The Greatest Lover in All England

by Christina Dodd

  You, she was going to say.

  But he bounded up. “We’ve got to get married. Now. I’ll send for the clergyman, get him from the table if necessary, and we’ll wed.”

  She crumpled the sheet in her fist. “Wed?”

  “At once. It’s a lucky thing I got a special license, isn’t it?” He snatched up his shirt—the silk shirt she’d worn so recently—and jerked it over his head. He efficiently tied it and scrambled among the clothes on the floor. Bringing up a short padded waistcoat, he donned it for warmth. “I’ll have the cook prepare a special meal for us tonight. We must celebrate, although my sisters will choke at wedding on such short notice. Ha!” He rubbed his hands together. “’Tis an abrupt finish to Lady Honora’s plans. Won’t she be disgusted?”

  What lunacy made Rosie think she could handle the repercussions of her impulsive mating? Could she handle Tony in a frenzy, or stifle a force of nature?

  Starting for the door, he said, “We’ll have a celebration tomorrow, roast a sheep and a steer, crack a few barrels of beer and a cask of wine. I’ll have Hal notify the parish.”

  Coldly, she asked, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  He stopped, his hand on the knob. “I can’t think of anything.” Looking down at his bare legs, he laughed. “Except that. Already you act like a wife. I would look foolish, running down the hall with—”

  “I wasn’t speaking of your garb. I was speaking of your plans.”

  He froze. He hadn’t imagined another solution to what he viewed as their dilemma. Until she spoke, he hadn’t thought she might have an objection. Now, clearly, he imagined and thought, and it filled him with unanticipated horror. “You cannot still be refusing to wed me.”

  He came back to the side of the bed and loomed impressively, but Rosie refused to be intimidated. If she let him, he would overwhelm her and she’d find herself married, and she wasn’t ready. Some things were easy to grow accustomed to. A warm dry bed. Regular bountiful meals. Even the clothes she wore, although a woman’s, and uncomfortable, were beautiful.

  None of those amenities could replace a young man’s freedom.

  Tony knew nothing of her thoughts, but either he realized his looming was fruitless or something in her expression disclosed her plight. Easing his hip onto the mattress, he said, “I didn’t plan this.”

  He looked wretched, but she hadn’t even considered that he could have used these circumstances to so manipulate her. At least—not consciously. “Forsooth, I know you did not.”

  “I have never had to force a woman.”

  “You didn’t force me.”

  “And I would never trap a woman.”

  “You would have no need.”

  He touched her shoulder, and she pulled the sheet up to cover it. “Nor do I wish to marry you only because of our child.”

  “Nay, you want to marry me at this moment because of a babe.”

  “I do want to marry you as soon as possible, but I’ve always wanted that.” His brows crinkled together in worry. “I didn’t seduce you for the lands, either.”

  “You could just cheat me out of them if you chose.”

  She gave him credit for persisting in the face of her hostility, but while he speculated on every possible reason for her refusal, he hadn’t come close to the source of her troubles. For some reason, she expected him to understand her without her explanation, and her anger grew with every reassurance he gave.

  “I was selfish and unthinking to tell you my worries rather than hold you close after we finished. I should have told you how much joy you gave me.” He touched her cheek, and she scrubbed his touch away. In rapid succession, he touched her other cheek, her forehead, the tip of her nose, and she would have looked foolish if she’d objected to all of them. “You did give me joy,” he said, and he smiled so radiantly she warmed in spite of herself. Then he gave her the most dreadful blow of all. “I’ve never loved a woman before, but I love one now.”

  “Nay!” She threw out her arm, knocked him aside, and scrambled off the bed.

  He struggled to sit up, but she jerked at the sheet beneath him. “What?” Shaking his head, he rolled off the other side of the bed. “Why?”

  “You don’t love…are you saying you love me?”

  Her skin shone pale beneath her tan and she shook all over. For a man who thought he was irresistible to women, it proved a sad set down. Worse, it proved he didn’t comprehend the female mind, and Rosie’s in particular. He had given her a dazzling display of sensual skills and what amounted to his virginity, and she was reluctant. He had offered his heart served on the platter of his estate, and she was repulsed. Shocked, he asked, “Don’t you want me to love you?”

