Infamous

by Virginia Henley

  “Pardon, demoiselle. If you desire some company, you need look no farther. I am Guy de Beauchamp, at your service.”

  She turned and looked up at him. “Warwick?”

  With some amusement he acknowledged, “Aye, I am Warwick.” He held out his hand to her.

  She tore her gaze from his face and looked at his hand. It was large, calloused, with long shapely fingers, and it was compelling beyond measure. How can I refuse him? He possesses an invisible force that draws me. Her impulsive nature willfully banished her trepidation. She placed her hand in his and he curled his fingers about it. She felt his warmth seep into her, and something far more potent: She felt his power.

  “What shall I call you, little maid?”

  “My name is Mar—” She stopped, appalled that she had almost blurted her true identity. She watched his mouth curve and thought it beautiful.

  “Margret? Will you walk with me, Margret?”

  “Where, my lord?”

  “Wherever you will.”

  His voice was so deep and lyrical, it insinuated itself inside her. She was acutely aware that Guy de Beauchamp had an innate French charm and gallantry that set her pulses racing madly.

  She thought of walking by the river, then with great daring, changed her mind. “I should like to walk in the garden.”

  His fingers tightened about her hand. “I shall follow wherever you lead, demoiselle.”

  She knew he was telling her what she wanted to hear. He wasn’t blatantly lying, merely blurring the truth. For she knew down to her bones that he would do the leading. And she would let him.

  Hand in hand they entered the Upper Ward and walked along the terrace that took them past the State Apartments. They went through a stone archway that led to the formal garden. The royal garden was walled and private, but Jory was familiar with a hidden entrance. She slipped her hand from his and with nimble fingers unlatched the gate.

  Once they were inside, Warwick did not recapture her hand; instead he slid his arm about her shoulders. His closeness coupled with her own daring sent shivery excitement spiraling inside her, and her senses became drenched with the intoxicating perfume of night-blooming flowers and his potent male scent.

  Their footsteps slowed as they came upon an inviting garden seat tucked beneath the cascading branches of a willow tree. The moonlight bathed them in haunting silver and dark shadows. Jory gasped as his powerful hands encircled her waist and lifted her to stand on the bench, eliminating their difference in height.

  His dark eyes studied her heart-shaped face with great intensity. “You are exceedingly young, ma petite.”

  “I am eighteen!” she protested.

  His mouth curved. “A delightful age of innocence.”

  “Yes…no! Perhaps,” she added provocatively.

  “An innocence that thirsts for a deeper knowledge and hungers for a wider experience…perhaps?”

  “Yes, indeed, my lord,” she murmured breathlessly.

  His long fingers cupped her face, holding her captive. His mouth hovered above hers for a full tantalizing minute before his lips touched hers. She closed her eyes and swayed, intoxicated by the taste of his kiss.

  His arms swept about her to steady her; then he lifted her and held her against his hard body. This time he took full possession of her mouth, easily persuading her to open her lips to his questing tongue. He thrust inside the velvet cave of her mouth, tasting her honeyed sweetness. He allowed her body to slowly slide down his until her feet once more touched the bench. Then his hands caressed her back with long, drugging strokes that moved ever lower until he had captured her bottom cheeks.

  Held against his powerful body, Jory pictured him naked and was lost, lost in a sea of desire. She was aware of his hard arousal brushing against her soft thighs and felt her mons tingle in response. She gripped his muscular shoulders and arched against him, but because of their disparate size, her woman’s center rubbed against his belly. She moaned softly with frustration.

  He lowered himself to the bench, pulled her into his lap, and took possession of her lips. Long, lingering kisses progressed to deeply sensual persuasive ones, and then his mouth became demanding as he ravished her with his tongue.

  She could feel his hard shaft beneath her, and shifted her bum to better accommodate his great size. He lifted the hem of her tunic and slid his fingers around her slim ankle. His bold hand moved up her shapely calf, fondled her knee, and then moved beyond her garter to the expanse of bare thigh above her hose. When he began to stroke her naked flesh with his calloused palm, she wanted to scream with excitement.

