Courtly Scandals

by Erin Kane Spock

  And then she felt him there. He’d followed her. She didn’t have to look to know it was him as his hand snaked around to splay across the front of her bodice, his thumb just under the curve of her breast. She relaxed back against him, her chest quickening at the heat of his breath against her skin as he nuzzled her neck beneath her ear. “Mistress, will you dance with me?” His voice was husky against her throat, and she nodded her acceptance. Turning, she placed her hand in his and followed him to the dance floor.

  “I have thought of nothing but having you in my arms. At least a dance is safe. I should be able to hold you, and still trust myself enough with your virtue.”

  Mary felt her chest tighten in anticipation, even the idea of being in his arms was enough to send shivers down her spine. “What if I do not wish to be safe?” Any worry about awkwardness was gone, replaced by honest desire. She didn’t want to be safe; she wanted to feel the touch of his lips again.

  The music started before Charles could answer, and they began the Italianate dance with a riverenza. The dance was set up in promenade fashion rather than a couple’s dance. Generally, Mary did not like promenade because it drew attention to whatever poor technique she might show in comparison to other dancers in the line. Tonight, however, Mary paid no attention to anyone else in the room. She stepped her two spezzati toward her partner, touring around him, their eyes never leaving each other. Mary could scarcely breathe. She might not actually be in his arms, but she could feel the heat from him.

  He stepped away to do the last part of the figure eight, his eyes not leaving her until the last possible moment. He turned so quickly, his hair escaped its queue at the back of his neck, the golden waves framing his face like a mane. He looked wild, the passion in his eyes making his expression almost predatory. He wanted her. Mary had never felt so desired in her life—or so desirable. And all within the space of a chaste dance.

  The next stanza brought the dancers within inches of each other. “I like your hair this way, free and flowing. You look like a pagan goddess.” His voice was soft, the movement of his lips drawing her eye.

  “In that case, you had best worship me.” Mary’s words were no more than a whisper.

  Charles stepped close in time with the music. “I plan to.”

  Mary stepped away from him, following the choreography of the dance. His merry blue eyes seemed to always be smiling, laughing at some secret joke. It made her want to smile with him.

  “Is that my dear wife’s little plaything?” A rude voice interrupted Mary’s musings. “I must say, mistress, you look much more amenable with lust in your eyes. I suppose I have Sir Charles to thank for that.” The Earl of Oxford must have joined in the promenade. He reeked of ale.

  “Step away, Ned.” Charles’s voice was thick with warning.

  There was no pause in the dance, but Mary could feel the eyes of all the other dancers upon them. Oxford’s partner was a young, very young, lady. Wasn’t she one of the Queen’s maids of honor? Her face showed how horrified she was at the byplay, but she did her best to fumble through the next few steps. Poor girl, she looked even younger than Anne. Mary barely managed to make it through the passage herself. The last thing she wanted to do was show any lack of sophistication in front of the court now that Oxford had made sure everyone was watching.

  Oxford finished the stanza with a spontaneous capriole before continuing. “Oh, so you want her for yourself? I thought you were above ravishing maidens—too self-righteous to risk getting a bastard on the chit. Well then, have at her. She’ll be well and truly primed by the time she returns to my chambers tonight.”

  The musicians continued to play, but Charles stopped dancing as Mary turned to face the Earl of Oxford directly. “So you will make yourself a rapist as well as a murderer?”

  “Rapist? My dear girl, no earl could ever be a rapist. What woman could resist him? And what court would hold him accountable?” Oxford looked suddenly confused. He ran a well manicured hand over his face and blinked a few times before settling his assessing gaze upon Mary. His leering alone made her feel violated. He ignored his partner completely but continued the dance. “Did you call me a murderer? Do you speak of that pretty little underling who threw himself on my sword?”

  “Thomas. He did not kill himself—why would he? You killed him.”

  “I remember you now!” He sounded almost proud of himself. “You were one of Anne’s minions then, yes? Was young Thomas your lover? So you are not a maid, then. Good—I’ve no taste for virgins. Too boring.” Oxford seemed to find himself amusing.

