His Last Mistress: The Duke of Monmouth and Lady Henrietta Wentworth

by Andrea Zuvich

  Chapter 10

  Unable to find repose one cold morning, she arose from her bed in the blue hours shortly before dawn and padded over to the porcelain basin where she washed her face and hands. Her maid came in quietly with logs, and greeted her mistress. She placed the logs in the grate behind the iron firedogs of the fireplace and then lit the wood, smoke funnelling up through the chimney. As Henrietta gently patted her skin dry, she heard the clattering of a galloping horse approaching. She wrapped a shawl around her arms, for she only wore a shift, and peered out of her window, but saw no one – they had already entered the house.

  She heard her servants shouting and a man’s voice booming through the hallways. “Where is she?” cried the familiar voice that made her heart leap with felicity, her body tremulous with excitement. She wanted to sing, to dance, for he had come to her. He still wanted her! She would not refuse him now; she’d not refuse him anything he asked.

  “My lady is in her bedchamber, where else would she be at this ungodly hour?” she heard her devoted maid say, “No, Your Grace cannot go in! She is not ready to receive visitors!”

  “I am the Duke of Monmouth - she’ll see me!”

  He kicked the door open and stood there, his cloak, auburn periwig, and hat speckled with snow flakes, his black leather boots muddy from the roads, his chest heaving from running through the house, and a look of the wild in his eyes. Her middle-aged maid, Emily, close behind, frightened as a dormouse, “Forgive me, my lady, we could not stop him!”

  Henrietta’s eyes did not leave his. “That is alright, Emily, leave us. No one is to disturb us. No, not even my mother. Lock the door.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The wide-eyed maid bobbed up and down in a curtsy and closed the door behind her.

  He stood before her, still breathing heavily, “I cannot fight this anymore, I have tried in vain to stay away, but I cannot. I must be where you are.”

  She stretched out her arms, “Then come be my love, Jemmy, for I too can fight this no longer!”

  He could scarcely believe that she had uttered the words he so longed to hear her to say. Her words were the sweetest balm that he could imagine and, in an instant, he ran to her in a rush of fevered kisses and caresses, which she reciprocated fully and with an eagerness that both surprised and elated him. Their teeth clashed together as he passionately explored her mouth, and tenderly traced her lips with his velvety tongue.

  He lifted her swiftly and took her to the bed, ignoring the commotion his sudden arrival had created in the house.

  His hands, expertly skilled in the art of lovemaking, sought out all her secret places, which he followed with a kiss. His ardour was returned two-fold and she wept in happiness as his dexterous hands moved along her body. She had never felt the touch of a man, but she knew she wanted him to touch her, to want her; the primal force inside her urged her to abandon all thought and give in.

  He was the most desirable man in the world, and he desired her.

  He stroked her breasts, which were still hidden under the thin white shift she wore, and ran his hand firmly down her ribcage, waist, hip, thigh, calf, and down to her exposed ankle. Henrietta’s heart pounded within her loudly, her pulse quickening in tandem with the flames of longing burning brightly within her very soul.

  “I want to see thee,” he whispered, hoarsely. He slid his hand under the shift and pushed the fabric up her body, feeling her skin prickle beneath his touch. He rolled the shift up and off her and looking at her body.

  “More beautiful than I had imagined,” he said, kissing her mouth again with ardour.

  “I want to taste thee,” he said, moving down her body and nestling his head between her thighs.

  “What? Oh no, please…” but his attentions, which first shocked and alarmed her, soon had her in the throes of the most exquisite pleasure she had ever experienced.

  He then made a trail of hot kisses up from her sex past her navel and up to her neck, which he tenderly sucked and kissed, bending down do the same with her breasts. She reached for him hungrily and brought his lips to her own. She looked at his naked body, his male member engorged and large as he reached over to his coat, plucked a sheath from his pocket and slid it on to himself.

