Courtly Pleasures

by Erin Kane Spock

  The dead rat lay on the pile of shredded silk on his desk. The rosary, not notable on its own accord, wrapped the rodent so tightly it cut through the fur around its neck. She couldn’t look at it without shuddering. Even worse, Henry seemed to think there was more to it than a sick joke.

  She faced him once more, her skirts twisting about her at the sudden movement. “You expect me to believe that Jane’s attack was intended for me?”

  “No, but I would like you to consider the possibility.”

  “It’s ridiculous. I am no one at court, a country mouse with new clothes.”

  “Hardly that. Do not pretend otherwise.”

  “But I am still of no consequence. What would an attack on me accomplish?”

  “It is hard to give reasons for the random violence I have seen in London. Sometimes there are no reasons for a madman’s obsession. Do not discount yourself. This last masque made you something of a celebrity at the palace. You are important to the Queen, and She is at constant risk.” He drew a hand over his face, suddenly appearing tired. “It is also possible . . . ” He paused, true concern printed on his brow. “That an attack at you may be aimed at me.”

  “I am of less consequence to you than I am to the Queen. Harming me would do very little to you. Besides, why would someone wish you ill?” Frances found the idea ridiculous. “Does someone have it out for Nottinghamshire, then? They hate sheep?”

  “Yes, Frances, they hate sheep,” he said, his voice droll. “You think you are of no consequence to me? That I would not care if you were injured? You think so little of me, then?”

  She stared at him, marveling at the guilt he manipulated from her. “The rat,” she gestured to his desk, “was delivered to me. Now, not only do you wish to make it about you, but you seek to make me feel badly that I would not consider your feelings. My safety, the safety of my ladies, has been violated, and yet you wish me to worry that I may have hurt your sensitive disposition. Pardon me for being a harpy in this instance, but I refuse to bend to your whims.” Henry LeSieur was, no doubt about it, a horse’s arse. “Hence my wish for separation.”

  Fire flared over her cheeks, but she held her chin high, refusing to be embarrassed by her unladylike behavior. Unladylike? No, she was being a downright shrew and for no good reason.

  Henry looked stunned for less than a second before smiling, straight, white teeth framed by his full lips. His smile made his eyes crinkle just so, made her want to smile too.

  “If you stop looking at me like I’m a horse’s arse,” he said, “mayhap I can explain the rational thought behind my concerns.”

  Not only had he just read her mind, but it was very possible that he’d just called her irrational. It wouldn’t have stung if it hadn’t been true.

  “Pray, my lord husband,” she strove for serenity in her expression, “enlighten me.”

  • • •

  Henry felt caught in a whirlwind as Frances jumped between anger and humor, the transitions as entertaining as they were endearing. “Was that fire always there in you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the stubborn set to your mouth and the well-placed sarcasm. Your anger, amusement, and the lack of space in between the two. The light in your eyes and the courage to challenge me, to let me know you think I’m a horse’s arse.”

  “I never actually said that aloud,” she muttered past her hands. She almost achieved that bland look, that bored proper lady expression, then sighed and turned her face skyward.

  “Are you imploring the heavens?”

  “Something like that.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks again, massaging her jaw. The stubborn pout faded, but her eyes still shot daggers. She raised her chin and straightened her shoulders, the smallest hint of neck visible above her pleated ruff made his fingers itch to touch her. Instead he watched her regain poise.

  She was breathtaking.

  “A lady is calm and pleasant in all things.”

  He cocked a brow and leaned closer. “So the horse’s arse sentiment is unacceptable.”

  “Just so.”

  He prowled around her, his boots brushing the hem of her skirts. “You should be docile and pleasing toward your husband.”

  She nodded, hands held loosely before her, back straight, and head high—every inch the lady—as if her randy husband were not thinking about the easiest way to dissemble her layers of clothing. She probably didn’t even know. She may have birthed five children, but she was almost as innocent as a virgin.

