by Lily Reynard
"And why do you doubt Mr. Fitzgeorge's claims?" Thornsby asked, intently.
"I don't know anything for certain, my lord," Polly admitted. "But Mr. Fitzgeorge isn't like the other gentlemen I've met. For one thing, he's never exactly said how he's related to you, and when every gentleman comes calling on milady, they're very exact about being Lord So-and-so's cousin or nephew, if you know what I mean."
"Indeed, I do. That's very interesting," Lord Thornsby said, encouragingly. "Is there anything else you've noticed?"`
"Well," replied Polly, thinking.
Mr. Fitzgeorge just didn't ring true as a gentleman, but exactly why was that?
"He's got learning—he and milady are always talking about books over supper—but he allows some of the footmen to call him 'Kit' and I've never known a gentleman to do that. And some of the stories he's told about being a soldier—he wasn't an officer, just a mercenary. I've never heard of a gentleman who wasn't an officer."
"Nor have I," Thornsby said. "I think your suspicions may be correct, Polly. Christopher Fitzgeorge doesn't sound—or act—like any member of my family, no matter how rusticated or distantly related. Now, is there anything else you can tell me?"
I saw him kissing milady, she thought, but shook her head. "No, my lord. I'm just worried about milady's reputation with that...that man in her house, and him so familiar with her."
"How familiar?" Thornsby reached out and grasped Polly's hand.
It was warm, his palms and fingers smooth and uncallused.
"I-I've heard him use her Christian name," she admitted.
"Have you seen them kissing?"
Polly remained mute, but her cheeks grew hot.
"Polly! Have they kissed?" His hand tightened painfully on hers.
Finally, she nodded, feeling for the first time in this conversation as if she had truly betrayed her mistress. "I saw them."
"Well." He frowned, but he sounded oddly happy to hear it.
He rose and she scrambled to follow suit. "You've been very helpful, Polly. I'm sure you've guessed that I had hopes of my lady Cranbourne as the next Countess of Thornsby?"
"Yes, my lord." She bobbed a curtsey, uncomfortably aware that he still had not released her hand.
She tried withdrawing, but he held fast, and pulled her nearer him.
"You're very pretty, Polly," he said in a voice like honey, his long lashes dipping as he surveyed her.
He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her close.
Alarmed, she tried to pull free. "My lord, please don't!"
He grinned, showing white teeth, and used a finger to loosen the kerchief tucked modestly at the neck of her gown, touching bare skin. She jumped a little with the shock of it—no man except her betrothed, Thomas, had ever taken a liberty like this. "Would another guinea make you willing?"
"No!" She pushed against him, hard.
Freed from his grasp, she turned and ran for the door. Her heart was pounding with terror.
She was a Londoner born and bred, and had been in service all her life. She'd been told since childhood never to let herself be trapped alone by a man, never to allow herself to be considered fair game.
But her outrage at her employer's betrayal had made her stupid.
Thornsby lunged and caught her skirts. The sturdy wool refused to yield, and she stumbled back against him. She drew breath to scream, and he clapped his free hand over her mouth.
"Don't," he ordered, his grip bruising her lips. "Who'd believe you? A maidservant alone with a gentleman, and gold on the table? There is an entire taproom that would swear they saw you enter here willingly."
He was right. Polly stopped struggling, and Thornsby removed his hand from her mouth. "That's a good girl."
"Please! Please, my lord!" she begged. "I'm a virgin, and I'm to be married!"
Thornsby laughed, and bent to give her a wet kiss. "A virgin? Well, that's worth a guinea, to be sure!"
Once more, Polly managed to break free. She almost made it to the door this time, before Thornsby grasped her shoulders, spun her, and slammed her into the wall, knocking the breath out of her.
Wheezing, she tried to push him away. Rage disfigured his handsome face an instant before he clouted the side of her head. The blow was strong enough to darken her vision momentarily, and the pain left a metallic taste in her mouth.
"Enough games, you little whore!"
"I'll lose my position, milord!" But she knew her appeal was hopeless.