  “So you will not conceive,” he murmured, as he placed his knees between her legs, spreading them apart. She cried out as he entered her, the pain was unlike anything she had ever known, but he continued his caresses, murmuring again and again that he loved her, that she was soon adrift upon a sea of physical sensation and emotional bliss. They soared together, their hearts and bodies one with the rising winter’s sun.

  They awoke in each other’s arms, both happy to be together.

  She felt a strange slickness between her thighs, and she moved - the sheets under them were stained bright crimson with her virginal blood. His eyes followed, and widened slightly.

  “I am sorry for hurting you, I am usually able to control myself better. I lost my head.”

  “It was my first time.”

  He had thought that she had probably given herself to the Earl of Thanet, or to Lord Feversham, or that some courtier may have taken her virginity; he was flattered by what she had given him.

  “Thank you. You honour me.”

  She gave a little laugh and rested her head back upon the bed.

  “What’s so amusing?” he asked, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

  “Well, Your Grace, this is a very strange position for me to be in, giving you the prize I have long denied others, especially when one considers how I swore I would despise you for all my days.”

  “Did you?” he asked, turning to his side to face her and resting his head upon his hand.

  “Aye, I did, that night of the masque. I swore I could never love a married man. I loathed the fact that even then I desired you, in spite of your bad character.”

  He gave a brief chuckle, and then grew serious. “You’ll come to enjoy it in time.”

  She looked up into his dark blue eyes. “Is it wrong if I already enjoyed it?”

  “Ha! Not at all – I am pleased. I want you to enjoy my body as much as I enjoy yours.”

  “Oh, Jemmy…I know not by what power I am drawn to you but it is as a moth is drawn to the flame, and I cannot fight it, I must be consumed.”

  James lay quietly pondering by her side as he gently stroked the rounded curves of her naked waist and hip. “How could you not have forseen this, with charts and maps of the stars?”

  She shrugged, “Perhaps I dared not see the signs.” She paused, then, suddenly anxious, asked, “What are we to do? We have sinned against everything that is right and good in this world, and yet, though this bears down upon my conscience, I am not sorry.”

  He inhaled deeply and said, “I cannot divorce Anna, but neither can I be away from you. If you want to be with me, you shall have to be my mistress, there is no other way for us.”

  She nodded, sadly, for it was a position that went against everything she believed in, a circumstance that would bring her family name into disrepute and dishonour. But, strangely, in spite of all that she had fought against, she didn’t care.

  She met his gaze and spoke plainly. “Then I am your mistress. People will say that I am debauched, a strumpet, and a whore; but I can withstand all their malicious words if we are together. I love you so.”

  He kissed the downy skin just below her hairline on her forehead. “They say that my mother was a strumpet, but I know she was not.” His gaze became distant as he remembered his mother. “She was a lovely Welsh woman. She used to sing to me when I was a lad.” He hummed a melancholy Welsh tune for a little while, before turning to face her again, “I am sorry it has to be this way.”

  Her gaze darkened. “But if I were to have a child, it would be a bastard. It would face all the things you have had to endure.”

  Monmouth pulled her closer to him still. “Hush, do not say that, it would be our child, regardless of what those wretches at court will say.”r />
  They lay together for hours, chatting and cuddling. She lay in silence, both wondering what the future held in store for them. Then she sat up and kissed him, and then asked, “Are you hungry? We have game pie and fruit tarts that I can have brought up.”

  “Mmm…that is exceedingly tempting, especially after my many exertions!” he said cheekily, with laughter.

  She had food brought up and, by the heat of the roaring fire, they ate rich game pie and crumbly Shropshire cheese, fruit tarts with golden crusts, all of which they washed down with sweet hippocras.

  Suddenly there was banging at the door, “Open the door, Henrietta, at once!” roared Lady Philadelphia, “I demand to know what is going on. Who is in there with you? This stupid maid refuses to tell me anything.”

  “Mother!” exclaimed Henrietta, her eyes startled. “What shall we do?”

