Courtly Pleasures

by Erin Kane Spock

  She was not ready for him to make a public spectacle of his affection. He was not ready. If he were to profess his love now, it would be insincere, and the last thing he wanted was to make her feel like he was playing her for a fool. Whatever they had was still too new to weather this.

  Frances pulled her hands from his and crossed to stand in front of the fire, visibly shivering. Her gray gown reflected the flames, glowing gold and orange like a sunset in the firelight, while Mary brushed out the soft tangled length of her hair and began braiding, twisting and pinning.

  This charade is nonsense. “There is too much to be done. I cannot simply make merry this eve.”

  “You cannot do anything but.” The Countess of Spencer rose from her perch on the side of the bed and strode to stand beside Blanche Parry. “If it makes you feel better, you do not actually have to enjoy yourself. Just pretend. And pay attention to those around you.”

  He raised a brow at his mother-in-law, almost certain she was mocking him.

  “Frances?” He turned to her and met her pale blue gaze. “Will you join me for tonight’s festivities?” He held out his hand, unsure.

  She placed her now gloved hand in his and took her place at his right. “I do not seem to have a choice.” She sounded defeated, hollow.

  Yet again they were playing the roles laid out for them, doing their duty.

  Side by side but not together.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rule Ten: Love cannot coexist with avarice.

  Anger simmered in Frances’s stomach as she once more pasted that polite veneer in place. There was no time to assimilate all the changes, and she felt too raw to pretend, to regress to the pleasant lady expected of her. Having Henry at her side only exacerbated the ache, the physical memory of their love adding confusion to her already muddled feelings.

  What she wouldn’t give for a quiet room, parchment, and a quill and ink. A way to organize her thoughts. Yes, a list would solve everything.

  “Pray tell us, Mistress LeSieur, what is your next conceit for Her Majesty’s masque? Assuming you are still welcome at court, that is.”

  Frances whipped around, her skirts flying. “Baroness Ludlow.” She dropped into a quick reverance.

  The smug look in the sour woman’s face told her everything she needed to know. The baroness had put her into that situation with Sir Harry Lee during the hunt intentionally. Why? She’d never been anything other than kind to the lonely woman, even when it wasn’t the easy choice. Come to think of it, she’d forced friendship on Baroness Ludlow, and it had never been easy. The older woman always left her with the impression of being judged and found lacking. For a moment Frances smiled, impressed with her own saintly compassion. The thought brought out an involuntary laugh, turning Baroness Ludlow’s already puckered anus of a mouth into an even tighter vise. Likening her mouth to an arse made a lot of sense; she’d always thought she had the expression of someone who had just gotten a strong whiff of a bad smell. She laughed harder, the busk in her corset pressing against her abdomen with each guffaw. Really, court dresses were not designed for anyone to enjoy themselves.

  “Are you quite well, Mistress LeSieur? Mayhap the night spent in the wood has addled your mind.”

  She stilled her laughter, squaring her shoulders within the confines of her bodice, the rolled details at the caps pulling taut against her upper arms.

  “Is that what you expected?” she asked, quirking a brow.

  “Of course, I had hoped for the best, but after you went off into the wood with Sir Harry Lee, I did not know what to think.” Baroness Ludlow blinked in all innocence, spreading her hands wide, the rings on her gloved fingers sparkling in the flickering light. “Odd that you should say that. I recall expecting a Yeoman of the Guard’s escort back to the palace. Imagine my surprise when I found myself on the wrong path with only Sir Harry at my back.”

  This time Baroness Ludlow laughed, a bitter bark. “Come now, Mistress. You claim to be a lady of the court but play at virtue. You cannot live in both worlds.”

  “Funny, you claim to be above it all, and yet you engage in intrigue and courtly machinations more than I have ever done. What pious woman would facilitate a fellow gentlewoman’s fall from virtue? Put a friend into such a precarious situation? I thought you had some regard for me.”

  “I do, of course.” Baroness Ludlow reached for Frances’s hand in an awkward show of kinship. The rough edge of the Ludlow signet caught on Frances’s glove, tearing the delicate leather, and Frances bit back a curse. At least she would be returning to Holme LeSieur soon and would have no need to impress anyone with her courtly sophistication. In fact, the pretty gloves would be impractical there. She ran a finger over the small hole, frustrated nonetheless. Baroness Ludlow noted the movement and gasped, “I tore your glove? How clumsy of me.” She reached forward once more and turned over Frances’s palm to examine the damage. “At least it did not break the skin.”

  “Yes,” Frances responded. There was something about the way the baroness held her hand this time that seemed less for show and more a familiarity, a disturbing familiarity.

  Baroness Ludlow held on to Frances’s hand, tracing the tear at her palm. “I saw how horribly unhappy you were to be reunited with your husband.”

  “So you thought to aid me in my ruination?” Frances pulled her hand away.

  Baroness Ludlow shrugged. “This is court. Everyone is debauched. No one will judge your actions.” And yet she stood right there, judging away.

