Courtly Pleasures

by Erin Kane Spock

  She did not expect the tears that threatened. Steeling her nerves, she blinked the moisture away just as a young serving girl dressed in the Turkish style reveranced her. Frances gestured with a flick of the wrist as she said, “Rise up, mistress. What would you have of me?”

  “It’s my duty to assist you in removing your farthingale, my lady.” Frances had forgotten about this accommodation—but then again, she wasn’t supposed to be here. Damn, damn, and damn. “The barges are too small for all the ladies in their farthingale to move freely. So, my lady, if you would allow me to assist you . . . ”

  Frances offered the girl her hands and was raised out of her pile of cushions. The wench promptly dove under Frances’s skirts and undid tapes securing the farthingale to the corset. As the young girl reemerged from the velvet, Frances felt her farthingale drop to the deck and stepped out of it. The girl retrieved it, thanked Frances for her cooperation, and then bore it away. Without the farthingale Frances could feel the weight of the skirts swishing around her legs. At least her skirts were not too long to walk in.

  Frances moved through the curtains enclosing the pavilion to stand on the open deck of the barge. The short display before the Queen over, most of the other ladies waited outside already. The barge had a few torches on the deck but, as they sailed further away from the haze of the city, the moon and stars offered ample light.

  “Mistress LeSieur, what is the meaning of this?” Two ladies rushed toward her, Lady Oxford and Baroness Ludlow, both without their farthingales. Frances smiled to herself as she wondered what Baroness Ludlow thought about being abducted. She didn’t have to wait long.

  “Mistress, I have never . . . That was simply scandalous! I am a virtuous married lady!” Baroness Ludlow was still in too much shock for Frances to tell if she were truly angry or not.

  Frances decided to head her off before she could build up steam. “Baroness Ludlow! I am so glad you agreed to come! I hope it is clear after the performance that those men were from Her Majesty’s guard. They would have released you if you had instructed them. Nothing will happen this night that you would be ashamed of . . . ”

  “Unless you want it to.” Lady Rich had joined their circle and was obviously enjoying herself.

  Frances laughed, “Aye. This is a private party hosted by Queen Elizabeth, and those herein are honored to be here.” Frances spoke with merriment but silently prayed her words carried weight with Baroness Ludlow.

  She sighed in relief the instant she noticed Baroness Ludlow’s shoulders relax. Frances knew she was taking a chance by having her invited, but she felt that excitement and the opportunity for abandon was something the dour woman sorely needed—whether she knew it or not. Perhaps tonight would be a revelation.

  “Mistress LeSieur, this was an amazing idea.” Lady Oxford sounded sincere as she looked around at the furnishings on the barge. “My only concern is . . . ”

  Frances interrupted with the answer to the unspoken question. “I’m sure that your husband was discouraged from bringing the mermaid player along.”

  At this, Penelope Rich broke into hiccups of laughter. “Do you know us so well then, oh, self-proclaimed country mouse?”

  Frances smiled and gave Lady Rich a playful reverance. “And, of course, Lady Rich, your husband is not here—which should be no surprise.” Frances paused, giving time for Lady Rich to raise an eyebrow questioningly, as if testing her. With a wink, Frances continued, “Yes, Colonel Blount is here.”

  Clapping her hands softly in a flutter of wrist ruffs, Lady Rich declared, “Brava, mistress. You have proven yourself worthy.”

  “Who else is here?” By now Frances was surrounded by at least ten ladies.

  “Ladies, please. We are all in disguise! You cannot know the identity of all the revelers. It would take away from the mystery. Remember, you are all anonymous yourselves!” With a playful wag of her finger, Frances mockingly reprimanded the costumed ladies of the court for their impatience.