"And rightfully so." Thornsby continued to hold her captive, trapping her between his body and the wall. He plucked away her kerchief, pushed his hand down her bodice, and grabbed her left breast. "Why should my lady Cranbourne employ a common trollop, especially one who can be found giving her favors in taverns and tattling on her mistress?" He laughed nastily. "But I won't tell if you won't."
Terrified, she tried to push him away with all her strength.
He deliberately hit her again, dissolving her vision into bright spots of light.
She staggered, all resistance gone, and he pulled her, dazed and stumbling, across the room to the sofa.
* * *
Afterwards, Thornsby strolled back to Whitehall, whistling a sprightly tune. He had discovered what he needed to know about Kit and Lady Cranbourne, and he had ensured Polly's silence by taking her virtue.
Even now, depleted as he was, the memory of her struggles made his prick stir. It wasn't often that a man got a taste of Puritan cunny, and he had relished every moment of the spirited encounter.
All in all, I was generous to leave the little whore the guinea, he thought. Especially since I'm somewhat short of ready cash these days.
Chapter Eighteen
"[T]here is little difference between man and beast, but what ambition and glory makes." — Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle, Philosophical and Physical Opinions (1655)
A week later, Antonia returned from Court on an afternoon entirely too warm for the heavy taffeta gown she was wearing. Mall was looking a bit wilted as well in her Sunday gown, her freckled face flushed and wisps of hair stuck damply to her forehead.
It had been a relief to leave Whitehall for the day. The queen had been hinting that the king was eager to see one of his friends make a good match with her, and soon.
Antonia dreaded the upcoming weeks, when the king and queen and their household moved upriver to Hampton Court, the sprawling Tudor brick summer palace.
There, she would be trapped in the rooms assigned to her, unable to escape either her suitors or the benevolent matchmaking tyranny of Their Majesties.
As she and Mall entered the blessedly cool house, she caught a glimpse of Polly, her head down, carrying a basket of candles to the study.
Something about her made Antonia call out, "Polly, wait!"
Polly stopped, clutching the basket close to her chest. "Milady," she mumbled, still keeping her head down.
As she drew close, Antonia noticed that Polly's cheek was badly bruised, and one eye blackened. "Polly, who hit you?"
"No one, milady."
At Antonia and Mall's combined skeptical looks, Polly added: "I fell. Down the stairs."
Antonia doubted her, but she did not have a chance to pursue her questioning further, for Reeves came puffing down the stairs.
"My lady!" exclaimed the sandy-haired steward. "Lord Chelmsford is here."
"I have a caller?" Antonia sighed, noticing that Polly had taken advantage of the distraction to flee.
"No, my lady," the steward said, surprising her. "My lord Chelmsford has arrived for his lesson with Mr. Fitzgeorge. They are in the gallery, practicing swordplay." He paused for a moment, and then added, delicately, "I've taken the liberty of removing the tall Chinese vases to the Blue Parlor."
"Thank you, Reeves," Antonia said, glad of an excuse to look in on Kit.
She headed for the long gallery, which was a pleasant chamber on the ground floor, with tall windows overlooking the gardens.
She arriv
ed at the door just in time to overhear Chelmsford ask, "...but when are you going to let me use my sword, Mr. Fitzgeorge?"
"When you've learned to properly hold it without having to think about it, my lord," Kit replied.
He and Chelmsford had both stripped to shirtsleeves.
Antonia noticed that Chelmsford looked even slighter without his curly periwig and beribboned jacket. His visible discomfort with the weapon in his hand only emphasized his usual air of shy distraction.
In comparison, Kit was lithe and confident as a tiger, each of his movements controlled and graceful with feline assurance.
"But I've been using a sword since I was fourteen!" Chelmsford protested.
"And that is part of your difficulty, my lord," Kit retorted. "You have many bad habits to unlearn."
Chelmsford's shoulders slumped, and he sighed audibly, letting his weapon dangle from one hand.