  The tone of the exchange had shifted from confrontational to almost conspiratorial and something else she couldn’t quite name . . . Something that made Frances feel more uncomfortable even than when under Sir Harry’s leering scrutiny. It smacked of ownership and a right to her person that Frances would, never again, concede. From her own mother to Queen Elizabeth, now Baroness Ludlow and all the hungry onlookers . . . God’s teeth, she was finished with this.

  “So you would forgive my bad behavior, for dallying with Sir Harry in the woods?” Frances asked, curious and disgusted.

  Baroness Ludlow smiled, an unnatural expression on her face. “It is not for me to forgive, but I do not hold you accountable.”

  “Would you also forgive me for stabbing him in the thigh?”

  “What?” Baroness Ludlow gasped, the shock on her face the first sincere expression of the evening. “Surely you did not.”

  This time Frances affected a face of pure innocence. “What would you do if a man refused to take no for an answer?”

  She stammered, “Surely he misunderstood . . . ”

  She interrupted. “I was very, very clear.”

  “Well,” Baroness Ludlow blustered in a superior tone, “perhaps you are used to country ways and not sophisticated enough to be part of the Queen’s entourage. Dalliances are the rule, not the exception. As I said before, it is the way of court.”

  “Is that so?” she asked, unable to help herself. “Who are you tupping?”

  The baroness’s jaw dropped as she exclaimed in a high whine, “Mistress LeSieur!”

  “Me? Goodness Baroness Ludlow, are you telling me I am a Sapphist? I had no idea. No, if you are in search of a lover, I have it on good authority that Sir Harry Lee is ready and not all that particular, though he may be suffering from a bum leg. I assume you have the requisite body parts.”

  “Mistress LeSieur!”

  Frances smiled at the eavesdropping courtiers attempting to be inconspicuous. Queen Elizabeth wanted to spotlight the inconsequential LeSieur family drama and pretend the very serious assassination attempt was of no matter. Well, Frances was good at nothing as much as staging a spectacle. And this time she was doing it without lists.

  And to think she had sunk back into herself, played by the rules, and tucked tail.

  Why bother? Whom did it serve?

  Queen Elizabeth, she was certain, was watching the scene unfold, even though She appeared interested in the poet reciting before Her. Blanche Parry, how
ever, was rapt. Her mother, by comparison, was pale, her lips drawn tight. No approval there.

  Well, Mother, watch this.

  Frances turned back to Baroness Ludlow in time to hear the end of whatever horrible thing she was saying about Henry, something about him being a Papist bastard. And then Frances slapped her right across her face.

  • • •

  Henry kept his hand firm against Frances’s lower back, the bulk of her skirts pleated just below his fingers. He could feel her shaking through all the layers, but still she held her head high and her shoulders straight. Without a word, she accepted his lead through the great hall and into the gallery.

  Then outside into the darkening night. The courtyard gardens glowed under the dim flicker of torchlight, beaded mist on the shaped foliage burnished the garden with gold. Down one cobbled path and left, toward the long gallery, he directed her with the steady pressure of his touch and she remained silent. Thank goodness for small mercies, he wouldn’t know what to say. Couldn’t tell if her continued trembling was from anger or excitement. Or the growing cold.

  In that moment, the hazy mist thickened into heavy rain. The sound of it thundered against the tiled awnings overhanging the confines of the courtyard, and Frances shrieked and made a dash for cover back in the direction of the main hall.

  He wasn’t ready to face the court again. Not yet. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind him, ushering her into the relative dry of a brick archway, closed off at both ends only by the threat of the start of another English winter.

  “Henry, we must find shelter,” she muttered, barely audible over the roar of the onslaught.

  “This is shelter.” He pulled her close. She was only a silhouette against the torchlight glowing through the curtain of rain that sluiced off the roofline. “And we need to talk.”

  He wished he could see her face, read the expression in her eyes. Henry reached out and splayed his hands on either side of her waist and traced them up her torso. He heard her catch of breath, the surprise at his touch, and then her soft sigh as he found her shoulders, her neck, her jaw.

  She was unspeakably soft, her cheeks warming under his hands in a blush.

  “I am sorry if I damaged your consequence with my actions in the hall,” she muttered and lowered her head.

  He tightened his hands on her jaw and lifted her, urging her to hold her head high again. “Do not do that. Just . . . don’t.”

  “Do what?”

  “Shrivel.” He almost spat the word. A drop of moisture slid down her cheek and pooled on his hand. Tears? He brushed the trail from her cheek with a soft caress and asked, “Frances?”

  “I am afraid I have disappointed you and my mother. Again,” she muttered. “No matter where I go, here at court or home at Holme LeSieur, I cannot seem to balance on that fine line. In order to be calm, to be that perfect lady I have to plan out everything. It gives me security, and without it I am not moored. Like I cannot keep the wild part of myself at bay. God help me, I actually hit Baroness Ludlow.” She laughed nervously over a sob. “I should be better able to control myself. I have behaved impeccably for ten years—why can I not now? There are better ways to solve disputes. Civilized ways.” She groaned the last sentence and leaned forward, resting her head against his chest. The pearl pins on her headdress scratched his chin.

