Trapped at the Altar

by Jane Feather

  “And do you need help?” she demanded.

  Gabriel shook his head. “Not really, but back in Somerset, I didn’t have a chance to thank her properly. She said she had no time to talk and ran off before I could discover anything but her name. Her note said to meet her in the park tomorrow.” He offered a hesitant smile. “I own it will be pleasant to see a familiar face, to talk with someone from back home. London is a big place.”

  “That it is,” Tilly agreed. Her eyes were on the puppy, rooting happily in the cracks between the cobbles. She could quite understand what the young man must be feeling. She was homesick herself often enough.

  “I know I should wait until tomorrow to see her,” Gabriel said with disarming frankness. “But ’tis Christmas Day, and I miss my family. I thought perhaps if I could just hear a familiar voice, like yours, mistress, I might find it easier to . . . oh, foolish nonsense.” He cut himself off with a shrug. “I daresay you’ll be celebrating Christmas with much merriment. Roast goose, perhaps?”

  Tilly nodded. “Oh, that an’ all the rest,” she said. “Pies and puddings. Once they come back from the palace, the feast will begin.” She stopped as the puppy squatted on a scraggly patch of grass to relieve herself. “That’s a good girl,” she said approvingly, turning back to the house. “I’d best be getting along now, sir. Still a lot to do in the kitchen.”

  “Yes, of course.” He half turned to leave. “A Merry Christmas to you, mistress.”

  Tilly lifted her hand to the door latch. “And a Merry Christmas to you, sir.” She stood for a moment with her hand on the latch, then said abruptly, “If you’ve a mind to take your Christmas dinner in the kitchen with us, you’d be welcome, sir. If you’ve nowhere better to go.”

  Tilly was naturally warmhearted, and the man was lonely and homesick and far too thin and pale. He was a Somerset lad, a farmer’s boy, although, judging by his raiment, he came from well-to-do farming stock, and whatever his connection with Miss Ari, it gave him the right of Somerset hospitality. There was more than enough to go around in her kitchen. And maybe, Tilly thought, she might pick up some enlightening information as the wine flowed freely at the table.

  Gabriel heard himself thanking her, introducing himself, and accepting the invitation, even though his rational self screamed that it was madness. He was walking into the proverbial lion’s den. But the temptation to be under the same roof as Ari was irresistible. She was at the palace right now, and even after she returned, if he stayed in the kitchen, there would be no danger of them meeting. Grand ladies, as Ariadne so clearly was now, did not frequent kitchens. But he might be able to catch a glimpse, maybe even get some inkling of what her life with her husband was like. The servants might talk a little or respond to a gentle prod.

  “Come you in, then, Master Gabriel,” Tilly said briskly. “There’s a seat by the range and a cup of sack.”

  Gabriel followed her into the square hall and through a door at the rear leading down a narrow flight of stairs to the kitchen, filled with the aromas of roasting goose and apples and steaming puddings and a constant mist of flour rising from the long table, where a young girl in cap and apron was rolling pastry for mince pies. For a moment, he was overcome with a wash of homesickness, for the life he had once led in the square Somersetshire farmhouse, where talk of war and rebellion was generally muffled in the tankards of scrumpy and October ale.

  Ariadne wondered how long this interminable service in the chapel could possibly continue. The incense was making her head ache, and the monotonous chanting made her want to sleep where she stood, shifting from one foot to the other. But finally, it came to an end, and the Duke and his wife moved out of their box and processed, their retinue behind them, out of the chapel. The rest of the congregation followed suit, all as relieved as Ariadne, as far as she could tell from the renewed buzz of conversation and the haste with which they pushed through the chapel doors.

  The crowd crossed the large central courtyard to the Banqueting Hall. The brisk chill air awoke Ari and banished her headache. A young woman came up beside her and said, “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “No.” Ari turned swiftly. “I am but recently arrived in London.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Indeed, I know no one but my husband.”

