My Lady Gloriana

by Sylvia Halliday

  Did country women cuckold their husbands as easily as city ladies did? “Do?” he repeated, his mouth curling in scorn around the word. “I want you to get your bloody carcass out of here and take to your husband’s bed. And think long and hard on the loyalty a woman owes her man!”

  “B-but, Your Grace,” she blubbered. “I only meant to…”

  “Begone, woman!” he roared. “Lest I tell your husband you deserve a beating at his hands!”

  Though she was clearly shaken, she managed to collect herself. She thrust out her chin and shot him a look of disdain. “I’ll wager you ain’t no angel, for all your fine talk. Not when your cock be needy!” She tossed her head and sailed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Thorne sank onto the bed and groaned. She was right, of course. Who was he to lecture her on chastity and fidelity? He peeled off his velvet coat and waistcoat, threw down his silken neck cloth, and tore off the ribbon that tied back his shoulder-length black hair. Maybe a good night’s sleep would rid him of his nagging discontent.

  He bent to blow out the candle, then paused. He could hear sounds coming from DeWitt’s chamber next door—soft giggles and murmurs, obscene grunts. He felt the warmth of the spring night crowding in on him, making it impossible to breathe. By the cross of St. George, he’d suffocate if he had to spend another moment in this room!

  He glanced toward the window. The moon was full and bright, casting a brilliant patch of silver across the floor of his bedchamber. It seemed to be calling him, beckoning him into the freedom of the soft night.

  Why not? he thought. If he went for a midnight walk, the pathways would be well-illuminated by the moon’s glow. No chance to get lost, even in an unfamiliar region. At the very least, he wouldn’t be forced to listen to the disgusting noises of DeWitt’s conquest.

  He left his coat behind—it was uncommonly warm for the beginning of May—tiptoed down the stairs and eased himself out the door of the inn.

  The night was more glorious than he would have imagined. The sweet scents of new grass and spring flowers filled the air with their delicate perfume, soothing his troubled soul. He heard the soft rustle of nocturnal creatures, the distant chirp of a bird disturbed in its rest. A soft breeze burrowed in the open neckline of his shirt, reminding him of a childhood that had seemed to be eternal May, pristine and innocent. How long ago!

  Impulsively, he rolled up his sleeves, then laughed and pulled off his shirt completely. He half-expected to hear the voice of his long-ago nursemaid, chiding him for common behavior that didn’t suit the heir to an ancient dukedom. Gentlemen didn’t go around half-clothed.

  “Rest in peace, Nurse,” he murmured, recalling her with tenderness. He’d stripped naked many a time since those days—and for far less innocent reasons.

  He tossed his shirt over one shoulder, enjoying the gentle breezes on his bare torso, and looked around for a path. The moon showed him a well-beaten track that meandered toward a stand of trees. He remembered seeing the chambermaid this evening, hauling a bucket of water from that direction. Perhaps there was a pond or stream. He chuckled softly. It was a mild night. Maybe he’d further scandalize Nurse’s memory by going for a swim.

  As he entered the grove, he picked his way carefully along the path. The moon shone in patches through the young leaves of the overhanging trees, making vision more difficult. He trod softly, reluctant to disturb the sweet tranquility of the night.

  He heard the gurgle of a stream close by and saw the sparkle of moonbeams on running water. He knelt, cupped his hand, and drank deeply. Perhaps it was the magic of the night, but he couldn’t recall anything he had drunk for weeks—not the finest Madeira or good French wine—that had tasted so delicious.

  He rose to his feet. He felt young, adventurous, free—yet strangely sad and melancholy. What had happened to the carefree lad he once had been? What had turned him into this idle dissolute? Surely there was a moment he had missed—a turning point that might have taken him in a different, more satisfying direction. When had it happened? How had it happened?

  But of course he knew. Damn womankind. Damn… his mother.

  He shook off the black thoughts. No! Tonight, with the earth wrapped in silvery moonlight, was for magic. He felt as though something extraordinary was about to happen. Something that would change his life, lead him to a path more splendid and glittering than the moon-dappled one he now followed.

