“As you see, Sir Envy, I have had many partners tonight, including you. There is nothing to be envious of,” Frances replied calmly, loath to touch him.
“Ah, but you are wrong. I envy every pair of eyes that has been blessed with your glorious visage.”
Frances thought Sir Harry’s words were prettily said, but all they accomplished was to give her a sense that he viewed her as his possession. If he had been the mystery admirer, he would not have left her undisturbed in her bath while he innocently delivered flowers. The thought alone made her shudder.
“I suggest you turn to your partner of Kindness to help alleviate your envy. She has not been able to keep her eyes off you all night.” Frances gestured to Baroness Sheffield, two ladies to the right in the dancing circle, beautifully garbed in rose and butter yellow satin which, to her credit, did give her a softer appearance. Frances wanted to be polite despite the irrational urge to flee. At this, she completed the spezzato cadenza to her left and changed partners, followed by Sir Harry’s scorching gaze. Still queasy with unease, she looked up and reveranced her final partner, Pride.
The tension in his jaw and taut cord of his neck framed by the courtly ruff gave the impression of a warrior pretending to be a courtier. It took her breath away.
“My lord, pray give me your name. I thought I knew all the players, but I am mistaken,” Frances said with a confident smile. As tall as Sir Harry, but more graceful and less brutish in his carriage, he was as dark as Kit Hatton was light. She had thought she was attracted to the idea that they matched, but the contrast flashed an erotic image to mind, her paleness pressed against him. Damn that book.
She bit her lip and swallowed against the warmth in her belly.
She found herself disappointed that he wore gloves. Still, heat pulsed through the supple leather against her hand, and he led her on the spezzati and passi to the right and met her eyes. “For tonight, my Lady Chastity, I am Pride. At this moment, I am proud indeed to have you upon my arm.”
His voice, deep and familiar, washed over her skin like a caress. His mask obscured most of his face, but she could see his dark eyes and thick fringe of lashes behind the peacock feathers and his full mouth smiling below the black velvet of his half mask. He was clean shaven, but Frances could see the dark undergrowth working its way to the surface. She had never kissed a clean-shaven man—even her husband had had a silly little beard when they had kissed at their wedding. She wondered if Pride’s lips would be as soft as they looked. Still strangely preoccupied with the idea of kissing, she found herself taking a larger step into him as they entered into the chorus where the partners faced each other in a circle around the other in a series of reprise. He shifted his body on the diagonal so that his cumbersome cod piece would not be a barrier and stepped so close that Frances’s bosom pressed against his chest.
At the unexpected contact, Frances took a deep breath of surprise, causing her chest to heave even closer against the velvet of Pride’s doublet. Being so close to him made it difficult to breathe, and her pulse raced setting an alternate tempo to the rhythm of the dance. She had never been so affected by a man. Still, not wishing to appear easily fazed, she finished her dance steps in this proximity—each up and down move of the reprise causing her breasts to shift against the silk of her corset. Doing her best to ignore the growing sensation, Frances met his eyes in an effort to continue the dance. Her breath caught in her throat as his gaze devoured her. He wanted her badly, and somewhere deep inside herself, she wanted him.
“Sweet Chastity, it would wound my pride to let you out of my arms without one chaste kiss. You can hardly deny me that.”
Pride lowered his head.
Fear and desire fought within her, and Frances pulled away, shaking, no longer dancing. Too late she affected a playful laugh and found her place in the choreography. Her heart still pounding in her throat, she joined back with Hatton as all the partners reveranced each other and then turned as one to face the Queen upon her dais in heaven and dropped down on one knee in salute.
“Well danced, all!” the Queen declared with enthusiasm and gestured grandly for her dancers to recover. “Your dancing was so engaging that We wish to have a dance for Ourselves.” With that, Queen Elizabeth rose, elegantly extending her right hand. Kit Hatton, being the closest to the dais, scampered quickly up to lead the Queen onto the dance floor. Queen Elizabeth called for a couples’ dance, and the musicians struck up the tune.