  “What has love brought me but heartache and worry?”

  “You love?” His mind sprang to Ludovic. “Who is this man you love?”

  “He’s been gone since this morning, and already you dismiss him?”

  Sir Danny. She was talking about Sir Danny. He scrambled for footing in a suddenly slippery world. “Of course I don’t dismiss him, but what has he to do with me loving you?”

  “Don’t say that!”

  Had he been expecting her to melt at his declaration? He could almost laugh at himself, except that his heart wept. There had been another time when he’d offered love, and it had been laughed at, rejected, ignored. He’d been the bastard member of the earl of Drebred’s household, and he didn’t like feeling that way again.

  Yet his mind knew Rosie didn’t reject him because of his illegitimacy. She rejected him because she needed a father’s love, not a husband’s.

  She paced toward the foot of the bed, tripped on the sheet, and recovered. “I have to be able to go find him.”

  It had never occurred to Tony—or to Sir Danny—that she would be unable to settle into the role required of her because of her anxiety. Of all the things Tony had thought, he’d never considered that his competition was Rosie’s father.

  Nevertheless, Tony had given her his seed, and it might be growing at this very moment. For him, their babe had a face, a personality, a destiny of bitterness and struggle if born without the protection of its father. Tony could not indulge Rosie, nor could he brood about her rejection. Somehow he had to coerce her into taking the vows.

  If only she didn’t look so horrified.

  “I’m bleeding,” she said.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” He’d hurt her more than he should, and he walked toward her with outstretched arms. “I know you are, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. Every maiden—”

  “Nay. I mean, I’m bleeding. ’Tis my”—she blushed, and her embarrassment struggled with her horror—“monthly flow.”

  “Then we didn’t…?” Acrid disappointment mixed with relief.

  They had failed to make a bastard, thank the blessed Virgin.

  They had failed to make a child, damn it. His seed would not find root in her this time.

  17

  Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

  Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

  More than cool reason ever comprehends.

  —A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM, V, i, 4

  Lady Honora was staying.

  Tony couldn’t believe his sisters would abandon him, leaving such a burden, but they wished—not unnaturally, he admitted—to spend Christmas with their families. Lady Honora had no such family, and she kindly volunteered to stay and continue Rosie’s education.

  And Rosie had thanked her. Thanked her!

  The little coward had been avoiding him ever since the evening in his bedchamber. He’d declared his love, and she’d been indifferent.

  Very well. He’d been humuliated when he’d lived at Drebred Castle. The past was dead—let it stay buried.

  But he’d also shown Rosie passion. He’d swept her away on the high waves of desire, and he’d been swept away with her. Together they had scaled the peaks, flown to the stars, swept the heavens. Apparently she considered his magnifice
nt skill at lovemaking insignificant. Tony didn’t like feeling insignificant. He knew he was the finest lover in England, and Rosie should realize it, too.

  Next time he’d prove it. Next time…on their wedding night.

  He gnashed his teeth and glared out at the windswept morning.

  He didn’t rue that he’d lost all discipline and given her his seed. He could only regret that it had had no chance to take root, and that he regretted with every breath he took and with every beat of his heart. He wanted his sisters to stay and arrange a hasty marriage and an equally hasty baptism, but the carriage waited on the drive beyond the terrace, and Jean, Lady Honora, and Rosie waited for Ann to finish dressing.

  They’d been waiting quite a while.

  “Take care of Tony.” Warming herself before the long gallery’s fire one last time, Jean spoke to Rosie but grinned at her brother. “He’s in a delicate humor right now.”

  “Amusing.” Tony glared at Jean, dressed in her traveling clothes and swaddled in a wool cloak, then encompassed Rosie and Lady Honora in his displeasure.

  His displeasure focused on Lady Honora when she said, “If anyone should take care of Tony, it should be I. I am, after all, to be his wife.”