  He nuzzled her ear with his lips. “Open for me, chéri.”

  Jory’s eyes flew open as if she had just come out of a trance. She closed her legs tightly, trapping his seeking fingers. “You must stop! This is wrong…I should not be here like this.”

  His dark eyes searched her face. “I will stop, though you cannot deny you invited my advances.” His voice held regret. “I have no need to force a woman.”

  “I did invite your kisses…They held me spellbound,” she confessed breathlessly. Her breasts rose and fell with agitation over her dilemma. She craved his touch. She desired this man with every fiber of her being, yet at the same time she cursed herself for behaving like a whore. She feared the great Warwick would neither respect nor value a woman who was wanton.

  She eased the vice grip of her thighs and felt his palm slide down her leg. When his hand emerged from beneath her skirt, she was shocked to see that his cunning fingers had stolen her garter.

  He cocked a black eyebrow. “Just as I suspected. You are no serving wench. Confess the truth and shame the devil!”

  Jory was aghast. “How did you know, my lord?”

  “Serving wenches are coarse. You are made of finer stuff. I suspect you are a gently bred tiring woman to a noble lady.” He grinned. “Does she know you have pilfered her garters?”

  Relief flooded over her. Thank heaven he thinks I’m a servant!

  “No wonder you asked me to stop. You deserve better than a quick tumble in the grass. Will you come to my chamber?”

  Jory licked her lips and tasted his kisses. Desire flared up in her for the wicked Warwick, and she knew she must escape before the dangerous devil mesmerized her completely. She slid from his knee. “It’s late…I must go…I have duties…”

  “My invitation is open.” He held her with his dark eyes. “Will you come to my chamber tomorrow night?”

  She gazed at him with longing. He possesses an invisible force that draws me. How can I refuse him?

  His mouth curved. “I know you will not refuse me, demoiselle.”

  Jory backed away, breaking the spell. Then she turned and ran.

  Warwick returned to the hall. He was relieved that the dais was now empty. The queen had retired and the bride-to-be had obviously made her escape. He saw half a dozen earls conversing with the king and decided to join them. He took a tankard of ale from a server’s tray and drained it. By the time he had walked the length of the great chamber, he had received three blatant invitations and two that were more subtle from noble ladies who had accompanied their husbands to Windsor for the royal wedding. Guy de Beauchamp was accustomed to female attention. His dark, predatory looks coupled with his reputation as a fierce warrior on the battlefield, were tempting enough. When the dangerous rumors of his dealings with women were added, the more daring matrons were eager to risk playing with fire for the chance to be scorched by Warwick’s smoldering passion. He kept walking and ignored the invitations. Over the years he’d had a bellyful of spoiled, highborn noble ladies.

  “Why did you not join us on the dais?” King Edward demanded.

  “I didn’t wish to ruin the celebration of Gloucester’s upcoming nuptials by voicing my opposition to the taxes you are about to ask for in Parliament, Your Majesty.”

  “Damn you, Warwick. What makes you think I’ll call Parliament?”

  “Since Windsor is so close to Westminste
r, I warrant you will seize the opportunity while we are all gathered for the wedding.”

  “And so I shall. Decisions have to be made. My negotiations with Philip of France have come to naught. Hostilities are raging out of control between the sailors of the Cinque Ports and the fishermen of Normandy who sail our waters illegally. I have reports the wily, ambitious Philip will use this as a pretext to seize Gascony, the last of our French possessions.”

  “Are you contemplating waging war with France, Your Majesty?” John de Warenne asked bluntly.

  “I am. I plan to lead an army into Flanders and fight it out. I’ll send another army to recover Gascony if he dares touch it.”

  “Wars cost money, Your Majesty. I am opposed to having my taxes raised,” Warwick repeated.

  Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, stepped forward. “Now that the subject has been broached, Your Majesty, I also disfavor your calling Parliament. I am in full agreement with Warwick.”

  “I need money badly, and whether you like it or not, I must take emergency measures to raise it,” Edward said emphatically.