  He tossed his gloves onto the desk and traced a soft line along the back of her neck, teasing the loose hairs there.

  She shuddered as he completed his circle, stopping to face her once more.

  “And,” he continued, “a lady should never ask for a separation, drink herself sick, or kiss random men.”

  Outrage played across her face as her jaw dropped. He held up a staying hand before she could speak.

  “Nay, Frances, I prefer this version to the proper lady of the past ten years. I do not know what to expect and that makes everything,” no exaggeration, everything, from the flavor of food to the scent on the night air, all spiced by the constant anticipation knotted in his chest, “everything better.”

  Better was too weak a word, but that was the best he could do.

  Sunlight caught and held on to the copper tips of her lashes. He’d never noticed them before. So much about her had changed, but he couldn’t help but wonder if something in him had changed too.

  “What do you think of the new you?”

  She raised her eyes to his. “I don’t know that I really changed. It is more like I’ve shed my masks. Everything I should be, every virtue I have stood for, been taught to value, my whole life. Take that away and, it seems, I do not know the woman who lies beneath.”

  “That is the woman who has charmed the court.” He picked up her hand and placed a kiss on her gloved knuckles. “Has charmed me.”

  She pulled her hand away. “Do not patronize me. It does your character no credit.”

  “You think I play you false?”

  “I think you seek to salvage your pride.”

  “And that I have no esteem for you?”

  “As you say.” She nodded, the stubborn set of her lips begging for a kiss.

  “Can I do nothing to convince you otherwise?”

  She shook her head. “There is too much past between us for me to trust.”

  “And yet you fell into my arms . . . ”

  “That man was not you. To kiss you, abandon all thought and give in to the moment, would be impossible. There is just too much,” she gestured to her head, her heart, her stomach, “for me to let that happen.”

  “But it was me.”

  “And yet he was not. He was a moment of romance at a masked ball. That man had no expectations, no history. It was all new with me, the not-always-pleasant woman behind the mask.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek. If he wanted to start fresh with his wife—no, with Frances—he must truly start at the beginning.

  “The man and woman who shared a passion at the masque were strangers then. Perhaps they shall meet again.” He let his words hover and watched the suggestion take hold.

  “Yes,” she agreed, color flooding her cheeks again as she bit her lip. “The next masque is in three days’ time. Mayhap they will find each other again then.”

  He smiled like an idiot. “Anything is possible.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Rule Four: Love constantly waxes and wanes.

  Frances had been fully awake since the clock chimed four but had not wished to rise and ready for the day. Not yet. So much had to be done for the masque—but first she had to let inspiration strike and give her a viable theme. Any theme. Please God, let inspiration strike . . . and let her stop thinking about what might happen there with her husband. The masque of sin and virtue had been her brainchild but, ultimately, was a group endeavor. This was all on her, even “Robin,” the Earl of Le
icester, had told her so despite the fact that it came out of his purse. But what to do? She needed a plan more cohesive than simply something on the river. Frustrated, but full of partial plans, Frances rose and rang for her ladies to assist in her dressing.

  Good Lord! Frances stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes fixed on the wall sconce beside her bed. There, hanging in righteous splendor, was the rosary. Surely it was not the same one? A cold that had nothing to do with the November morning seeped into Frances’s bones, and she sat down on her bed, her stomach a knot in her throat. Someone was mocking her—or threatening her. She had watched Henry throw it in the fire, watched it smolder and burn. This could not be the same one, but it was an exact duplicate. Henry may be right after all.

  She still did not understand what would make him a target, and through him, her, but she had heard enough about some of the goings on at court to know that people did not need reasons for bad behavior. She pulled the rosary from the wall and tossed it in the grate, shivering in revulsion at the thought that someone had hung it in her room. It hadn’t been there when she’d gone to bed, which meant someone came into her room while she slept.