  “Leave this to me,” he said, calmly, as he got up and unlocked the door.

  “Lady Philadelphia,” he said with his characteristic exaggerated bow, “Forgive the nature of our initial meeting. I am the Duke of Monmouth and I am in love with your daughter.”

  Surprised by the handsome, bold, yet courteous man before her, Lady Philadelphia was rendered silent…for the first time in her life.

  Chapter 11

  The days that passed were as perfect as a piece of music by Purcell. They raced each other on horseback, played card-games in the drawing room, and downed glasses of claret, and roamed about the grounds of Toddington Manor. From time to time, Monmouth would scribble away in his leather-bound black book about the landscape of Toddington.

  One sunny late April morning, as they wandered amidst the wildflowers, which had begun to bloom as England shook of the remnants of winter and summer edged ever closer, Henrietta stopped here and there to gather bunches of bluebells.

  “Shall we sit here for a while, Harriet? He asked, using the nickname he had made up for her, as they came upon a clearing.

  “Aye, we shall,” she said with a giggle.

  He laid down upon his back, basking in the spring sunshine. He wore no periwig, only his own chestnut tresses, which had many streaks of grey, especially near his temples. His shirt was untied, and the wiry dark brown hairs upon his chest shone in the light of the sun.

  Henrietta sat down beside him, showering him with kisses upon his nose, the cleft in his chin, his unshaven cheek. She then began to interweave the thin green stems of the bluebells into the hair on his head and upon his chest, so that only the purple-blue flowers could be seen.

  “Open your eyes, my love,” she said, softly, lightly kissing the top of his long nose.

  He did so, his fringe of long black eyelashes opening up like a butterfly’s wing. “You are the king of the bluebells.”

  He smiled and stretched out an open palm, “May I keep one?”

  “Of course, here,” she said, plucking the most aesthetically-pleasing flower from the rest, “this is the fairest one.”

  He took the flower and opened a page in his black book and crushed it between the pages.

  “There,” he said, “this day shall be with me always, as you will be in my heart.”

  “Thy heart…” she murmured, as she lay beside him, her ear against his chest where she could listen to the rhythm of that beloved organ inside him. “I love thy heart.”

  “And I, thine.”

  Chapter 12

  It seemed to Henrietta that no sooner had he arrived, he had to depart. Monmouth was responsible for many pressing matters back at Whitehall, and he could no longer delay.

  He had left Toddington too late; and now Monmouth was tired from riding all day, and Eleanor’s home was the closest. It would give him a chance to see their son, James, whom he had not seen for some time.

  “I’ll go thither and see the lad,” he thought, “Eleanor will be happy with a bit of company. I simply will not tell Henrietta, for it would only serve to upset her.”

  Eleanor was surprised to see him; after all, he had made it plain that she was no longer his mistress. After spending some time with their son, he sat by the fire and hoisted his boots off his aching feet, his spurs clattering together as they hit the floor.

  “You look very well,” she said, as her eyes skimmed across his figure. The nearness of him excited her anew, and as their son was now sleeping upstairs, she moved close to him.

  He swallowed the claret from the glass she had pressed into his hands minutes earlier. “I am well, and very happy. How have you been of late?”

  “I refuse to lie to you. I have been so very lonely since last we met.” She brought her own glass to her lips and sipped. She was still young, and her body still desired a man. She remembered all those night of supreme pleasure that he had magnificently bestowed upon her. He was a man of many talents.

  “Have you…thought of me? Have you thought of all the pleasures you once had here in this house, upon this floor by the hearth, against the wall right over there, and my bed – surely you have not forgotten my bed.”

  Monmouth remembered it all very well. Eleanor was as lusty as he, her passions as easily inflamed as his. It had been a tempestuous union of shouting matches and energetic love-making.

  “Oh, Jemmy, it has been so long since last you came to me.”

  “Eleanor, I’ve not come hither for you. I wanted to see James, and I only ask for a place to rest my head, for I am weary from my travels.”