  “Oh, you know his majesty well enough to receive one of his prized puppies as a gift, and you know her grace of Portsmouth, it seems, which means you have made your curtsy to her majesty,” the young woman responded. “I would say you’ve done rather well for such a newcomer.”

  Ari looked for the sting but couldn’t find it. She laughed. “If you put it like that, madam, then I would have to agree with you. But in truth, it doesn’t feel like it.” She tilted her head in inquiry. “I am Ariadne Chalfont . . .” The question mark hung in her voice.

  “Madeleine Covington, a very junior lady of the bedchamber to her grace the Duchess of York.” The girl grimaced. “A very junior attendant on her grace.”

  “A thankless task?” Ari hazarded, reading between the lines. Ladies of the royal bedchambers were always of noble families, but the younger ones were often treated worse than lowly kitchen maids.

  Her companion laughed. “You could say that, but you’ll keep it to yourself if you’re wise. I am to count my blessings and hope for a rich and noble husband.”

  Ari smiled her comprehension as they entered the vast Banqueting Hall. The King and his consort were already seated on a raised dais at the far end, and the Duke and Duchess took their places with them. Musicians played in the galleries above, and the long tables in the body of the hall were piled with platters of roast meats and baskets of bread.

  Ari looked around for her husband, but it was almost impossible to see anything in the crowd. Velvet, damask, silk, fur brushed past her as she stood at a loss, once more alone. She managed to make out Madeleine Covington standing behind the Duchess of York’s chair, but there were no other familiar faces. People were surging to the long benches at the tables, somehow seeming to know where they should sit. Ariadne knew there would be a hierarchy; the salt cellars were very prominently displayed two-thirds of the way down the table. Was she elevated sufficiently to sit above the salt?

  Fortunately, before she had to think about testing her position, she felt Ivor behind her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, murmuring into her ear, “Come, we have done sufficient duty for today. No one will look for us in this mob. Let us go home to our own table.”

  “Oh, can we?” She looked over her shoulder at him, relief clear in her eyes. “I don’t think I can bear another minute of this.”

  For answer, he cupped her elbow and eased her out through the clamoring throng to the doors. They edged through the constant stream of servers bearing huge silver platters above their heads, as they dodged and weaved through the crowd to the tables, and finally reached the blessed cool air of the courtyard.

  “What a nightmare,” Ari breathed. “I don’t think I could face coming back here, Ivor.”

  “You can, and you must,” he responded steadily. “But enough for one day. We’re going home.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Ariadne went into her bedchamber as soon as they reached home and discarded her cloak, gloves, and muff, dropping them on the bed. “Ivor . . . Ivor, could you help me, please?” she called over her shoulder through the open bedchamber door.

  Ivor came in at once, unclasping his sword belt. “What do you need?”

  “Unlace me and help me out of this gown, please. Tilly will be busy in the kitchen.” She tugged at the front lacing of her bodice. “We’re not going out again, and I can’t eat in these clothes.”

  He laughed. “It would be a pity to drop goose grease on them, I agree.” He moved her hands aside and unlaced her bodice. She shrugged her shoulders, shaking her arms, and the overgown fell to the floor, the rich emerald damask puddling at her feet. She stepped away from it, kicking off her heeled sandals as she turned to give him her back so that he could unlace the underdres
s.

  Ivor took his time, unthreading the laces one by one, enjoying the way her body seemed to slip from its casing, her pale skin with its faint pink tone glowing beneath the fine muslin of her chemise as he eased the apple-green silk underdress away from her. He placed his hands on the rounded tips of her shoulders, feeling the warmth of the flesh beneath, then moved his hands down, molding the fine material to her shape so that her body was clearly outlined.

  “We don’t have time for this, Ivor,” she murmured in faint and unconvincing protest as his flattened palms pushed up beneath the chemise to caress the smooth, silky roundness of her bottom.

  For answer, he propelled her two steps forwards to the bed, bending her at the waist so that her hands were flat upon the coverlet. Ari felt cool air laving her heated skin as he pushed the chemise up beyond her waist, moving a knowing hand around to caress her sex, a finger slipping into the warm and moistening cleft. His free hand released his penis from the laces of his britches, and his loins pressed hard against her as she thrust her hips back, her thighs parted to receive his length.