  Then he laughed, low and sardonic. “You must be an addlepated fool, Thorne, old man,” he muttered. Perhaps the innkeeper had put fairy dust into the wine to disguise its vile flavor. Surely that must be what was putting such ridiculous thoughts into his head.

  Something extraordinary? Nonsense! His life and his future were set: The despairing boredom of marriage with Penelope or some other woman hungry for his title and his money. He sighed. He could see no other alternatives.

  He reached a large tree at the edge of the path and paused to lean against its thick trunk. Beyond its spreading branches was a small clearing, an unexpected strip of sand that led to a pond of water. The rest of the pond was ringed with trees and brush sweeping down to its edges, dim and mysterious.

  But the moon shone full upon the sand, as bright as day, and its reflection danced on the glassy stillness of the water. He was enchanted anew. Fairy dust or not, he wanted to feel the water embracing his naked body, bask in the radiance of that brilliant moon.

  He pulled off his shoes and stockings and stripped off his breeches. The sensual night air caressed his nakedness like a harlot’s hand; he felt a quivering and stirring in his groin. He suddenly ached for a woman. But not a clumsy slattern, like the innkeeper’s wife. Nor even a perfumed beauty who strolled St. James’s Park by day and slept on satin sheets by night. He wanted a goddess, as magical and lovely as this moon-kissed midnight.

  He turned to step out into the clearing, then stopped. He heard the soft whinny of a horse, the gentle thud of hoofs upon packed earth. The sounds seemed to be coming from the far end of the clearing. He shrank back against the tree trunk, concealing his naked body, and waited.

  The woman galloped onto the sand, magnificent upon her horse—a vision of perfection that took his breath away.

  His longed-for goddess.

  Chapter Two

  She was strong and robust, yet possessed of a slender grace. And tall—perhaps even close to his own not inconsiderable height. She sat her horse with easy familiarity, riding astride as a man would. Long bare legs emerged from a white nightdress that had been pulled up to her thighs. Her flesh gleamed silver under the moon.

  She reined in her panting horse and leapt lightly to the ground. Thorne was astonished to see that she had ridden without a saddle, like a wild Gypsy. And surely there was something wild and untamed about her manner, her looks. Her long hair swirled in riotous curls, nearly reaching her waist. And her features, illuminated by the bright moon, were bold and well-defined, with a striking nose and full, sensuous lips. She was splendid—surely the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He wished he could see the color of her night-dark hair, the tint of eyes that caught the moonlight and sparkled.

  Thorne frowned down at his nakedness, then scowled at the stretch of sand that separated him from her. He wasn’t ready to reveal himself, but he longed to see her more closely.

  Just then, she turned toward her horse, murmuring softly and rubbing its ear. Thorne glanced up at the tree that sheltered him. One large branch stretched over the clearing, a perfect vantage point from which to watch her. He took the opportunity of her turned back to leap for the branch, then hauled himself up and crawled stealthily along its length. He grimaced as the rough bark scratched his bare skin, then grinned in the gloom. She was worth a few scratches.

  He settled himself comfortably among the branches and gazed down at the woman, still half believing she was an apparition that had been conjured up by his heated thoughts. A wondrous creature summoned to his presence by the magical night and the luminous, my
stical moonlight.

  Suddenly, she turned and threw her arms wide. A low, throaty chuckle emerged from her mouth. Its sweet sound pierced his soul, made him shiver as he did when he heard a beautiful chord on a church organ. Oh, speak, glorious apparition! he thought, knowing in his heart that her soft tones would surely wash over him like a warm tide.

  Instead—and to his astonishment—she began to dance. A slow, sinuous dance at first, her bare feet gliding dreamily over the sand. She dipped and bent and turned, tossing her mane of hair in time to some imagined tune. But gradually she increased the tempo, until she was spinning and whirling in a dance of wild abandon. Her nightdress fluttered in the breeze, giving him tantalizing glimpses of her limbs, and her musical laughter enchanted him.

  He felt like an intruder, spying on her so shamelessly, but he couldn’t help himself. Who was she? They were near the town of Church Stretton, in the Shropshire hills. Could she be the village madwoman? A roving Gypsy, called out by her ancient heritage to commune with nature? A poor slattern, seeking solace from a hard life by escaping for a few hours of freedom on her master’s stolen horse? Or perhaps she was the enchanted sprite of his dreams. He only knew that the sight of her was spellbinding.