"I fear that much tedium lies before you if you wish to master this art," Kit warned. "I will make you perform the same exercises over and over again. Not to draw out the lessons for extra coin, my lord, but to save your life in your next duel."
"And how will teaching me to stand properly save my life?" Chelmsford asked, sarcastically. "By making me a better target?"
Antonia saw that Kit's mild expression was very similar to the one he adopted when Margaret was being disobedient. She smiled.
"My lord," said Kit. "You can only be a good swordsman when you do not have to actively consider each stance, each parry, each thrust. Your sword must move as if by its own volition, without thought to impede its progress."
Chelmsford considered this. "I think I understand now. It's like—like dancing. At first, I was counting my way through all the steps, and now I just...dance."
Kit nodded, as poised and graceful as a dancer himself. "Just so. With much practice, the sword will become part of you."
Chelmsford's sword drooped a little at the mention of much practice.
Kit cleared his throat, and Chelmsford sprang to attention once more.
"Now—you're holding your sword wrong again, my lord. Remember, your forefinger is looped around the ricasso and the middle finger over the cross-guard. Not the other way 'round."
"Like this?" Chelmsford said, making the correction.
"Exactly. Now, move your feet a little farther apart. They should be at the same width as your shoulders. Good. Now, right foot forward—" Kit caught sight of Antonia.
He broke off the lesson and swept her a bow. "My lady!"
Chelmsford hastily spun around. Catching sight of her, he tangled himself up in an elaborate French bow. "My lady Cranbourne, you flatter us with the light of your—your presence!"
Embarrassed at having been caught watching, Antonia dipped into a curtsey. "My lord Chelmsford, you are too kind. Pray forgive my interruption."
"There can be nothing to forgive in so delightful a presence," Chelmsford declared, blushing.
Antonia noticed that Kit had moved several paces behind Chelmsford. He stood quietly watchful as his student stumbled through further compliments, his gaze never leaving Antonia. She met his eyes and the hunger in them scorched her.
Chelmsford paused, looking at her expectantly, and she realized that she had missed his final comments.
She cast about for something to say. "Perhaps my lord Chelmsford could be persuaded to stay for dinner?"
"It would be my pleasure," Chelmsford said eagerly.
But Antonia noticed that Kit did not look pleased at the prospect of sharing her company over a meal.
* * *
By the end of the hour, Chelmsford was able to move smoothly through the three basic rapier stances—the high guard, the middle guard, and the low guard.
The savory smells of roast lamb were drifting from the kitchen by then, and Kit's stomach rumbled as the two men washed their hands and faces and re-donned their jackets before entering the dining room.
Chelmsford seemed determined to redeem himself for his earlier bad behavior, and Kit noted that he took only a single glass of wine.
Which was as it should be, thought Kit, given his disgraceful behavior at the Earl of Cranbourne's ball.
Seated across from Antonia, Kit was aware of two distinct emotions as he listened to Antonia make polite conversation with Chelmsford.
The first was the realization that he had enjoyed teaching the young lord. It was something Kit could do, and do well, despite the fact that his injured shoulder now felt as if tiny devils were using it for an anvil, pounding his flesh with red-hot hammers.
The second emotion was less gratifying. As Kit watched Chelmsford stammer his way through yet another outrageous compliment that brought a smile and a blush to Antonia's cheek, he felt an overwhelming desire to seize the young lord by the scruff, drag him outside to his coach, and bid him never return.
The puppy was trying to court Antonia—his Antonia—and she seemed absurdly charmed by his clumsy attempts at wit!
In a flash, the tender lamb turned into a congealed, indigestible lump in Kit's stomach.
After all, as young and untried as Chelmsford was, he was a nobleman, and could offer Antonia something that Kit couldn't—a marriage of rank.
* * *
Chelmsford returned for another lesson two days later, and soon thereafter, the Earl of Cranbourne appeared, as promised, and began to practice his lunges and guards under Kit's stern eye.
Both men made it a habit to stay for dinner afterwards.