  Charles stepped closer to Oxford, his expression fierce. “Ned, this will stop now. You are drunk and making an arse of yourself . . . ”

  “Am I? No matter. I am the Earl of Oxford; I can do as I like.” Oxford swayed a little as he shifted his gaze between Charles and Mary. “She looks very fuckable with the anger in her eyes, does she not? Yes, a lively swive, but not someone you would want to talk with after. Too much a harpy. No, her young Thomas is better off dead. And do not call me Ned again.” Oxford added an extra capriole to the choreography again, as if the dance master had put it into the song just for him. If he’d been sober, it might have worked better. “I shall see you in your chambers later, my dear.”

  “I would sooner die than let you touch me,” Mary hissed. “No, I am mistaken—I would rather see you dead. If you even try, my aim will be true. I vow it.”

  Oxford’s neglected young partner gasped at Mary’s threat and, with a hint of a reverance, ran away from the growing scene.

  Oh dear. Mary had been so shocked and disgusted that she had forgotten they were surrounded by the court. She just hoped the driving beat of the music was enough to cover most of what she said. It simply wasn’t done to call an earl a murderer, even when it was true.

  “Tsk-tsk. You frightened my partner away. And she was such a nice piece.” Oxford’s voice was thick with sarcastic disdain. “Mistress, I find the idea of the fight makes me want you even more. Charles, I fear I may just have to take her now.” Oxford reached out clumsily to grab at Mary.

  Charles was faster. One strong hand held Oxford’s forearm in a vise grip. “You will not touch her.” He met Oxford’s surprised stare. Mary had never seen anyone cow the Earl of Oxford, but here, before her eyes, she saw the man shrink away in genuine fear. Charles released his grip.

  Oxford immediately pulled his arm away. “How dare you lay a hand on me? I am an earl . . . ”

  “Still hiding behind your title, my lord earl?” Charles’s voice was thick with disgust. “Still not man enough to fight your own battles?”

  “I could see you hang, sir.” Oxford’s voice was a hiss.

  Charles merely raised an eyebrow. No clever words. No threats of violence. No fear. Mary could tell that Charles honestly was not afraid of whatever Oxford might threaten.

  Oxford knew it, too. “Have the wench then.” With that, he spun on his heel and strode from the room.

  The noise in the room seemed to increase tenfold. The driving drumbeat pounding against her ears. Shoes tapping in unison. Voices raised in laughter. It was too much. But there was Charles, strong and certain, standing in front of her holding both her hands in his. She met his eyes, but could not force a smile for his sake.

  Charles tucked one hand under his arm and simply said, “Come,” and led her from the room, oblivious to the dancers remaining.

  • • •

  Whitehall was more like a pile of houses built one on top of the other than a proper palace. Rooms led into other rooms—there were doors into different sections halfway up stairwells. The building itself was chaotic, but gilded with all the pomp of royalty. Charles had learned the lay of the place throughout the years he had served with the Queen’s guard. He knew exactly where he was going.

  Last time they flew through the halls together as a spontaneous burst of freedom, a show of spirit. Tonight they ran together, both trying to leave the ugliness that Oxford had forced upon them behind.
They were escaping together. Gradually, Mary relaxed her hand in his and her steps became lighter. He was relieved that she seemed to be able to shake off the taint Oxford had put upon the night.

  Her voice, breathless from exertion, Mary asked, “Where are we going?”

  Slowing slightly to face her, Charles smiled. “Does it matter?”

  “No.” Mary laughed and tugged on his arm to pull him closer. He only allowed one swift kiss before urging her further through the maze of the palace.

  Room after room, some empty some not, Charles led the way. He finally stopped and pushed open the shuttered window before them. Mary gasped at the snow-filled courtyard revealed through the arch.

  They were alone in the darkness, snow fluttering softly to rest on the broad rectangular patch of earth surrounded by shuttered galleries.

  “Oh, are these the tennis courts? I had never seen them before.” Mary’s breath was a puff of icy steam in the cold stone hall.