  Before anyone could respond, one of the men guiding the barge yelled something inaudible, and there was a heavy thud as their barge sidled against one of the others. The ladies sat down to wait out the process of the two barges anchoring to one another. Frances watched with appreciation as the sailors removed sections of the balustrade that enclosed the deck and laid down thick planks to make the gap between vessels as seamless as possible. It was expertly done, and before long, four separate vessels became one large venue for a riotous party of the Queen’s favorites. Frances had planned the foodstuffs and beverages to be lighter fare than the decadently savory and sweet feast at the primary masque site. Servers from the wagon train on the riverbank carried small wood goblets of crisp golden Canary wine and trays laden with thin sliced manchet topped with smoked fish and soft cheese.

  Frances found herself moving to the periphery of the festivities. She was proud of her accomplishments but was exhausted from the week of planning and still upset that she had lost her opportunity to explore the possibilities with Henry under the guise of a mystery man. She leaned against the railing as the selected courtiers mingled under the November sky. As much as she tried to feel excitement at being included at the Queen's private pirate party, she could not shake the bitter disappointment. It felt as though she had lost the chance to discover something very important—something that was a key part of her being. Coming to court helped her redefine who she was as a lady, but as a woman? She had just gotten a taste of her sensual nature at the last masque and it was enough to peak her curiosity. In fact, it was beyond mere curiosity—it was a desperate longing. She needed to explore that hint of passion that had been unearthed in the alcove by an incredible kiss.

  Now she might never know.

  Fighting the lump in her throat that threatened tears, Frances turned to face the breeze from the river, letting it lift her hair away from her face and sooth her senses. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes in pleasure as chill sweetness tickled the roof of her mouth and the scent of apples merged with the fragrance from the newly mown fields of the late harvest.

  “It is a beautiful night.” A deep voice murmured against her ear. “The breeze is so sweet it feels like a lover’s caress.”

  She couldn’t move.

  He stepped closer, and she could feel the press of his thighs against the back of her skirts. His large hand snaked around her waist to urge her to lean back against his broad chest. Frances felt the heat of his touch through the layers of her bodice and corset as his fingers splayed across her abdomen and ribs, his thumb resting just below the swell of her breast.

  She whispered, “You’re here.”

  “Who did you think abducted you?”

  “That wasn’t part of my plan,” she chided.

  He answered, “I made my own plans.” Frances could hear the smile in his voice, his breath warm at her cheek as he spoke. “Your hair glows like copper silk in the moonlight.” He burrowed his cheek into her tumbled curls. “And it smells like springtime.”

  Frances shivered at the soft heat of his lips as he whispered against the curve of her ear. His breath teased the small wisps of hair framing her face, and she shuddered.

  His right hand still held her firmly against his body while the other slid up the length of her arm, then across her bosom and up her neck to cradle her jaw. Frances could not help allowing his hand to guide her as she turned her head to the side then up, her eyes still closed.

  His lips closed on hers in an instant, and the world around her disappeared. This man, the man who sparked a wanting within her, a man she could not think of as Henry, he’d found her. He was hers for the night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rule Twenty-Seven: There is no such thing as too much of the pleasure of one’s beloved.

  Frances stepped onto the broad planks linking the four, no five, vessels. How had he accomplished this? She’d had a difficult time coordinating the royal barges, along with some privately owned, in order to complete one large floating pla
tform. Henry had added a fifth, smaller, craft and moored it to the others. Somehow, he’d both discovered her plans for the night and modified them to his needs. Did he have such clout at the palace, then?

  “Henry . . . ” He silenced her with a soft kiss, walking her backward across the gangplank. As if under a spell, she pushed through the silk strewn canopy of Henry’s barge and stepped onto the plush silk Oriental rug scattered generously with cushions. She steadied her balance as the craft pushed off into the open river, separating from the court’s festivities. They were alone. A shiver ran down her spine. Was it fear or longing?

  This is what I wanted, isn’t it?

  The magic began to evaporate as Frances helped herself to a goblet of wine—excellent, the same crisp white from the masque—and made the mistake of stopping to think.

  “Does something trouble you?” The question was casual, but Frances could see the concern in his eyes. Who was this man, the man she’d married? Did she really want to know?

  “No, I am not troubled so much as thoughtful.”