  He drove deep and fast, and her hips moved with him, her breath coming in gasps, her head thrown back as the speed and power of his thrusts brought them to an orgasmic peak that made her cry out as her head fell forward. She felt his teeth graze her bared nape in a little nibbling kiss of possession that brought a soft moan of pleasure to her lips, and she slid forward until she was lying half on and half off the bed, her chemise rucked up around her waist, her bare legs dangling in an abandoned sprawl.

  Ivor looked down at her, his eyes filled with a deep masculine satisfaction, born from his own fulfillment and the knowledge of hers. “What a glorious wanton I have taken to wife,” he declared, bending over her to turn her onto her back, taking her hands and hoisting her to her feet. He kissed her mouth, hard and then gently, his lips lightly brushing hers, his tongue dipping into the corners in a warm, moist caress.

  “Come, now, that little exercise has left me sharp-set, and I can smell roast goose from here.”

  Ari laughed, an exultant laugh redolent of the heated excitement of the last minutes. She shook down her chemise and went to the armoire for a lavender velvet morning gown edged with Brussels lace. It was a comfortable garment for wearing in private, fastened down the front with pearl buttons in black velvet loops, but it was certainly elegant enough for receiving visitors, not that they were expecting any this Christmas Day. She sat at the dresser to tidy her hair.

  Ivor refastened his britches and glanced at his image in the mirror, standing behind his wife. His hands rested for a moment on her shoulders. “Happy?”

  She nodded, covering his hands with her own before rising from the stool. “Very, but also very hungry.”

  Smiling, he followed her out of the bedchamber. Tilly was in the salon when they entered, setting out a decanter of Canary wine with some savory tarts. “Thought you’d like a little something while we get dinner on the table.”

  “A good thought, Tilly. We’re famished.” Ivor reached for the decanter. “Praying makes a man hungry.” He poured wine into two goblets and passed one to Ari. She took it with a smile of thanks, inhaled the sweet aroma, and promptly sneezed . . . and sneezed . . . and sneezed. Her eyes were streaming as she reached blindly for the side table to get rid of her full glass before it spilled everywhere.

  Ivor was quite accustomed to Ari’s sneezing fits. Anything could bring them on, inside or outside, it didn’t seem to matter, and they were unstoppable. Deftly, he rescued her glass and without a word hastened from the room to the bedchamber for a handkerchief and lavender water.

  He burrowed through the drawers in the dresser for the pile of handkerchiefs, and his hand encountered a smooth vial. Curious, he took it out and held it up. It was unmarked, just a green glass vial with an oiled stopper. He twisted out the stopper and smelled the contents, his nose wrinkling. Vile, sulfurous stuff. He’d never seen Ari take any of it and wondered why she kept it buried deep under her undergarments. Probably some female potion, he decided with a shrug, picking up the lavender water and a couple of handkerchiefs and hurrying back to the salon, where Ari, nose and eyes streaming, was poised for another sneeze.

  “Here.” He handed her the handkerchiefs, and she buried her face in them, pressing the bridge of her nose tightly, which sometimes worked. The lavender water under her nose finally did the trick and Ari leaned back against her chair, dabbing at her eyes and nose.

  “Let me try the wine again, Ivor.” Her hand reached out for her glass.

  “I hope that’s wise.” He passed her the glass somewhat warily.

  “It’s all right, it’s over.” She took a relieved sip of her wine, and her bright color died down. “Forgive me, I don’t know why it happens.”

  He shrugged. “At least I’m no longer afraid you’re having an apoplexy. The first time I saw that happen, I was convinced you’d been possessed by a fiend.” He laughed and picked up the decanter again. “I must have been about ten.”

  “Dinner is served, sir, my lady,” Tilly announced formally from the door. “I thought you wouldn’t mind if we didn’t serve the boar’s head, seein’ as ’tis only the two of you.”