Pride held out his hand, no longer gloved. Feigning courage, Frances joined him in the opening steps, circling around each other. The dance glorified love and courtship and was made up of a series of stanzas where the couple would dance together, show off their skills with a solo, get seductively close, then move away playfully. The dance was one of her favorites. She stepped, moving her left hip toward Pride in a puntate, then stepped back, turning left and then right in a swish of satin skirts and a hint of silk stocking.
He seemed so familiar, but she would surely remember such a handsome man. Then again, the past ten years had boasted a distinct lack of handsome men. Perhaps she should have let him kiss her during the dance and marked it up as playacting. Kissing fell within the realm of flirtation, and none could fault her for affecting courtly sensibilities, even her husband. Smiling up into his eyes, she wondered if she would see him without the mask later . . . Well, the night was young.
Chapter Nine
Rule One: Marriage should not be a deterrent to love.
Once Queen Elizabeth opened up the dance floor to all, the sounds of music and dancing became the pulse of Henry VIII’s great hall. Revelers crowded into every corner of heaven, hell, and purgatory. Even though it was her own design, Frances felt guilty at the thought of reveling in hell. She had been impressed with her foresight in deciding to serve a chilled wine in the heavenly portion of the hall—the blazing candles created quite a bit of heat along with their divine light. With the heat from the candles and the exertion of the dancing, Frances found the refreshing libation more appealing than usual.
She handed her goblet to a passing footman as she was grabbed by two masked lady revelers and pulled onto the dance floor. As Mary, Jane, and Frances began their dance with a balzetto, they all began talking at once. Between Frances’s flirtation with Pride and Mary’s and Jane’s questions, the three decided to continue their discussion privately once the dancing was finished. Dressed as the virtue of Humor, Mary wore a playful teal velvet gown with a forepart and sleeves in motley to match her mask and belled jester’s crown. Jane costumed herself as the virtue of Innocence—or, rather, a satire of Innocence. She had not liked the mandate that the ladies were supposed to be virtuous and decided to be as provocatively virtuous as possible. She’d woven strands of flowering jasmine, from the bouquet left in Frances’s room, into her mass of golden ringlets. Her gleaming white silk gown, scattered with cherry blossoms, had as low a neckline as possible without exposing her nipples.
When they finished the boisterous dance, the three costumed ladies escaped the confines of the hall, each grabbing a goblet of wine on their way. As they got farther away from the overwhelming noise of the masque and deeper into the darkness of the gardens, Frances could hear herself think once more.
Her attraction to Kit Hatton was minor compared to her immediate physical response to Pride. One man she barely knew and the other a complete stranger, and both wanted her. She took another sip from her pewter goblet and sat down on a stone bench under an arch of fragrant night blossoms. Mary and Jane joined her.
“Jane, I had no idea that you were on such good terms with Baroness Sheffield that she would lend you one of her gowns . . . ” Mary’s comment was cut short by a playful but effective swat from Jane’s silk flowered fan. Frances took advantage of this distraction and laughed at her ladies’ banter.
“Mary, you have no call to criticize Jane’s costume. She looks lovely, although if she were to dress this way on a regular basis, I may have to dismiss her from my household.�
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Jane took Frances’s teasing compliment with her usual good nature and responded with a low reverance, giving all present an eyeful of her ample bosom.
“Saints preserve us, Jane! Put them away! You are a wanton wench.” Mary’s response was playful, but she was clearly frustrated with her friend. Mary looked elegant as always and her costume choice showed her wit and character. Frances was not surprised that Jane had chosen to play the vixen. Since their arrival at court, Frances realized that Jane wielded her sexuality like a weapon—against what, Frances could not guess. She wondered if Jane behaved this way at Holme LeSieur and, if so, why hadn’t she noticed?
“Mistress, what troubles you? We will be with your children soon enough, and tonight is a night for revelry, not guilt.” Mary interrupted Frances’s introspection.
“Nay, Mary, it’s not guilt or missing my children.” Frances tried not to think about that until she was alone in her rooms at night. “I am not troubled or upset . . . I’m more confused than anything else.”