  “In the spring and summer, the courtyard is covered in close-cropped grass. In the cooler months, the whole area is usually abandoned.” Charles had dropped her hand and was making his way down the hallway. Mary seemed surprised when he knelt beside a cast iron stove and picked up the flint. The fuel inside caught immediately. “The stoves are a permanent part of the gallery, and there are usually quilts and cloaks in storage chests for the noble lady spectators. Of course, I have not been here since the last match before Queen Elizabeth left for Her summer progress.”

  Mary interrupted with a laugh. “Are you telling me that you did not lay out the supplies for a seduction?” She moved closer, warming her hands in the increasing glow of the fire. “Was I not a foregone conclusion, then?”

  Charles remained crouched at the stove, but looked up at her. “Not at all. You are a dream. A wish.” His voice was deep, husky. He focused on her, the way the glow from the stove outlined her lips, her dark lashes in gold. She looked up at him and bit her lip in a half smile. When she tentatively held her hands out to him, he reached out, feeling blessed to simply be here with her tonight. “I have no expectations. I am just glad to spend time with you.”

  Mary smiled fully now, her face lighting up once again, and gently pulled him up to stand before her. “I have never put much stock in wishing.”

  “But it gives us something to hope for.”

  Both were silent, their eyes locked. For a moment, Charles wondered what Mary’s wish would be, what thought was hiding behind her shy smile.

  Her mouth relaxed, softened as she stepped closer and looked up. That was all the invitation Charles needed; he lowered his head to capture her lips.

  • • •

  Mary groaned at that first touch, and her body melted against him, her hands gripping his shoulders to support herself. Charles deepened the kiss, tilting her head farther back. Their lips slid over each other, his tongue teasing hers. Mary opened herself to the sweet invasion. She had never been kissed like this before and did not want it to stop. His lips were so warm, so soft against hers. Mary returned his pressure, tentatively touching her tongue to his. She snaked her fingers up along his collar and into his hair, freeing the tumbled waves still captured in the leather thong. His hair fell forward, a veil over them. They were alone together, shielded even from the light of the moon on the snow or the fire burning red in the brazier. This was how it was meant to be.

  Mary drew a deep breath of the icy air as his lips left hers to taste and tickle her throat and tease up to her ear. She felt his teeth, his tongue, and the warmth his mouth left in its wake as it blazed across her cool skin. His hand was in her hair, lifting it off her neck as his lips sweetly tortured her pulse and she arched back her head for more.

  Without warning, he broke the kiss, releasing her. She was suddenly freezing, bereft of his heat. Confused she opened her eyes to see him standing before her shaking. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything is wonderful. I just can’t trust myself simply to taste you. I don’t want you to regret tonight.”

  Mary shivered. The heat from the stove was little solace against the winter wind swirling through the open shutter from the courtyard. “I came with you promising myself there would be no regrets. Anything I give, I give freely . . . ”

  “But I should not take. I am a better man than that.” Charles shook his head and cursed himself as a fool. “Not all behavior can be excused by Christmastide. I cannot offer marriage. I have no lands, no future outside the Queen’s Guard. I would not treat you so poorly. You deserve more than that.”

  Mary blinked in surprise. Wouldn’t any man be ecstatic to have a willing woman alone in the dark? Apparently Sir Charles was more of a true gentleman than most. “Then we are perfectly matched, Sir Charles, for I will never marry.”

  Charles shook his head with a smile. “You cannot mean that.” She started to protest as he turned away. “You are freezing.” She could not argue past her chattering teeth as he crossed the corridor and opened one of the trunks lining the wall. Opening it, he pulled out a heavy woolen cloak lined entirely in fox-fur, shook it out, and placed it on her shoulders, but it was Charles that warmed her. That look in his eye . . . He stepped back, but she stopped him, wrapping her arms around his torso and holding him close. The stiff planes of his back relaxed beneath her touch as, sighing, he wrapped his arms around her and laid his cheek on the top of her head. They fit him perfectly.