  With a final dizzying spin, she sank to the sand. Thorne sagged against the branch, his heart pounding, his flesh tingling and alive—bathed in a sudden mist of hot sweat. How much is a man expected to endure? But there were more torments in store for him. She suddenly jumped to her feet, untied the strings of her garment and allowed it to slide to the ground.

  He stifled an involuntary gasp. Never had he seen a more inviting body, lush and full-bosomed, pale white in the moon’s glow. Her hips were wonderfully curved, springing from a narrow waist. He felt his manhood harden and stiffen; she might not be real, but God knew his body’s reaction was!

  He had to find out if he was dreaming. He frowned at the tree. He didn’t want to alarm the bewitching creature by dropping abruptly from his perch. Not in his naked state! It would be better to make his way back to the central trunk, slide to the ground and speak to her from the shadows. He might even put on his breeches, at least. He could always take them off again if she proved to be agreeable.

  She turned toward the pond and waded in. By the cross of St. George, he thought, captivated anew. She’s not a Gypsy. She’s an Amazon! Reluctant to take his bedazzled eyes from her for a second, he crawled backward on the branch. His bare foot caught on a twig, which crackled softly. He held his breath and peered intently at her. Had she heard the sound? She hesitated for a moment, as though she were listening, then continued into the water.

  Best not to chance that again, he thought. He’d stay where he was for a while. He didn’t want to break the spell too soon by coming down from the tree. He glanced at his swollen member. Calm yourself, my friend, he thought. There’s time yet.

  He settled himself into the crook of several branches and watched in fascination as she swam. Strong and sure, of course, as he knew she would be. Yet oddly graceful and seductive. His woodland sprite had become a Siren, a mermaid of the deep. He could watch her forever.

  Suddenly, he heard shouting from the far side of the clearing, then saw a glimmer of light. The shouts became words, clear and sharp on the night air.

  “Lady Gloriana! Ho, milady! Are you there?”

  The creature stopped in mid-stroke, then slapped the water in an angry gesture.

  Milady! Thorne thought in surprise. Not some common hoyden after all, but a highborn lady of quality, rebelling against the constraints of her aristocratic life. And not for the first time, surely, if they’d known where to look for her.

  Two horses came into the clearing, bearing a man and a woman. The man was in livery and the woman wore a large white cap and a full apron over her skirts. The man carried a lantern; by its glow, Thorne could see the frown of disapproval on his face.

  Thorne was equally vexed—how dare they intrude on his enjoyment of this vision? But it had its compensations, he decided after a moment. He could see clearly now that the wild head of curls was a glorious red. And green eyes, I’ll wager, he thought, almost sorry that DeWitt wasn’t here to take his bet.

  Lady Gloriana waded toward the shore, her exquisite features stiff and proud. She waved an imperious hand at the man-servant; he looked abashed and turned away. She stepped onto the sand, glared at the maid and held out her arms in the regal pose of a queen waiting for her subjects to do her homage.

  The maid gave a reluctant curtsy, then pulled off her apron and began to dry her mistress. “Oh, milady,” she chided in a peevish tone, “why do you do this all the time? They were frantic back at the Hall, wondering where you’d got to this time. And at this hour, lordamercy!”

  She received nothing but a cold and disdainful stare in response.

  Thorne ached with burning desire. Never had he seen a more elegant, magnificent woman. He watched as the maid dried her beautiful body, helped her into her nightdress, then led her to her waiting horse. There was no need to reveal himself now. He knew her name. Surely there was not another Lady Gloriana from Shropshire among the gentry. He would seek her out and pay court to her in proper fashion, as befitted her station.

  All the while, the maid had kept up a steady stream of reproaches and complaints, berating her mistress for her wild ways. Thorne was indignant. Surely a lady like that wouldn’t endure such insolence much longer! He waited for the moment when she would speak her displeasure. He was hungry for the sound of the noble, cultured voice that would emerge.