  Fighting panic, Frances closed and secured her windows and pulled the heavy damask draperies shut. The worries following the attack on Jane had been assuaged by the Queen’s Guard, but she’d been foolish to let herself feel safe. Henry had warned her that she might be the subject of some foul intrigue, but that was so outside her understanding, she’d mocked him for it. She had gloried in the fresh breeze from the river and the natural light of the sun as it filtered through her open window. No more . . . No longer could she force a false sense of security. Henry was right—she was not safe here. It was as if she could not trust the palace itself.

  Frances moved around the room, lighting candles in their sconces to illuminate the dark room. The bustle of activity made her feel proactive in the cause of her own protection but did nothing to ease her growing tension. How could she concentrate on festivities with this fear dangling over her? She had no choice.

  Frances took a deep breath of the increasingly stuffy air of her shut up chamber, and began to ready herself to face the day and her responsibilities to the Queen.

  • • •

  “How now, Mistress?” Kit Hatton gave a courtly reverance with a flourish of his feathered flat cap and gracefully lowered himself to the ground at Frances’s feet. Frances’s farthingale took up the whole bench, and Hatton, wearing his riding leathers, seemed to have no qualm reclining on the sod. “I am glad to hear Mistress Radclyffe has recovered well. She won over the hearts of half my guards in the hours of her stay.” He had a boyish smile that would melt any woman’s reserves, but Frances didn’t feel it. Certainly, his admiration was flattering, but his flirtations would lead nowhere. She hoped he knew it. When they first met, she’d been in awe that a man wanted her and wondered if she could respond. Since then, the feeling of being desired had become disturbing—Kit Hatton, at least, was playful. Sir Harry Lee made her skin crawl, his flirtation more like bullying. And Oxford . . . She threw up a little in her mouth at the very thought. He didn’t flirt; he outright told her how he wished to use her body and expected her to be honored. She shook her head against the memory. No, despite the norm that seemed to apply to married ladies, she definitely was not going to take a lover at court and did not want to be accused of teasing. She thought she’d been clear in her refusals, but still Sir Harry and Kit Hatton persisted as if there were a price on her head. Sir Harry she had no problem slapping if need be, but she hoped it wouldn’t come to that with Kit—he had the makings of a good friend.

  “Yes indeed, Jane is much recovered. She is not entirely herself, but such a thing must be difficult to put from your mind.” Frances remembered the rosary and the rat, and shuddered. She had not even been attacked—Jane must be struggling through fear every minute of every day.

  Hatton’s expression softened. “Mistress Radclyffe should be glad it was not worse. She will recover, but do not be surprised if little things upset her. I’ve seen the strongest men reduced to tears by a sound or smell that reminds them of violence from their past.” He rubbed his hand over his face and stifled a yawn. “’Struth, I am tired. I have had the honor to spend every waking minute in audience with our Queen, and I am drained. I hope I can sleep before the morrow’s festivities, although I delight in the prospect of a masque where I may simply be a man and not Kit Hatton, the Queen’s favorite.” He reclined back onto his elbows and lifted his clean-shaven face to enjoy the early November sunlight as if he was relaxing for the first time in weeks.

  Though it was an elite position with potential for great political advancement, Frances knew that being the Queen’s favorite had to be a huge responsibility. Frances changed the subject. “Well, I have made plans with the kitchens and the buttery for the details of the al fresco banquet and coordinated wines. The masque is well on the way to being an evening garden party along the riverfront—not entirely what I had in mind.”

  “Those of us in the know expect something brilliant from you. May I be of any help? Perhaps, be your muse?”

  Frances appreciated his lighthearted charm. Still, she was no nearer to deciding on a solid theme. She had been so distracted by her own fears she could not concentrate on much else.

  “And how would you inspire me, Master Hatton?”

  He rolled onto one side and propped himself up on an elbow, “I can think of many ways I might give you inspiration. Unfortunately, I cannot provide my services in that department here, though it saddens me.” He spoke with such mock sincerity that Frances could not help but smile.