  “And we are expected to dance to the royal tune.” Warwick always had the balls to speak his mind, but tonight he knew the king was on dangerous ground because this means of raising money broke the stipulations of the Great Charter.

  John de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, intervened. “Gentlemen, let us keep the peace among us at least until Gloucester here is wed; then we can hammer out our differences at Westminster.”

  Edward, eager to postpone the inevitable battle of wills until after the nuptials had been performed, called for wine all around. “A toast to the bridegroom.” He hoisted his goblet and his earls followed suit. “Gilbert of Gloucester—here’s to many fine sons!”

  A son and heir was the cherished hope of every noble. Though King Edward had sired four sons, three had died before they reached maturity and only one remained. De Warenne had no legitimate son, and Bigod had only a daughter. All envied de Bohun, the constable, who had two grown sons.

  Warwick clapped his friend Gloucester on the back. His dark eyes brimmed with amusement. “The king believes that once you are his son-in-law you will support him in all things.”

  “Then he is delusional,” Gilbert said with a wink.

  “I would be hard-pressed to choose which of you has the hotter temper. The Plantagenet rage is formidable to behold, but I’ve seen yours explode and scorch the earth.”

  Gilbert stared at him in disbelief. “Your own temper borders on madness—Warwick’s reputation is legendary.”

  “Only when provoked. I have learned to keep the wolfhound in me tightly leashed. It is a matter of pride.”

  Edward came up behind Gilbert and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve arranged a hunt tomorrow in your honor. I vow there’s nothing better than venison for a wedding feast.”

  Irony danced in Warwick’s eyes as he put his hand on Gilbert’s other shoulder. “It’s an eat-what-you-kill world, my friend.”

  Jory drew back the princess’s curtains to let in the pale morning sunshine. “It is a beautiful day, Joanna. I hope the banquet met your expectations last night.”

  “Don’t try to be subtle. You mean, did Gloucester meet my expectations?” She threw back the covers. “Actually, he turned out better than I thought. When I ignored him, he didn’t take offense. He didn’t put on any airs and graces; nor did he try to flatter me. Gloucester’s still old enough to be my father, but at least he’s no toady.” Joanna slid her feet into her slippers and donned her bed-gown.

  “It was what happened after the banquet that bored me to tears and drove me to the edge of insanity. The queen, herding a gaggle of noble ladies, expected me to show them all the wedding gifts on display in the Long Gallery. What should have been accomplished in ten minutes, stretched to two hours. They took an inordinate interest in every gold cup and silver fork until I contemplated picking one up and stabbing myself for the sheer fun of it.”

  Jory laughed. “Viewing the costly gifts is one of the great pleasures of attending a royal wedding.”

  “Your sister-in-law, Sylvia, kept making pointed queries regarding your whereabouts and complaining that you hadn’t presented yourself to them yet. I’m adept at avoiding unwanted questions, but now it’s your turn to answer a few.” Joanna gave Jory back her own words. “Did you really do it? Did you lose your virginity?”

  Jory smiled her secret smile. “I too am adept at avoiding unwanted questions. I learned the trick from a royal princess.”

  “You did indulge in dalliance! At least tell me his name.”

  “Gervais…Giles…or was it Guy? I don’t remember.”

  “Oh, you little hussy, he is French!”

  Jory rolled her eyes. “He is indeed.”

  “Do you have another rendezvous planned for tonight?”

  “He did invite me,” Jory confessed, “but I have no intention of keeping the assignation. I have quite made up my mind. In any case, I shall be far too busy attending the events that Queen Eleanor has arranged in your honor.”

  “Ah, yes, an al fresco luncheon served in the formal gardens, followed by a sightseeing tour along the Thames from Windsor to London aboard the royal barge. Father has arranged for the men to go on an all-day hunt. Lucky devils!”

  “You love going out on the river,” Jory protested.

  “Yes, I do enjoy it in the company of my own ladies, but certainly not with the queen’s uppity attendants, who look down their long, disapproving noses at me. As well, Mother will expect me to remember the name and title of every earl and baron’s wife. I cannot tell Countess Cowclap from Baroness Horseface.”