  Instead, she stamped her foot and glared at her maid. The girl’s tirade died in mid-sentence, squashed by her mistress’s proud and haughty manner.

  As Lady Gloriana was about to mount her horse, she stopped and turned toward the trees. She strode purposefully to the edge of the clearing, then stooped and picked up a large rock, the size of a child’s head. Thorne held his breath as she marched toward the tree in which he was hiding.

  She squinted up into the dark foliage, her exquisite mouth twisted into a sneer. “Bloody Peepin’ Tom!” she shrilled. Her voice was sharp-pitched and common, blistering his ears. “Arse-lickin’ fool! Damned whore-mongerin’ sot! Ain’t you never seen no lady till now?”

  She hauled back and pitched the huge rock into the tree, dislodging Thorne from his perch. As he tumbled wildly through the branches, she stomped to her horse, leaped on its back and galloped out of the clearing.

  Thorne lay at the base of the tree, winded. His body ached all over, and he could feel the sting of innumerable scratches on his bare flesh. She’d known, by God! The harridan had known all along that he was watching. And the sweet voice that he had expected to hear? Christ Jesus! Every foul word out of her mouth had put the lie to her beautiful, elegant exterior.

  His blood boiled with anger. He felt used, outraged, humiliated at being caught like a schoolboy, spying and hiding where he had no business being. He might have broken a few bones in his fall—had the witch considered that?

  But as he dressed, wincing as his clothes came in contact with his scratches, he began to laugh. What an adventure! Surely it had been an extraordinary night after all.

  He hurried back to the inn, more intrigued than ever by the Lady Gloriana. DeWitt was a font of gossip. No doubt he could shed some light on the curious creature. He dashed into the inn and raced up the stairs.

  He saw the chambermaid shuffling down the hall, rubbing her bottom unhappily, and holding a small sack of coins in her palm. Felix would have finished his business, which always seemed to conclude with a few vicious slaps. Without knocking, he marched into DeWitt’s room.

  Felix was sitting on the bed, quite naked. He glanced up in surprise. “You really ought to knock, friend Thorne,” he said. “But she was a delicate morsel, whatever her name was.”

  Thorne scowled. “Any port in the storm to satisfy your cock?”

  DeWitt shrugged and reached for his breeches. “A woman is just a handy piece of meat.”

>   “But a human being,” he growled.

  “Since when have you, the great Duke of Thorneleigh, had such concern for the lower orders?”

  His own high-handed past was beginning to shame him. “Perhaps it’s time I learned to show a crumb of concern,” he muttered.

  DeWitt fastened the buttons on his breeches, ambled to the table and poured two glasses of wine. “And to what do we owe this sudden transformation? Have you seen God?”

  No, he thought. I’ve seen a contradiction. He felt his anger toward DeWitt ebbing. Why should he judge the man? He himself had chosen the world he traveled in. “Just an odd conversation I overheard tonight,” he said aloud, taking the offered glass of wine. “About a Lady Gloriana. Is she the local madwoman here in Shropshire?”

  DeWitt snorted. “Scarcely a madwoman. She’s a harlot. But magnificent to behold, they say.”

  Thorne sank into a chair, his brain reeling. “A harlot?” Surely DeWitt was mistaken.

  “She used to be. A veritable lift-skirts, accustomed to the dregs of London’s meanest streets. Oh, friend Thorne, didn’t you hear the story?” He frowned in thought. “No, perhaps you didn’t. It was last autumn and Christmas, when you were traveling on the Continent.”

  “What story?”

  “The lady in question is the Lady Gloriana Baniard. Do you remember the family? Years ago. Sir William Baniard, Baronet. He and his wife and children were falsely accused of treason and transported to America. Sold into bond servitude. Their estate, of course, was confiscated. In time, one daughter, Allegra, having served out the terms of her bondage, made her way back to England and married Greyston Morgan, Viscount Ridley.”

  “A decent man. I’ve met him once or twice at Court.”

  “Yes. And possessed of a fortune I’d kill to own myself. He cleared the Baniard name and bought back Baniard Hall as a present for his wife. They live only a few miles from here, on Wenlock Edge. Husband and wife are quite unfashionably devoted to one another, I’m told.”