  “Worry not, Master Hatton,” Frances struck a sober face. “I would not have you in poor favor with Her Majesty on my account. Besides, I have just learned that you are friend to my husband. I would be surprised if that would weather any attempt to inspire me too much.” Frances stated these obvious facts with a completely stoic face, as if she were doing him a great service. It still seemed illogical that courtiers would dally with each other without respect to their spouses, let alone respect to the concept of fidelity. Flirtation was harmless, but this was too much.

  Stifling a smile, he replied as seriously as he could, “Ah, but the threat of discovery is half the fun. I think that I would survive without Henry’s friendship.”

  Unlike her husband, Hatton played by the rules of courtly love. He had the words, the actions; everything he did and said matched her ideas of courtship and affection. Still, none of it seemed real. For all of Henry’s dark glares and claims to her person, something about him rang true and made her body ache to respond. None of that followed the course of a courtly affair and made no sense.

  Frances attempted to shift the topic of conversation before she made a fool of herself. “Enough of my troubles . . . I heard that you were financing an expedition to the New World?” Frances had toyed with the idea of celebrating the glory of England by including cultural representations from each section of the English empire. But, the Spanish and French ambassadors would be present and, no doubt, would be a reminder that English imperialism was weak in comparison.

  “I would not say it is an expedition. Drake, one of my men, is busy harassing the Spanish colonies of Hispaniola. I have not heard from him directly, but if the Spanish ambassador’s complaints have any truth to them, Drake will have made more of a name for himself as a privateer than an explorer.”

  “Surely Queen Elizabeth does not endorse such acts?”

  “What do you think? We all know She will gladly accept gifts from the bounty. I’m sure that Francis Drake will become one of our Queen’s favorites if he continues to provide England with riches and embarrass the Spanish at the same time.” Hatton was fully reclined on the grass, his hands behind his head and his eyes closed in the sunshine. “Besides, most of the court finds the idea of pirating exciting—scurvy and rape aside.”

  They both stayed there in a comfortable silence for a moment or so while Frances
pondered Kit’s words. Up until now, the Turks had dominated the African coast with their pirating. The idea of the Barbary pirate—the swarthy swashbuckler that conquered the waves with ships laden with jewels—was thrilling. Of course, Francis Drake had made English pirating somewhat more official with the idea of the privateer.

  “That’s it!” Frances jumped to her feet as the idea hit her square in the forehead.

  Kit Hatton opened his eyes, lifting his head a fraction to look at her standing above him. “What is?”

  “The masque. Pirates! I must make arrangements . . . ” Frances, in an excited frenzy, leaned over the bench to pick up her notebook then righted herself and started toward the gravel path, having momentarily forgotten that Hatton was lying on the ground at her feet.

  Her foot caught on Hatton’s boot, and there was nothing Frances could do to stave off the inevitable—falling. In a fluster of skirts and loose parchments, Frances found herself sprawled directly on top of Kit Hatton. She struggled to support her weight with her hands only to find herself looking directly into a pair of merry blue eyes. While surprised, he did not appear to be injured.

  “Pirates?” Hatton’s voice had deepened into a husky whisper while he moved his hands from behind his head, to brush a stray tendril from her face. Frances could not move.

  “Yes.” Frances’s mouth was suddenly very dry. She moistened her lips with her tongue. “It will be perfect.” Frances’s gaze moved from his eyes to his mouth, so close to hers. Would his kiss devastate her the way Henry’s had?

  “Perfect,” was all he said as his hand slid behind her neck to cup the back of her head and draw her face down.

  Their lips merged in a hard kiss. Frances knew without question that he wanted her—wanted her badly. Tentatively, she softened her lips and tried to melt into the sensation. At the first sign of invitation, he deepened the kiss, plundering her mouth. All Frances could do was to allow the onslaught—he was so dominant she could not even participate. It didn’t feel right—there was no sweetness to it. The thought that she aroused his desire made her heart beat at double pace, but instead of feeling passion to match his, all she felt was panic. Kit’s fingers splayed against the back of her scalp as she tried to lift her head from the kiss. She could not move.