by Lily Reynard
She was seated behind her desk, a large ledger spread before her, and the household steward, Reeves, in attendance. Not wanting to interrupt, Kit halted in the doorway.
Sweetheart, who was standing on a perch near the study windows, saw him first.
"Hello," the big gray-and-white bird said, very softly.
"I promised the earl that I would send for strawberries from Long Cranbourne, as well as two of this year's lambs, and as many baskets of fresh mint as can be spared—" Lady Cranbourne looked up and Kit saw the quick flash of her smile. "Do come in, Kit, I am nearly finished here."
Kit seated himself in one of the study's hard walnut chairs, and allowed himself the small pleasure of studying her as she dipped her quill in her inkpot and briskly wrote out a list while simultaneously questioning Reeves as to how many of the Cranbourne House servants might be willing to help out at the earl's ball, and how much to pay for the extra work.
Her face and neck were brushed with a light dusting of orris-root powder, which smoothed out her complexion and filled the study with the light, pleasant scent of iris in addition to her usual orange-flower water.
She was dressed in a loose, embroidered cotton gown, and her hair shone with deep mahogany highlights.
As she leaned forward and reached for the sand-shaker to dry the completed sheet of writing, Kit's gaze fell to the front of her gown.
He imagined himself reaching out, and slowly drawing a line with his forefinger from the hollow at the base of her throat down to the fascinating cleft between her soft, white breasts. He'd be able to feel her heartbeat fluttering against his finger like the rapid beat of a moth's wings...
His arousal took him by surprise. Thankful for his baggy breeches, Kit hastily looked away and studied the contents of the study's bookshelves, fiercely willing his body to subside.
Even if she ever stooped to bedding one of her servants, Kit could not imagine making love to the woman he would shortly force into a marriage with his useless half-brother.
Bad enough that Lady Cranbourne thinks that we are friends, and that she trusts me...
She handed the list to Reeves, who bowed to her, gave Kit a curt nod, then departed.
Lady Cranbourne put down her pen, and wiped the ink from her fingers on a handkerchief. "So, how go my stalwart footmen and their rapiers?"
"I'd not trust them with real swords yet. They do enough damage to each other with just the staves. It's exacting a fearsome toll in missing teeth and broken noses." Kit gave an exaggerated shudder, then continued in a more serious tone. "Two or three show potential, but you will not be able to rely on their swordsmanship for quite some time to come, my lady."
She let the ink-stained handkerchief fall on the desk, and leaned back. "Ah, but if I tell certain people at court that my fearsome Dutch giant—yes, that's you and stop laughing, Kit—is training my footmen in deadly arts, it might provide just the right sort of, ahem, discouragement." Her gray eyes were twinkling.
"I bow to your wisdom, my lady," Kit said dryly. "If they can refrain from killing each other the first time they're given real blades. Now, as for the problem of the illicit gates—the Waldersleys have agreed to brick up theirs if we'll allow them passage through the grounds to the boat stairs. I have told them that will be acceptable since your porter can—"
They were interrupted by Sweetheart's sudden screech. "Wanna go ride! Hello!"
He fanned his red tail and peered eagerly through the window, bobbing and dancing from foot to foot.
A moment later, Kit heard the clatter of horses and the crunching of gravel from the front drive. Through the study windows, he saw a coach pull up to the house.
"I wonder who—oh, it's Mall!" Lady Cranbourne sprang up.
Kit followed her out and emerged from the house in time to see her envelop her rumpled-looking maid in a joyous embrace. Mall, her bright copper hair having escaped its braid under her rumpled cap, returned the hug, then pushed herself away and tried to tuck frizzy curls behind her ears.
"Oh, milady, you shouldn't," she protested, looking nervously at the rapidly gathering crowd of servants.
"Nonsense," replied her mistress. "Now, get you inside and I'll order up a meal while you refresh yourself."
* * *
Kit saw little of Lady Cranbourne until suppertime, when he arrived in the dining room and found her already seated. Mall stood behind her chair, as was proper for a servant, but she was leaning over her mistress's shoulder, and both women were giggling.