  She seemed to be the only one who believed it any longer, but Lady Honora’s belief was a powerful thing, and impossible to discount. She did indeed know about that evening of intimacy in his bedroom, and she had taken it upon herself to make sure it never happened again. Under the guise of preparing Rosie for her life as mistress of the estate, Tony gave her her reading lessons, taught her the necessary accounts, or showed her the duties of the estate, and always, always Lady Honora found a way to interfere.

  “Lady Honora.” Jean patted her friend’s hand. “I don’t doubt your ability to overwhelm Tony, or to overwhelm Rosalyn, but I think you’ll find them impossible to defeat together.”

  “We’re not together,” Rosie answered quickly.

  Jean patted her hand, too. “You’re together in a way I had forgotten existed.”

  Did she really think so? Tony lifted an inquiring brow at Jean, and Jean nodded reassuringly. He’d begun to doubt his own instincts, and having his rational sister say so bolstered his flagging confidence. He turned a fierce stare at Rosie.

  “Excuse me,” Jean said to Lady Honora and Rosie. “I need to say something private to my brother.” Jean took Tony’s arm and led him close to the portraits at the center of the gallery. “If you keep looking at Rosalyn as if you’re going to devour her, she’s going to give up pretending she’s dauntless and take to her heels.”

  “I don’t look like that,” Tony protested.

  “Tony, you’re shooting blue flames at the poor girl, and she’s already frightened enough. Ann is convinced that Rosalyn is seeing her father’s ghost, and that must explain her skittish behavior, but Ann’s never stood between you and Rosalyn when you recall your preferred evening activity.”

  Heat climbed from his ruff to his forehead. It was one thing that his sister knew what he did, another thing that she knew what he thought. “Am I so obvious?”

  “Stubby used to look at me like that.” She sighed in remembrance. “I wish the old dear could still do so.”

  “He’s watching you in just such a manner,” Tony said, recalling his pudgy brother-in-law and his undying devotion to Jean. “From heaven.”

  Jean blinked hard. “I do miss the old goat.” She nodded at Hal who shuffled along the wall toward them. “Does your crazed steward wish to speak to you?”

  Puzzled by Jean’s comment, Tony observed the man as he carefully avoided the carpet runner, keeping on the hardwood with religious intensity. “Hal doesn’t feel the servants should wear out the carpet, but really, he’s as steady as a beached boat.”

  Jean snorted.

  “Am I not a good judge of character?” Tony asked.

  “You always have been before.” Jean glanced at Hal’s stooped figure. “But this time…”

  When Hal came within speaking distance, Tony asked, “Are the ladies’ bags loaded?”

  “Aye, Sir Anthony.” Hal kept his gaze fixed to the clean, fine design on the carpet. “All is ready fer yer sisters’ departure.”

  “Except my sisters.”

  “I’m ready,” Jean answered. “’Tis a long journey we make, but Ann is ever tardy.”

  Tony glared up the stairs. “Where is Ann?”

  “In a hurry to be rid of us?” Jean teased. “You behave as if we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

  “My home is ever open to my family.”

  “It’ll take more than that subtle insult to unseat Lady Honora.”

  With a sigh, Tony agreed.

  “If there’ll be nothing else, Sir Anthony,” Hal said, “I’ll just go cipher on figures fer th’ year’s harvest.”

  “’Tis a good day for ciphering.” Away from the fire, Tony could feel the drafts that crept in around the doors. Jean moved toward the warmth once more and he followed, adjusting the short cloak he wore even inside.

  “Where is Sister Ann?” Jean burst out. “We’ll scarcely make London this day, and we had hoped to shop for gifts.”

  Tony commanded, “Be careful in London.”

  “Always,” Jean said.

  “Why?” Rosie demanded.

  He should have known Rosie would notice the serious note of warning in his voice. He thought of the steadily increasing stream of messages coming from Wart-Nose Harry, his guard commander, and the warnings and worries they contained. Then he thought of the news he’d received this morning. He’d hidden that communication in a pile on his desk. He wanted no one to know of it, least of all Rosie.