  “You only pretend you can’t tell them apart to amuse yourself.”

  “You know me so well, Jory.”

  “Maude Clifford and Blanche Bedford will be attending you this morning, Your Highness. I must go and present myself to Lynx and Sylvia, and my uncle, John de Warenne.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject. The royal barge will be back by nightfall and so will the hunters. That leaves plenty of time for dalliance between sunset and sunrise.”

  “I shall resist temptation today—I’ve quite made up my mind.”

  Chapter 3

  “Hello, Minx! Where have you been hiding yourself?” John de Warenne, who had come to collect Lynx for the hunt, used her pet name. Lynx and Minx was a jest they had shared with their uncle since they were children. “I swear you grow lovelier each time I see you. Your beauty dazzles my eyes.”

  Jory dropped him a graceful curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “Don’t encourage her, John. Her angelic looks may bedazzle you, but they mask an imp of Satan. I see nothing but devilish mischief dancing in those green eyes.”

  Jory, used to her brother’s teasing, paid him back in kind. “Lynx has forgotten what it’s like to be young. He’s become cynical and believes all females are spoiled, vain, and shallow.”

  “You forgot willful,” he said pointedly.

  “Poor Lynx, I had no idea Sylvia was willful.”

  “My wife may be spoiled from her days at the Queen’s Court, but willful she is not. Only one de Warenne female has a will of iron.” His mouth curved. “Marriage will cure you of that.”

  “Marriage?” Jory wrinkled her nose. “Princess Joanna warned me you would soon be finding me a husband.”

  “We’ve searched high and low, but I fear ’tis a futile task.”

  “Don’t tease the child, Lynx.” John looked at her with doting eyes. “We had an offer for you not long ago, but turned it down.”

  Jory’s green eyes blazed with indignation. “You gave me no say in the matter? God’s bones, Joanna told me it would be so!”

  “The offer was from Aylesbury for his younger son. It was out of the question. He must be an earl, or at least heir to an earldom, before we will even consider negotiating a match.”

  Joanna was right. The men in my life will arrange my marriage and I’ll have no say in the matter. �
��If you receive another offer, please promise you will let me know about it,” she begged.

  Lynx put a reassuring arm about her. “Trust us to know what’s best for you, Jory. We will arrange a good, solid, lasting marriage with a worthy noble family that will bring you security, a title, and provide your children with castles and land.”

  “But there must be more to marriage than titles and castles. Surely there should be love? You and Sylvia had a love match.”

  “We had no such thing. The marriage was arranged and negotiated between our uncle, the Earl of Surrey, and her father, the Earl of Norfolk. Our union has proved most amiably adequate in every way, Jory. Love is the stuff of poets and minstrels.”

  Adequate? Splendor of God, I want more than adequate! “Where is Sylvia?” she asked faintly.

  “She was invited to take breakfast with Queen Eleanor this morning. The queen has great affection for her and I warrant she misses my wife’s services as lady-in-waiting.”

  “Is Sylvia with—” Jory bit off her sentence before she uttered the last word. She would know if Sylvia was with child the moment she saw her. She knew Lynx longed for a son and heir and was greatly disappointed that he was not yet a father after almost two years of marriage. She amended her question. “Is Sylvia with the other ladies-in-waiting, or does she dine alone with Eleanor?”

  “Lord, I pay no attention to women’s affairs.” He ran an impatient hand through his mane of tawny hair. “Come, John, we’ll be late for the hunt. Try not to commit mayhem today, Minx.”

  “I cannot promise. You know I am cursed with impulsiveness.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed her uncle. When Lynx strode out the door, she gazed up at John with imploring eyes. “You will let me choose my own husband? Promise me I won’t suffer Joanna’s fate? I have a horror of being given to an elderly noble.”

  The expression on the flinty earl’s face softened. “Sweet child.” John caressed her cheek. “You must know that your happiness is paramount to me and to your brother. I give you my word that our choice of a husband will meet with your approval.”