Kit made his bows and seated himself at the table. "How does your brother, Miss Mall?"
"He is healing very well. The bullet broke a rib, so he has quite a bit of soreness, but very little inflammation, and I thank God for it," Mall replied, cheerfully, straightening up but keeping one hand on the chair back.
Her hair had been re-braided under her cap, and she had changed into a clean gown.
"I'm glad to hear it," Kit said. "He's a brave young man."
"He's a reckless young fool," Mall said with a rueful smile. "And he talks of nothing but how you dispatched those highwaymen, and how he wishes to be like you."
"I deeply regret my corrupting influence," Kit said, unable to suppress a grin.
Lady Cranbourne waited until the food had been served, then she leaned forward.
"We—" She looked back at Mall, "have been discussing what costumes to wear to the earl's ball. It's to be a masquerade in the French fashion, with all the guests in disguises. King Louis and his gentlemen of the chamber showed up as identical yew trees at a ball held last year. We must try to think of something clever, as well."
"Why, you should go as Penelope, of course," Kit said, a slice of cold pork pie raised halfway to his mouth.
Lady Cranbourne laughed, but Mall looked puzzled.
"Penelope was wife to the Greek warrior Odysseus," Lady Cranbourne explained. "Her husband was gone fighting the Trojan War for ten long years, and in his absence, suitors tried to force her into marriage. She evaded them with a clever stratagem involving her loom and an unfinished tapestry."
"You could wear loose robes and dress your hair with a fillet of gold ribbon," Kit suggested. "And carry a shuttle wound with some yarn."
"I like it," Lady Cranbourne said. "But what of you? Will you dress as Odysseus?"
Their glances locked for an instant, then both looked away.
"I can't think of a good costume for me," Kit said, discomfited by his reaction to her. "But perhaps...Bacchus? Robes like yours, with a garland of vine leaves? The earl has forbidden the wearing of swords, but I can carry a quarterstaff wound with ivy and topped with a pinecone as part of my costume."
"Ever practical," Lady Cranbourne said, approvingly. "And what of you, Mall? Will you go clad as a Greek wood nymph? I think a gown of dark green and a crown of oak leaves would suit you splendidly.""
Mall grinned. "If I don't have to go half-naked like those Greek statues. I don't want to show my boobies to the world."
* * *
Polly's face fell when she entered Antonia's rooms after supper ended. "Yes, milady?"
Antonia gave a silent sigh. She hated to disappoint the girl, for Polly had tried so hard to please her.
"Polly, I wished to thank you for taking on extra duties in Mall's absence." She offered two gold guineas to the girl, who looked torn between dismay at losing her prestigious temporary position and delight at receiving a year's wages as a gift.
Polly snatched at the coins, then curtsied deeply. "Thank you, milady!"
"Now that Mall has returned, you may return to your usual position of chambermaid—" Antonia began, then paused, halted by Polly's stricken expression. "Or, if you wish to seek employment elsewhere as a lady's maid, I will write you a letter of recommendation."
Polly's eyes widened. "Oh, no, milady. Please don't send me away! I want to stay here, I do! Thomas Godwin, my betrothed, is one of your footmen, and this is a godly household. I want to stay here, I do!"
"Then, of course you may. You
do good work and I am pleased to have you in my household. You may go."
Polly curtsied again, still obviously unhappy, and left.
"She'll be trouble, mark my words, milady," Mall said, picking up a hairbrush. "T'other servants already told me what airs she gave herself. She'll not be content to be a mere chambermaid again."
"I know," Antonia agreed. "But what can I do? I'll not replace you, Mall, unless you wish to leave. And certainly not before the ball."
Mall pulled the pins from Antonia's hair and began to brush out the loose curls. "About the ball, milady—is it wise to take Mr. Fitzgeorge as your escort? People will talk..."
"People will always talk," Antonia said, closing her eyes. "And it would be foolish to venture forth unprotected."
"Forgive me for saying it, but he appears to have become more than just your bodyguard," Mall said. "At supper, I saw how he looked at you...and you at him."
Antonia felt her cheeks heat. "I haven't taken him as my lover, if that's what you're asking," she said sharply.