  “There is more going on in your head than I would have ever given credence to before. Is it true that this masque was entirely of your own creation? I knew you were competent, but this is so much more. You are exceptional, and I am humbled.”

  Frances blushed and nodded acceptance as he lowered himself to the cushions beside her. This conversation was nice, but too safe—safe and disappointing. This was a conversation between a married couple, not a seduction.

  “Again, the look of worry—no, excuse me, thoughtfulness.” His hair was wrapped in a dark scarf that merged with the black leather half mask and the moonlit darkness under the canopy. His full lips curved into a nervous smile. “You have naught to fear from me.”

  “I am not afraid of you.”

  “That is comforting.” His smile made her smile with him. “Then what is it that concerns you?”

  Frances paused a moment before deciding to be direct. “I keep thinking of you as Henry and of myself as your wife. Tonight, I wanted to simply be Frances, a woman with a man. But I cannot pretend. I keep thinking . . . ”

  “Therein lies the problem.” He reached out and traced the line of her lip with the pad of his thumb, cupping her cheek in his warm hand. “Stop thinking.”

  She laughed, parting her lips, her own breath adding to the tingling left in the wake of his touch. “Easier said than done.” His thumb continued the sweet torment, dipping into her open mouth just enough to bring to mind images from the book, she gasped and, on impulse turned to catch his thumb with her teeth.

  He growled softly as she drew his thumb into her mouth, whirling her tongue around the rough pad. The desire in his eyes made her chest tight, her belly pool with warmth. He wanted her. Her. Frances, the woman.

  With an oath, he pulled her to him, claiming her mouth, her breath, her thoughts. The heat of his kiss branded her, his hands held her firm and made any consideration of escape moot. She wanted this.

  Frantic, hot, and needing more, she opened to him as he conquered her, their tongues dueling, both caught in each other, in the moment. Clutching through clothing, she pressed closer, not close enough. Everything ached with want, and Frances broke from the kiss, breathless.

  Still holding her face with a gentle touch, Henry toyed with the escaped curls at her ears. His gaze bore into hers, his eyes almost black in the meager flickering light of the torches.

  “You amaze me.”

  She laughed, suddenly shy, embarrassed at her own ardor. “I amaze myself. This is not me, I think.”

  “Wasn’t that the point? Not to be ourselves?”

  “Aye,” she whispered, nodding, “but what comes next? I am afraid.”

  “I will not hurt you.”

  “Won’t you?” Frances raised her eyes to his once more. “This desire between a man and a woman has a natural course. If I consent to lay with you,” she broke off, uncertain. “Again, I am not ready to take that risk.”

  “If we lay together,” he began, pressing his forehead to hers, “I want more than your consent. I want your participation. I want you to want me as much as I want you.”

  He words, soft and deep, washed over her in a wave of heat, and she groaned in response, her body clenching tight of its own volition.

  “I want . . . wait.” He pulled back, his hand reaching under a pillow on the rug to retrieve something. A book. The book.

  God’s blood.

  He held the erotic book open to the page she had marked, the one with the woman opening herself for the man’s intimate kiss. “I want to see this look on your face, to know that joy comes from me, my touch. Now that I know how you felt about my . . . your husband’s attentions all this time,” his voice cracked, emotion raw and pained clear in every word, “my only pleasure is to know that you feel it too, that you long for something only I can give you. It is as necessary to me as breath. You make me a beggar with lust, yet I only want to love you, to bring you pleasure.”

  Frances wrapped her arms around herself, the tight weight of her breasts painful against the confines of her corset. She pressed her legs together, closing her eyes at the promise of something unknown that she needed, that waited just out of reach.

  He dropped the book between them, gently prying her hands loose and placing them on his chest. “Lead me, show me, let me pleasure you.” His harsh whispered words flowed over her, melting her into him. With a sigh, she sagged forward, pressing her cheek over his heartbeat as her hands found the ties at the collar of his shirt, the buttons of his doublet. Her fingers slipped within, seeking out the smallest bit of heated skin. He growled low in his chest and grabbed his collar, wrenching open the velvet in a shower of buttons.