Mary and Jane waited while Frances finished the dregs of her goblet. “My husband is at court but has not sought me out. Did I anger him? Embarrass him? I have made myself respected among the Queen’s elite, but he does not care.” Frances continued, her words flowing faster and faster, “Now I know that men find me attractive, so why is it he finds me undesirable? And why do I care a whit about what he wants or does not want? Have I ever wanted his attentions? Certainly not! I have endured his touch for ten years, yet here am I worried about my marriage vows and not taking a lover even when I have at least one prime prospect and my husband has long since treated me and our vows with disregard . . . ” Frances rambled on, not sure about her original point, but unable to stop. “And I blame him for my disgust at coupling. How dare any man touch a woman who does not want him? And why did I comply, knowing full well he did not want me? Duty. God’s blood, how I hate the word. I will never again give my body out of duty.” Frances had worked herself into wild pacing. She grabbed Mary’s untouched goblet of wine and took a healthy swallow.
“But then, what is coupling all about if not the woman submitting to a man’s desires? And, if that is so, how can it be at all pleasurable? So many women choose to engage in affairs. And they enjoy it! I saw you, Jane.” Frances pointed. Jane jumped. “I saw you basking in the pleasure that man gave you. How so? I wish to never be touched again, but I want to know what you know. Kit Hatton is at my disposal, I know that. I am sure he’d be a considerate lover, but I do not want him and the risk of a babe is too great to even consider it. I do not know.” Frances sat down, in a billow of skirts. “I mean, I should want him, if I were to want anyone—which I do not. No. But I do. And then there is that tall dark fellow with the massive hands and full mouth wanting to kiss me . . . but he may have just been playing a part. And my husband is somewhere at court and may have been lovers with Baroness Sheffield and God knows who else. And I cannot think why I am thinking so much on this.” Frances would have slumped over and placed her forehead onto her knees, had she not been wearing a corset. She sat still for a moment, and then drained the remainder of Mary’s goblet.
“So, let me get this correct.” Jane held up her hands to count of the points of Frances’s rambling argument. “You do not want a lover. Your husband is an arse. You do want a lover, but are afraid to be with child again. You cannot abide the thought of coupling.” She had counted off four fingers. “You thought you wanted Kit Hatton, but now you are attracted to this other man. You do not want a lover, but you do want to know why some women like it.” Jane had counted off a total of six fingers. She looked up at Frances quizzically. “Does that make sense to anyone here? It certainly makes no sense to me. I think, mistress, you may be drunk.”
Ignoring Jane, Mary looked to Frances. “Mistress, do not do anything that you do not wish to do. If something is wrong, you will know. Do not think on it so much. Mayhap your heart will guide you and you’ll be able to overcome your fear and memories.” Mary handed Frances Jane’s half-full goblet.
“When I want a man, I feel it like a fire in my belly,” Jane explained. “I ache to feel his skin against mine. Even the touch of his hand is like a brand. It is like I want to drown in his kiss.”
Like a brand—Pride’s touch had branded her, sure enough. Maybe she should have let him kiss her . . .
“And when a lover has a care for you, he will wait upon your pleasure. He will read your responses and know how to please you. It does not have to be an act of submission, but an act to fulfill your own desires,” Mary added, her words honest and kind, not in the least bit arrogant. The words of a friend. “A true lover will find his pleasure in pleasing you. Remember, that which a lover takes against the will of his beloved has no relish. No man who loves you will cause you pain . . . ”
“Unless you want him to,” Jane finished with a giggle.
Frances, still uncertain about everything in general, smiled awkwardly and said, “You just quoted Castiglione. Was that rule five?”
Mary threw her hands up. “I think this night has gone on enough. I am off to bed.”
Mary rose and Jane stood with her, saying, “Not me! It is early yet, and I have to meet the man I wish to tempt with my innocence.” With that, Jane checked that her bosoms were still as contained by the dress as they could be and sauntered back to the festivities in the main hall.
Frances and Mary laughed together at the incorrigible Jane. Mary looked to Frances in seriousness and asked, “Are you finished for this evening as well? Or do you wish to find out if chastity is really what you want?” Mary gestured to Frances’s costume. Frances looked down at herself, surprised by her appearance. She looked fabulous and, only for tonight, wasn’t herself. Why not take a chance?
