chased silver goblet in his hand, the other resting on the head of a spaniel sitting in the royal chair. He was laughing at something one of the ladies had said, but as soon as Ari and her escort appeared, he turned the full force of his attention upon them.

“Sir Ivor and Lady Chalfont, your majesty.” The flunky announced them without expression.

“So, a beautiful newcomer to our theatre,” Charles declared, extending a hand. “Lady Chalfont, where have you sprung from?”

Ariadne curtsied as low as she dared without falling over, her lips brushing the royal hand in homage. “From Somerset, sire. My husband and I are but newly arrived in London.”

“Indeed . . . indeed.” He made a gesture to her to rise and turned to Ivor. “Sir, I bid you welcome to our fair city.”

Ivor bowed over the royal hand. “Your majesty is most gracious.”

Charles indicated his companions. “Her grace of Portsmouth
and Mistress Gwyn are pleased to receive you. We enjoy the company of newcomers, is that not so, ladies?” He smiled benignly at his companions.

Ariadne curtsied low to both ladies, who responded with sketched curtsies of their own. Ivor bowed and received smiles in his turn.

“So, what brings you all the way from Somerset, Sir Ivor?” Mistress Gwyn inquired from behind her fan. “Is it not a wilderness of a place?”

“Some parts, perhaps, madam.”

The King frowned. “ 'Tis damned lawless in parts. I hear little good about the people of the West Country.”

“I trust, sire, that you hear only good of my husband's family,” Ariadne murmured, mentally crossing her fingers. She could only hope that his majesty didn't inquire too closely into her own lawless antecedents. She took her example from Mistress Gwyn and peeped at him over her fan. “They are loyal subjects of your Protestant majesty.”

“Glad to hear it,” Charles said with a vague dismissive gesture. “And we are always delighted to see new faces at our court. I trust you will attend my lady wife, madam, when she holds audience. I will ensure you receive a particular summons.”

“You do me too much honor, sire.” Ari curtsied again. The spaniel on the King's chair lifted its head and jumped down, coming to Ariadne, sniffing at her skirts. Ari automatically bent to stroke the animal's head, lifting the heavy, silken ears with a practiced touch. The dog pushed her nose into Ari's palm, and the King chuckled.

“By God, she likes you, my lady. Miss Sarah here is very particular in whom she takes to. You have a liking for dogs?”

“Indeed, sir. I grew up with them. Hunting dogs for the most part, but I have hand-reared several puppies.”

“Have you, now?” The king beamed. He bent to pick up the spaniel, handing her to Ariadne. The dog instantly licked her face, and the King's beam grew wider. “Tell me more of yourself, my lady.”

Gabriel sat dazed amid the hurly-burly raucous crowd in the pit, his eyes riveted on the King's box above him. The disturbance in the royal box in the interval had drawn many curious eyes, and he was not the only one assessing the newcomer. But he was the only member of the audience in the pit who knew who she was. She was here. Ariadne,
his
Ariadne, was here, and she was talking to the King.

He had known he would see her eventually. Their paths had to cross in the few square miles of the city inhabited by fashionable London, and yet, despite telling himself this, he had sometimes despaired of ever finding her. He hadn't known how to begin to search for her, except to visit the places where she might be found. And tonight he had found her.

But she didn't look like his Ariadne. She was a radiant lady of the court, alight with jewels, the lithe, slender body he could still sometimes in his dreams feel between his hands now encased in turquoise and black, a dramatic
counterpoint to the dusky pearl-threaded curls framing her face. But the face was the same. He couldn't see her eyes clearly at this distance—the brilliance of the many candles in the royal box blurred her image—but he knew their gray clarity as if it were embossed on his mind's eye.

And the man beside her, the man whose hand rested lightly but without undoubted possession on her arm? Her husband. And Gabriel felt strangely diminished by the man's sheer physical presence. He was dressed richly but without ostentation, and Gabriel felt instantly that the heavy, gold-embossed fob he wore in the lacy fall of his own cravat was almost vulgar.

And he could never hope to stand where they stood now, in the King's intimate presence. Ari was talking so easily to his majesty, a dog cradled naturally in her arms, one hand—oh, how he remembered her hands, so strong, so sensitive, so quick to arouse him—pulling at the animal's ears as she talked to the King with as much ease as if she were talking to a close friend.

Gabriel burned with longing and with resentment. This was not how it was supposed to be. He was here to rescue her from a forced marriage, to take her away to live the life they had promised each other. And for the first time since their parting, he wondered if she had forgotten about him.

He pushed his way out of the pit, out of the theatre, into the brisk, cold night air. He would wait for them to come out.

Ari's head was beginning to ache with the heat in the box from the many candles and the heavy perfumes worn by both men and women, which barely disguised the musky smell of overheated flesh in the richly elaborate damasks and velvets. Her gown seemed suddenly too heavy and constricting, but she managed to keep a smile on her face as she set Miss Sarah back on her chair.

“Madam, I will ensure that the Queen sends you an invitation to attend her,” Charles said again, in a tone that contained dismissal as he held out his hand. “And I shall much look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”

Ari curtsied deeply over the royal hand and rose slowly as he turned his attention to her husband. “We shall see you at court, Sir Ivor. Attend one of my morning receptions.”

Ivor bowed his appreciation of the order and backed out of the box. Ari followed suit, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

“Your direction, Sir Ivor?” The flunky intercepted them as they moved away.

“Dacre Street,” Ivor responded, aware suddenly that Ari was leaning heavily on his arm. He looked sharply at her. She was very pale. “You don't look well, Ari. Do you want to stay for the rest of the play?”

She shook her head. “I don't think I can take any more of this noise and crowd and heat. I need air.”

He said nothing, merely steered her down the corridor and back into the foyer. It was as noisy and crowded as it had been before the play, but outside on the steps, the cold winter air was instantly reviving.

“I think I'm hungry,” Ari decided as she took a deep, cold breath. “The meat pie was a long time ago, and the tartlets weren't substantial enough for a kitten.”

He laughed, relieved to hear her sound like herself again. “Come, then, there's a good hostelry in the piazza where we can sup.”

Ari revived with scalloped oysters and veal cutlets in a small back room of the Queen's Head on Charlotte Street. “So I'm to attend Queen Catherine's audience,” she said after a moment, playing with the stem of her wine cup. “Alone, I assume.”

“We'll see when you receive a summons. In any case, you will take Tilly. You cannot go out unattended. But I must attend the King's reception tomorrow.” He helped himself to another cutlet. “I suspect, however, that his majesty's interest really lies with you.”

“Well, I'm not about to join the ranks of royal mistresses,” Ari declared. “I'll go back to Somerset sooner than do that.”

“I trust that won't be necessary,” Ivor responded drily. He was wondering whether Ari would be able to steer her way through the maze of court diplomacy, keeping the King amused while also keeping him at bay. Apart from the fact that she had no experience to prepare her, her nature was so open and straightforward that playing the royal game while keeping her true feelings hidden would not be easy for her.

After a moment, he said, “I think it would make sense for you to cultivate the Duchess and Mistress Gwyn. I doubt they'll welcome another rival. It's said they have
enough trouble with their own competition, and I'm sure they'd do anything possible to protect you from the King's favors, for their own sakes as much as yours.”

“Mmm.” Ari considered this. “So, if I appear to be a country-bred innocent, eager for their advice and guidance, they would be only too happy to offer it?”

Ivor laughed. “I'm sure they would. If you think you can play such a part.”

“But of course I can. 'Tis but the truth, after all,” she said with an innocent smile. “I am as country-bred as any milkmaid.”