  So with pointed intent, he said, “London is a wicked town filled with pickpockets, cheats, and actors.”

  Rosie flounced over to examine a portrait, and he hastily changed the subject. “Jean, will you visit Her Majesty and take her a gift from me?”

  “We hadn’t planned to go to the court, but if you wish we will.”

  Tony snapped his fingers, and one of the footmen went running.

  “What do you send?” Lady Honora asked.

  “A cambric smock, wrought with silk at the collar and sleeves, with ruff wrought of Venice gold and edged with a small, bone lace of Venice gold. And I send a message.”

  “Write it down,” Jean commanded rudely.

  “I have, but I would that you repeat it so I may catch the tenor of her mood in her reply.”

  Jean groaned. “What is it?”

  “Say that I send a smock for her to wear close to her heart so that I may imagine ’tis I who am so honored.”

  Rosie proved she’d been listening when she cried, “Od’s bodkin, the queen’ll not tolerate such rubbish.” Tony, Lady Honora, and Jean were silent, and suddenly uncertain, Rosie asked, “Will she?”

  “The queen thrives on such expressions of fondness, especially from her most charming courtiers,” Jean told her.

  “The queen is no longer in the first blush of youth, and it profits all when a man professes admiration for her beauty,” Lady Honora said.

  “How old is she?” Rosie asked.

  “She wears her sixty-seven years as lightly as if they were sixty-seven snowflakes,” Tony answered.

  “Sixty-seven?” Sixty-seven was an unheard-of age. Rosie didn’t think she’d ever seen someone that old. And she had always thought of Queen Elizabeth as being young. Tales abounded in England of Elizabeth’s beauty, her wisdom, her modesty, but now it seemed she was none of those. “Is she very—”

  “Last fall I rode on a hunt with her.” Lady Honora rubbed her posterior. “I couldn’t keep up with Her Majesty.”

  “Aye,” Jean agreed. “Her Majesty dances all through the night, wearing out her young courtiers and discarding one for another.”

  “That’s why she likes me.” Tony grinned. “I can dance all night and ride all day.”

  Lady Honora and Jean cried out in mock disdain, but Tony watched Rosie keenly. He was gi
ving her a message, she realized, and that message was twofold. The servants listened, and these members of Elizabeth’s court dedicated themselves to maintaining the fable of her mastery. From the smiles on their faces and the worship in their voices, Rosie surmised the queen had truly captured their hearts.

  “Sixty-seven,” Rosie whispered in wonder. At age sixty-seven, Queen Elizabeth commanded Tony’s devotion. Would he be as devoted to his wife at sixty-seven? Would he still see her with the eyes of a lover, and flirt as if she were the most beautiful creature on earth? When that great age weighed on his shoulders, would he still seek his wife’s bed and lavish amorous intentions on her receptive body? Rosie quashed that thought and every thought that paraded through her head like temptations taking flesh.

  Since the evening in his room, she’d been wary of temptation. ’Twas too easy to remember his magnificent passion, and not easy enough to remember the chains hidden beneath it. She said, “Tell me of the queen.”

  “She wears dark red wigs”—Jean touched her own red wig as illustration—“and has radiant white skin.”

  “She has beautiful deep eyes, and a voice worthy of a queen,” Lady Honora said.

  “She has a fine figure, beautiful long fingers, and a magnificent bosom,” Tony added.

  Rosie shook her head. “You would notice that.”

  Glancing up the stairs once more, Jean mourned, “’Twill be evening before we leave.” She sank down on one of the straight-backed chairs pulled close to the fire, and waved Rosie into one at her right. “We’ve obviously neglected your education in royal matters, and that could prove fatal when you meet our dread and sovereign lady. Although Queen Elizabeth teases until the men are half-mad, she likes it not when her favorite courtiers flaunt their attachments, and ’tis better to pretend to wish to marry for the continuation of the line, or for wealth, or for any reason other than fondness.”

  Realizing Jean spoke for a reason, Rosie sat and occupied herself with arranging her skirts. “You said Her Most Gracious Majesty remembers Lord Sadler fondly.”