  “I cannot marry.” Mary repeated her words. “And I would rather have the memory of this night with you than live the rest of my life regretting that I had behaved like a virtuous lady.” Her words were muffled against the velvet of his doublet.

  • • •

  Charles stepped back as far as her arms would let him and looked into her upturned face. Her skin was glowing in the dim white light reflecting off the snow, her eyes dark and glittering. Her lips . . . She pushed up on her toes, lifting her lips to his for a soft kiss. Just a touch. A whisper. Then again, firmer. Her mouth parted beneath his lips, and he was lost.

  He wrapped his arms around her and backed her against the far wall of the corridor still locked in a kiss. The heat of the stove crept up their bodies, and he removed the cloak and spread it on the cold flagstones. She sat down on the soft fur, and Charles returned to the trunk to retrieve another cloak. He tested his own patience, determined to take his time, savor each moment, and more importantly, not rush headlong into this even though part of him wanted exactly that. Shaking the cloak out over them, he knelt down beside her and, cradling her flushed cheeks in his hands, fell back into the kiss.

  Charles could not get enough of her lips, her skin. She was so soft. He gently unpinned the delicate French hood and trailed his fingers through her unbound hair and down her back, pulling her closer against him. He could still taste the honey mead on her tongue. Her hair felt like silk between his fingers. Everything about her was sweet and soft and feminine.

  She pressed close, a soft mewling sound of frustration in her throat as she ran her hands over his doublet, her fingers sliding into the gaps at his collar and down along his sleeves. He understood, he could not be close enough, his whole body strained to touch her. He needed to feel her bare skin against his. She worked her hands between their bodies to undo the buttons of his doublet. One at a time, from the neck to his navel, she hooked her fingers between the layers of fabric and released button after button, her fingers just barely touching the heat of his chest beneath.

  Charles wanted to rip off his court clothes. The undressing bit by bit was a slow torture, one he returned by slowly cupping her face in both hands and delicately dragging the tips of his fingers down along her jaw.

  She gasped at his touch. His long fingers skirted over her throat, her pale skin golden in the flickering light of the stove. She fumbled with his buttons and leaned into his touch. He traced the delicate indent at her collar, then splayed his fingers wide to caress the creamy skin of her shoulders and down, down to the soft mounds peaking over the top of her bo
dice. Her heart pounded beneath his hands, her breaths, rapid, pressed her breast into him.

  Whether she lost patience or self-control, she pulled frantically at his shirt, sending two buttons flying across the dim corridor. With a triumphant smile, Mary exposed his open linen shirt and chest beneath to the cold night air. With a sigh, she leaned forward, placing her cool cheek directly over his heart. He shrugged his arms to remove the cumbersome garment and held her close as her hands explored his body.

  • • •

  Cocooned in warmth, Mary felt like she was home for the first time since she’d come to the palace. His arms, the sound of his heartbeat, his breath, it all encompassed her. The cold winter night seemed very far away. All she could think about was the strength, the heat of his body surrounding hers. She looked up at him in wonder, and he took her lips again, lifting her onto him. She was mesmerized by his lips, the way his hands trailed across her skin, her bodice—he possessed her with his touch, and she wanted more. His mouth moved to her throat, and she leaned her head back to give him full access. The heat from his kiss scalded her, and she could think of nothing except how he felt against her.

  Mary wanted more, to feel his skin against hers completely, but the night was too cold to undress properly. She never wanted him to stop the sweet torture of her mouth, her neck, her bosom. He shifted her astride him, her bottom cradled in his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist, and her skirts a puddle around them, and all she could think was that she needed more. The exposed rise of her bosom strained at the confines of her corset with each rapid breath, setting a sensual rhythm against his bare chest. They were enfolded in each other and surrounded by the cloak. It was almost enough, but not quite.

  With deft fingers he undid the lacings at the back of her bodice and moved on to the back of her corset. He paused his kiss, leaning his forehead against her collar, and with a laugh, he swore softly. “Damnation, Mary. I’ve knotted your lacings.” She felt the pull, the garment tightening more as he put both hands to work—to no avail.