As a fortnight passed, Chelmsford began to lose much of his awkward nervousness in her presence, and to her surprise, she found that she liked him. Away from his unruly friends, he was soft-spoken, intelligent, and had an endearing fondness for the plays and poems of Ben Jonson.
Kit had a tendency to glower when Chelmsford ate with them, though he could usually be persuaded to forget his ill-temper and join in the conversation.
Yet, it troubled her. What if someone noticed the simmering tension between them?
One particularly fine day just before Midsummer's Eve, Antonia was immured in her study, pen in hand, engaged in the tedious but necessary tasks of recording expenses and income.
The rents had come due the previous week for Long Cranbourne's tenant farmers, and her estate manager had sent an iron-bound trunk with the monies.
Some of the rents had been paid in kind—pigs, lambs, bushels of fruit, chickens, geese, ducks, and even a foal—and she had to decide what should be used and what should be taken to the Midsummer Market, where it would be sold for hard cash or bartered for new plowshares, scythe blades, and other items needed at Long Cranbourne since the blacksmith had died the previous winter.
Item: hire a new Smith for Long Cranbourne, she wrote.
The sound of a trapped bee buzzing at the window gave Antonia a welcome excuse to uncramp her fingers from her quill, stand up, and open the window to release the insect.
She stood there, inhaling the mingled fragrance of roses, lavender, gillyflowers, and sweet chamomile from her garden, and watching Kit as he strode confidently between the pairs of students, praising one here, correcting a stance there.
She sighed, wondering how she could be so happy yet so troubled at the same time. All at once, she felt a need to escape the stuffy confines of her office.
She took a book from a nearby shelf, and went to the garden to enjoy the cool breeze off the river. She seated herself on a stone bench behind a tall hedge, out of sight of the house, relishing the rare privacy.
Kit came upon her an hour later, and seated himself beside her.
"You missed dinner," he said, taking her hand. As always, her heart leapt at his touch. Then he added, sourly, "Lord Chelmsford was devastated by your absence."
Her happiness at seeing him vanished.
"Do you really consider Chelmsford your rival? Am I so faithless?" Antonia withdrew her hand, and picked up her book again.
"Never." He took her face between his hands and kissed her, hard.
&nb
sp; She permitted it with a guilty thrill, for every part of her longed for his touch.
His kiss softened as she leaned into his arms. Urgently, he caressed her shoulders, her neck.
Her fingers dug into his arms as he continued to kiss her, his lips and tongue finding the exquisitely sensitive places on her throat.
"You are mine, Antonia." His dark blue eyes were intent.
Was she really permitting him to lift her onto his lap?
Once there, she felt fierce satisfaction rather than embarrassment at the hard bulge in his breeches.
She gasped a little as she felt his hand cup her breast through the thin, printed cotton of her gown. Encouraged by her response, he swiftly loosened the laces of her gown, pushing it off her shoulders.
It was a wicked pleasure to lean back against him as he touched her naked skin, his mouth sending shivers down her spine as he kissed her nape and bared shoulders. He reached around her and lifted her breasts, exposing them to the air—and to his hot gaze. His breath was harsh against her neck as he cupped them, his thumbs rubbing in maddening circles around the exquisitely sensitive tips, sending jolts of pure desire through her belly and the aching place between her thighs.
"Ah, my sweet Antonia, you are mine. And I am yours, forever."
Shockingly, she felt his teeth close on her shoulder, hard enough to leave an impression on her skin. His hands tightened possessively over her breasts and he pulled her back against him.
She wanted him then, beyond all reason or morality, wanted to join with him completely, to feel him inside of her.
And yet, a moment of panicked hesitation made her push his hands away when he began to draw up her skirt.
She knew from experience what a man's fingers could do between a woman's legs, and wanted it—oh, how she wanted it, and more!—but she could not.
And he stopped. She could feel his disappointment, and the effort it took, as he released her from his lap.
She stood, her legs trembling with the force of her desire, and tried to pull up her disheveled gown.
"Kit, I'm sorry," she whispered, as he re-laced her.