Just speaking the possibility out loud felt deliciously wicked, though.
"Perhaps not, but I think you're infatuated." Mall shook her head. "It's foolish, milady, and you'll have nothing but heartache and humiliation and scandal from it. Are there no handsome dukes or suchlike seeking a wife?"
"Well, perhaps there is one."
Despite Kit's warnings, Antonia was still fascinated by Thornsby.
"He's an earl, a Gentleman of the King's Bedchamber, and very handsome. I know it's my fortune that interests him most, but perhaps there's something more."
"That's good, milady," Mall pronounced. "I'll look for him when we go to Court tomorrow."
And let you know if he's worthy, remained unspoken, but Antonia heard it nevertheless.
* * *
That night, Antonia waged war with scratchy sheets and lumpy pillows as her thoughts, spurred by Mall's comments, wore a path round and round the topic of Kit.
She was forced to admit to herself that she had been storing away little nuggets of information about him like jewels in a coffer. His favorite tale from the Metamorphoses. His fondness for fruit tarts served with cream. His wistful references to his daughter.
I cannot be falling in love with him!
Was his chest hairy or smooth? Did he have scars? Where were they?
She wanted to undress him, to breach the barriers of linen and wool separating them and discover the answers. The brush of his lips against the back of her hand made her wonder what his kiss would feel like against her own mouth.
How many lovers has he had? Is he with someone now?
Antonia bit her lip, jealousy clawing her heart with almost unbearable pain. Oh please, let it not be so. Please let him be alone in his bed...and thinking of me as I think of him.
She had been a virtuous wife, and a chaste widow. She should not be longing for a taste of Kit's skin, salty with exertion, nor should she want to feel him inside her, possessing and surrounding her as she possessed and surrounded him.
Those joys were reserved for the marriage bed, where they were sanctified instead of sinful.
She knew she ought to send Kit away with a handful of guineas, and sever their association before she yielded to her desire for him.
But she didn't want to. She wanted to fall asleep in his arms, sated with his lovemaking.
Was he a slow lover, taking his time to make her ready like her husband used to do? Or he was he quick, forceful?
Antonia remembered her first day at Whitehall, coming upon Lady Castlemaine and a gentleman coupling furtively in a corner. Their movements had been frantic, almost violent—there had been nothing of gentleness, or love, or restraint in that act.
Antonia imagined Kit doing the same to her, and the sudden fierce ache between her thighs took her by surprise.
That was ever my difficulty, she thought, flinging back the bed curtains in a vain attempt to cool her heated skin. I want things I ought not, and the things I want are denied me.
All her life she had been taught to observe moderation in all things, to deny not the use of God's blessings, but avoid excess lest she should be forgetful of the Donor.
But she wanted to be immoderate with this man. Oh, how she wanted to.
Chapter Twelve
"Watch a man in times of...adversity to discover what kind of man he is; for then at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart, and the mask is torn off..." —Lucretius, On the Nature of Things (ca. 55 BC)
May 29th (Restoration Day)
Spurred by the possibility that the king might attend, the acceptances to the Earl of Cranbourne's ball flowed in like a torrent.
In the last few days before the event, Lady Cranbourne was kept busy helping her nephew with his preparations, and Kit found himself vexed with conflicting emotions.
I'm an experienced mercenary, he reminded himself. He had killed many men, fought in many battles.
Yet no contract had ever filled him with the trepidation that Julian's commission now did.
He had used his time in London to make all the arrangements for Lady Cranbourne's abduction.
He had found a boatman with whom he had once soldiered in France, and knew the man to be trustworthy and reliable. Julian's coin had paid for both cooperation and silence—they would be miles downriver before anyone noticed Lady Cranbourne's absence.
Kit had also hired a boy to ride his horse to Woolwich, and to stable the beast at an inn near the docks.
Now the time had come. The last rays of twilight still shone on the smooth waters of the river as Lady Cranbourne, Kit, and Mall got into a boat and headed upriver for the Buckingham Stairs.
As they pushed away from Cranbourne House, Kit's stomach churned, as if he were about to go into battle.