Before she could answer, a servant in angelic robes appeared before her bearing a silver slaver with a single folded piece of parchment upon it.
“Mistress LeSieur?” the man began with a reverance. Frances nodded, wondering how he knew who she was—she was wearing a mask, after all. “Mistress LeSieur, this missive is for you.” He presented his tray, waited for her to retrieve the note, then bowed as he made his exit.
Frances opened the missive and peered at the script in the darkness of the garden.
I await your pleasure in the northern most alcove in hell.
• • •
Frances entered the great hall and into heaven, vaguely aware of others returning from the darkness of the garden. It seemed that the festivities were still going strong. Looking to the food, Frances realized she’d had at least five full goblets of wine on an empty stomach. She skirted the dancers as they ran with amazing energy in a snaking line around the hall. Run, run, run, hop. Run, run, run, hop. Run, hop. Run, hop. Step back, step back. Kick-kick-kick, kick-kick-kick. Frances did not know this dance and was relieved she had not been present at the start of it.
Finding the tables still piled high with delicacies, Frances chose a simple almond custard tartlet and prayed it would settle her stomach. She could not tell if the butterfly sensation was from the alcohol or the anticipation of her private meeting . . . but with whom? The mystery was part of the appeal. The probably very delicious tartlet was almost flavorless to Frances as she dutifully chewed and swallowed. Not sure if the dryness in her mouth was from nerves or the pastry, she signaled a footman bearing a tray. The wine was pleasingly wet, and, having thus fortified herself, she was ready to meet with her admirer.
She wove her way throughout the reveling sinners and stood considering the red satin draped wall. Which way was north? She took a moment to orient herself, thinking about where the sun had set when a strong hand took hers and guided her into an alcove.
Frances began an attempt at saying something witty when she was silenced by a warm, firm, kiss. Frances was too surprised to react. Of course her first instinct was to pull away, but then again, wasn’t she here to test whether or not she could feel pleasure at a man’s touch? Frances tried to follow her tr
ain of thought but found herself too distracted to think.
She closed her eyes and let herself just feel. The hot pressure of his lips against hers. The force of his large hands at her back. Wanting to be closer, closer. He teased at her lips, urging them to open enough to deepen the kiss. He tasted of honey and wine as his tongue entwined with hers. This is a kiss, a real kiss. The silk of his thick waves tickled her seeking hands as she laced her fingers through his hair.
Wait a moment . . . How did her hands get into his hair? And what was his tongue doing in her mouth? And why did she not want this kissing business to end? The pressure of his hands at her back pressed her up against the velvet of his doublet, the thick knap of the fabric a welcome friction against the sensitive skin of her heaving bosom. Sinking deeper into his arms, she marveled at the heat from his body. He was much taller than Frances had thought, she realized, angling her head back to match the slow onslaught of passion. His lips left hers, skirting with soft heat across her jaw, her ear lobe, down her neck. She could feel the smoothness of his shaved skin as his lips, teeth, and tongue created a riot of sensations on the base of her neck.
Head back and eyes closed, she sighed as she gave up on thought and let herself melt into the embrace. This was pleasure.
Without warning, she felt light pour into the alcove from a break in the satin draping and a sickening voice hissed, “Traitor!”
Frances felt the arms supporting her body loosen as she stood up straight with a sudden jerk and opened her eyes. The alcove was so dimly lit that she had to strain to make out the figure of the man she had just embraced so passionately as he moved to investigate the disturbing voice. It wasn’t Kit Hatton. Was it Pride? Yes, but he seemed so familiar . . . As Frances’s eyes focused in the gloom, she felt as if the world were spinning around her and that she was about to fall. She heartily regretted the last goblet of wine. Or the last few goblets. She bent over to clutch the bench under the slatted window in the alcove and, unexpectedly and violently, retched. God’s teeth, no. A lady does not vomit . . . The man she’d just been kissing moved closer and, embarrassed, she tried to cover her mouth with her hand before everything went black.
Courtly Pleasures Page 8