  Hands splayed over his chest, her fingers traced the ridges of his collarbone and toyed with the dusting of dark hair. Heat heavy with the scent of cinnamon and cloves surrounded them, the sounds of the river lost against the rapid beat of her heart.

  He laid his hands over hers, twining their fingers together. “Frances, I need to know that you want me, what you want of me.”

  “I want . . . ” she started, chewing her lip. She darted in to place a shy kiss at the base of his throat. She lingered, kissing him again, this time her lips barely brushing the skin. “I want you to kiss me. To touch me.” She closed her eyes and traced her nose along the taut tendons, breathing in his heat. More brazen now, she lowered her hands to his abdomen, feeling the muscles there tense and quiver. “Please, kiss me, touch me where I ache.”

  He swallowed. “I do not want to take liberties.”

  She pressed another kiss to his neck, his jaw, skirting her lips to his. His mouth opened under hers, and she paused, merely a breath away. “I want what you want,” she whispered against his mouth. “I want what is in that picture.”

  He closed the difference with a growl deep in his throat, claiming her mouth once more. Frances whimpered against him as he pressed her back against the pillows, his weight a welcome relief to the tension building between them.

  “Where do you ache?” he asked, his words humming against her throat as his hand slid down over her breasts, his fingers pressing under the hard ridge of her bodice and corset to tease her tight nipple. “Here?” His mouth followed, the heat of his kiss, sudden pain of his teeth on her sensitive skin driving all coherent thought from her mind. Frances moaned at the contact, her body arching toward him to increase the sensation.

  Her head thrown back against the silk, she heard her own voice, one she hardly recognized, call out for more. “Skin to skin,” she urged, raking her hands, her nails, over the corded muscle of his chest.

  He raised his head, his eyes level with hers. They were so close that his thick lashes brushed against hers as she met his gaze, his unspoken question. Shaking, she guided his hand lower, to the hooks fastening her bodice, and undid the first one. He took over the task, and she closed her eyes, surrendering to his kiss once more. She moaned against his mouth as the heat of his body seep
ed through the heavy silk and boning of her corset.

  It still wasn’t enough. Before she could protest, he pulled away, sitting back on his heels studying her.

  Words died on her lips as she took in the tension of his jaw, the strength in the set of his shoulders. This was a man fighting for control and on the verge of breaking. Over her. She sat up and shrugged out of her bodice, running her hand over the swell of her breast above the line of her corset. His breath hitched, and his hands tightened into fists but remained on his thighs. Tugging at the ties at her waist, she slowly unlaced her skirts and then stood. The velvet and silk layers fell to the rug with soft puff of air, leaving her standing only in her corset, chemise, and stockings. Both vulnerable and powerful, Frances could almost feel the flickering torchlight touching her, outlining her body in gold and shadow. Henry’s eyes burned dark behind his half mask, memorizing her. Reaching up, she loosed the few remaining hair pins and let her hair tumble down. With a toss of her head, she moved the dark gold waves over one shoulder and then turned around and knelt back on the pillows, presenting him with her back.

  Anticipation caught in her chest as she waited. Reverently, his large hands moved onto her shoulders, the tips of his fingers just skimming her skin. Frances held in a quick breath as he softly caressed along her collarbone, then back to the nape of her neck and down her spine. Both hands moved down over the stiff black silk as if imagining the flesh that lay beneath it. She reminded herself to breathe as his hands worshiped her concealed body, moving down to the curve of her hips, barely covered by the fine linen of her chemise.

  She had never felt so beautiful, so treasured. His desire left her heady with a sense of power that undid any pretense to modesty. Frances, as a wife and mother, could never have envisioned this moment—this moment when Frances, as a passionate woman, knew she was wanted, and, above all, free of all constraint and expectation.

  A soft tug and hissing of silk ribbon, lacings plucked one at a time from their eyelets and then her corset fell onto her thighs in a stiff heap. She let out a breath on a sigh as the heat of his touch claimed her.