He struggled to maintain a normal demeanor, complimenting the women on their costumes and exchanging joking banter with Lady Cranbourne. But all the while his mind was running through all of the last-minute details of his plan.
As they got into a hackney coach and drove to Hampstead House, Lady Cranbourne smiled at him nervously.
She looked beautiful tonight. Her hair dressed simply in an antique style, caught up with ribbons. Her gown was cleverly draped with thin peacock silk in a style that mimicked the flowing garments of the women on the earl's ancient Greek vases. He caught enticing glimpses of her bosom, swelling above her low-cut bodice and barely hidden by the nearly-transparent fabric.
Mall wore a dark green gown in a more modest cut, an oak-leaf crown trimmed with green ribbons threaded through her mass of copper hair, and a green-dyed mask. As planned, Kit had come as Bacchus, one arm and shoulder left bare by his tunic, a wreath of vine leaves on his head and ivy twined around a stout quarterstaff.
With an effort, he returned Lady Cranbourne's smile. He wished he had not accepted Julian's offer. If only there was some other way I might assure Margaret's welfare.
But there wasn't. Not for a soldier who could no longer fight.
"Kit, are you well?" Antonia asked, surprising him.
"Do you really think the king will attend tonight?" he asked. Let her think I am nervous about meeting royalty!
Antonia's mouth quirked under the line of her mask. "Perhaps. His Majesty much enjoys dancing."
All too soon, the coach clattered up to the entrance to Hampstead House.
Kit followed Antonia into the gallery, where the last tangerine wash of twilight though the long wall of windows was eclipsed by the golden radiance cast by hundreds of candles. They glowed like stars from among the glass flowers of the Venetian chandeliers, from tall gilded stands, and along the walls in mirror-backed sconces.
The gallery had been cleared of its furniture and rugs, revealing a polished floor laid in geometric patterns of brown walnut and golden oak. Long garlands of fresh flowers strung with sweet herbs and ribbons were twined around the pillars and looped in garlands around the doorways and chandeliers.
Snatches
of melody and interrupted chords came from a low dais at the far end of the room, where musicians were tuning their instruments.
They were the first to arrive, Kit noticed, coming to an uncertain halt in the middle of the gallery. He looked from side to side through the eye slits in his mask, feeling horribly exposed. He tightened his grip on his staff, and smelled the sharp scent of bruised ivy.
Servants were moving small card-tables and chairs into adjoining rooms, carrying piles of snowy folded linens and plates, and setting up a magnificent supper table crowded with punch-bowls and platters of fruit, roast beef, baked eels, scarlet boiled lobster, fresh oysters, sliced roasted lamb, pastries, and a hundred other delicacies.
Antonia came to a halt beside him, and looked as lost as he. Kit saw her hand raise to her cheek, as was her habit when she was nervous, then pull away at the last second, as if she had suddenly remembered the heavy layer of cosmetics.
Then the earl rushed in and gave Antonia a hearty kiss.
In keeping with the mythological theme, he had dressed as Mercury, with small foil wings attached to heels of his laced buskins, a polished helmet, and a traveler's cloak over a short, draped chiton and hose.
"Welcome, Aunt! Come help me greet my guests," he said, as excited as a boy as Kit made his bows and Mall curtsied, wide-eyed at all the preparations.
Feeling self-conscious in his wreath and scanty garments, Kit withdrew to the side of the gallery to watch Antonia and the earl.
Then the nobility began arriving, and Kit no longer worried about being conspicuous.
There were men dressed as women; women dressed as men; a Green Man clothed in the leaves and branches befitting a woodland deity; wolves; lions, bears; goddesses; Roman senators; saints carrying the instruments of their martyrdom, knights in antique chain mail and colorful surcotes; princesses wearing gowns and tall cone-shaped headdresses in the style of three hundred years past; and even a costume in the shape of a towering oak, decorated with fresh-cut twigs and in constant danger from the banks of candles.
Kit found himself goggling at the flesh displayed by the scandalously-cut gowns on some of the noblewomen. The diaphanous gown on one slender nymph showed very clearly the lack of a bodice or even a chemise.