  She knew all the secret places upon his body that gave him the most pleasure and she used this knowledge to entice him.

  He tried to push her away, “Nay, I beseech you, Eleanor, do not do this. We are friends now.”

  “What is the harm in one last time, my monkey?”

  She slipped in between his thighs, and rubbed her hands against his large member. It quickly sprung to life under her coaxing.

  “No, please, Eleanor, as I have said, I’m tired.”

  “You, too tired for a poke? Never.”

  She plucked his manhood from the confines of his breeches and let her mouth do the things she remembered he loved so well. She knew that any resistance to such sensual attentions would be futile – he was a Stuart, after all - she knew his weaknesses well enough.

  “Nay, stop this at once! I should not have come hither,” he murmured, trying to push her away in one last attempt at stopping her.

  “You enjoyed my favours well enough before,” she replied, huskily, working him now with her hand. “No one need know. I won’t breathe a word to a soul. It will be our little secret.”

  She knew him well enough, no matter how much he tried to be the reformed rake; she knew he would not have the strength to refuse her. She was correct in this assumption: his conscience put up no more defences.

  He gave in to his previous mistress’s desires…

  ***

  Old Shaftesbury stood trembling before King Charles and the Privy Council. They sat in stern condemnation of him and sent him to the Tower.

  Monmouth and Grey soon visited the old man in his cell there.

  “They’ve accused me of High Treason!” exclaimed Shaftesbury. “I knew it would be thus! I knew they would accuse me of some nonsense!”

  “You were the one behind the Exclusion Bill, after all,” stated Lord Grey, crossing his legs as he sat.

  “And I am glad of it,” he said with pride. “A Catholic upon the English throne…it is not to be borne. This country will be destroyed.”

  “My father will not allow any harm to come to you…” Monmouth assured him.

  “Ha! We shall see about that. I don’t expect to leave this wretched place. I’ve sold my beautiful home and my horse, as I shan’t need them any longer, I fear. Even if the King does not have my head struck from my body, he will not allow me to retire in the Colonies either…and I so long to see The New World.”

  “I will incur the King’s displeasure in doing this, but I shall help pay for your bail.”

  Chapter 13

  Several months passed and he co
ntinued to send letters to Henrietta at Toddington, and they met in secret whenever possible. Everyone at court knew that they were now lovers, at least emotionally if not physically, but for the sake of lessening the blow to her reputation, they contrived to keep their relationship as secret as possible. She had not yet come of age, and until she was mistress of Toddington Manor in her own right, her mother still could forbid her certain things. The Duke was one of them.

  Monmouth’s uncle, James, Duke of York, and his court had returned from exile in Scotland. York was ever the same, with the same sneering look whenever Monmouth was near, for he envied him his popularity with both the people, and his brother King Charles.

  Unfortunately, Monmouth and his father were now not as close as once they were, for ever since he had helped Shaftesbury – his father’s enemy – Charles now found it difficult to trust his son. He had stripped the position of Master of the Horse from him and given it to his nine year old son, Monmouth’s half-brother, whose mother was Louise de Kérouaille.

  At Whitehall Palace, Monmouth was handed a letter from Eleanor, telling him to make haste to her.

  She had given birth to a daughter. His daughter.

  He raced thither in a fury.

  “Eleanor, you tricked me, damn you!” he exclaimed angrily as he ran up the stairs towards her bedchamber.

  She sat there in her costly shift in the ornate bed he has bought her years before. She was smiling like a contented cat. He had come back to her.

  “What?” she said, feigning innocence, before grinning again, “You are as your father, easily swayed by your cock.”

  “I’ll have no part in this. I’ll not come back to you, you knew I was no longer yours, and yet you contrived to make me have you.”

  “It isn’t my fault that I conceived. You could have used a sheep’s gut or just dry-bobbed, but no, it was you who decided to spend inside me.”