  “Of course not, Tilly. We’d hardly expect it,” Ari reassured her. The full ritual of the boar’s head and its accompanying carol was all very well for the royal feast in the Banqueting Hall but somewhat out of place in the more modest accommodations of Dacre Street.

  “No, time enough for that when we have a quiverful of children to grace the festivities,” Ivor said with seeming casualness as he led the way to the dining salon.

  Tilly glanced back at Ari, who pretended she hadn’t caught the glance and took her seat at the long table. “I wish you and the men would join us at table, Tilly, just as you would have done in the valley,” she said, diverting the subject.

  “Oh, no, miss, ’tis different here in town. The servants all eat together in the kitchens, and it’ll be a right jolly party, I’m sure,” Tilly returned with a complacent smile. “We’re not short of good victuals and sack, thanks to Sir Ivor.” She bestowed a special smile upon him. “You just settle in to the goose and ring that bell when you need me.” She bustled away, her tawny woolen skirts swinging about her with the energy of her stride.

  “It does seem rather an indulgent feast for just two people,” Ari said, regarding the laden table, the golden roasted goose surrounded by baked apples, a glistening pink ham, a raised game pie with red currant jelly, dishes of artichokes and mushrooms and buttered salsify.

  “We’ve earned it.” Ivor carved the goose.

  In the kitchen below, the levels of sack in the flagons went down steadily amid general merriment. The food was demolished, baskets of bread disappearing as fast as the little kitchen maid could replenish them from the bread oven. Gabriel sat at his ease in a place of honor at the top of the table, one hand negligently around his sack cup, feeling relaxed for the first moment since that afternoon on the cliff when he’d escaped from the Daunt men.

  Although why he should feel relaxed he couldn’t imagine, sitting there as he was in the heart of enemy territory, drinking his rival’s wine and eating his food. But a full belly could do wonders for a man. He was perfectly at home in this company of working men. His father, for all that he bore the title of squire, did not disdain the company of his own farm workers at the farmhouse table on high days and holidays, and Christmas was always a big family feast.

  Juno was playing tug-of-war with his boot, and he indulged the puppy idly, flicking his toes against her little teeth.

  “Oh, give over, you little menace,” Jeb said, pushing the puppy to one side with his foot. “Don’t let her pester you, master, even if she does come from the King’s own bitch. No good spoilin’ ’em.”

  “True enough,” Gabriel agreed, but he bent and scooped the puppy onto his knee and gave her a morsel of goose from his trencher. “She’s a pretty little thing, though.”

  “Indeed, she
is,” a light and oh, so familiar voice chimed from the doorway. “And she shouldn’t be down here pestering you. We came to wish you all a merry Christmas and to th—”

  Ariadne stood in the open kitchen doorway, Ivor just behind her, smiling at the company. She had spoken as she heard the exchange between Gabriel and Jeb on the bottom step of the kitchen stairs, but the words died on her lips. She stared at the man sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by Daunt men, and her hand flew to her throat. A fleeting gesture as she wrestled for some semblance of control over her face and voice. Her gaze flicked to Tilly, who was stirring something in a pan over the range. The girl did not turn to greet the newcomers, but Ari could see by her stiff back that she was rigid with tension.

  “Yes, indeed, a merry Christmas to you all,” Ivor chimed in, giving Ari a precious moment to gather herself. “And we wanted to thank you all for your loyal service this last year. There have been some difficult times, I know.” He smiled around the group, and then his eye fell upon the newcomer. “Ah, a stranger in our midst?”

  He directed a raised eyebrow at Tilly, who, still concentrating on her stirring, muttered, “I found the young man on the street, Sir Ivor, all alone on Christmas Day and new to the city. ’Tis our Christian duty to make all welcome on this day of all days.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself. It was exactly how it had happened.

  There was no reason to question such a statement. Ivor inclined his head in acknowledgment. “As you say, Tilly.” He turned to Gabriel. “I bid you welcome, sir. Where are you from?”