  He’d seen many aspects of his wife during these weeks at court, but she was always composed. Even last night in the cottage, she was in control of herself. He’d always admired her strength, but this crack in her armor gave him a glimpse of the girl he remembered from before their betrothal. A girl who sailed upon the wave of her emotions, who was unexpected and passionate. Someone who could love him. Who he could love.

  “A proper lady, a proper wife is serene.” Frances’s voice fell flat and emotionless against the autumn rain curtaining their enclosure.

  “So,” Henry asked, “a proper wife would not have slapped Baroness Ludlow for calling her husband a Papist bastard of a pox-riddled whore?”

  She smiled and turned her face, pressing her lips to his palm. “No.”

  “And she probably would not draw blood from the Queen’s champion . . . ”

  She looked up with a start. “I had to get away from him! If you only knew . . . ”

  He interrupted her with a soft kiss and whispered, “I suppose it’s a good thing, then, that you already informed me you did not wish to be a proper wife.”

  She pulled back. “That is not what I said.” He could not see her face but heard her smile.

  “Is it not? Mayhap this is what you really wanted rather than an end to our marriage, you wished for a release from expectation and appearances. Freedom.”

  “That is not possible. I have the consequence of my family name to think about. It isn’t done to indulge in flights of fancy. There are expectations within our circle of peers. I was raised to be a lady.”

  “Yet being a lady, following your mother’s rules, I suspect that is at the root of the melancholy. You do not have to end our marriage in order to be yourself. I want you, the real you, as my wife, not some complacent cypher.”

  “The wanton wench who slapped a baroness just now? You think I should be that woman?”

  “If that is part of who you are, then yes.” He leaned in, finding her mouth in the darkness as if drawn home. Her lips parted beneath his in a gasp of surprise; her hands clutched the collar of his doublet in either entreaty or resistance. He pulled away, afraid he’d overstepped himself, but she followed him, holding on to the kiss.

  “If I’d known slapping Baroness Ludlow would draw you to me thusly, I would have done it years ago.”

  “A month ago you did not want me.” He spun her in his arms and pulled her back flush against his chest, her bottom level with his groin. “Thusly.” He pushed his hips forward, cursing the layers of fabric between them.

  “But I did. At first.” Her voice was softer now, an alto whisper against the bass of the rain. “I wanted to be desired. I wanted courtly love. I was too ignorant, though, to know what it meant and simply did what I was told.”

  “As did I.” He gathered up her skirts, the heavy satin cold against his fingers, the layers of her boned farthingale acting as an inverted ladder for his hands to scale.

  He reached below the yards of fabric and grazed the back of his fingers over the soft skin of her bottom.

  She shivered and pressed back, grinding against him.

  “For example, I would never have thought to touch you,” he slid one hand down the sweet curve of her arse and in between her thighs, “here.”

  She gasped and spread her legs for him, the slick entrance to her core ready for him. “God’s blood, Frances,” he moaned her name and leaned forward, biting the tender pulse at her shoulder lightly. “You’ve made a beast of me.”

  She whimpered, arching her head to allow him more access. He dragged his lips up her neck and nuzzled her ear, then nipped her again.

  “Better that than the proper gentleman.”

  His fingers found her opening and probed gently forward, afraid she might be sore from the night before. She bowed her back and leaned forward, opening herself. He speared his fingers deep, stretching her as he caressed.

  “God, Frances, I wanted to take you next in a proper bed. Our marriage bed.”

  She pushed back and tightened her muscles around his fingers. “I’m finished being proper.” She clenched once more, shivering. “This. Now.” She wiggled and then jolted as he brushed over the sensitive bud at the front with his finger. “This is right.”

  The darkness of the November night blinded him to all but sensation as he unlaced the placket of his slops and freed his ready cock. He rubbed the sensitive tip against the slick heat of her opening as she cried for more.

  His wife, the woman of passion he’d taken for granted for too long, wanted him the way he’d always wanted her.

  With that thought he drove home, her body stretching to take him. All of him. She ca
lled out his name as he held her hips steady, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. He fit so perfectly within her, her heat branded him, making him hers far more than she’d ever been his.

  Slowly he pulled back and then pressed forward, setting a slow, grinding rhythm. One hand on her leg, he guided her back to meet each thrust. The other hand snaked around the front, again finding that little nub that drove her mad.

  He came apart inside her as she clenched around him in spasms, drenching his cock in her pleasure.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rule Twenty-Nine: Aggravation of excessive passion does not usually afflict the true lover.

  For Frances, everything was different now. Could others see the change in her? It felt so colossal surely it must be branded on her face. She loved her husband. She wanted a future with him. And he wanted her as she was, less than perfect.

  She’d come to London in search of freedom, and she’d found it. And that freedom was going to lead her straight back to Holme LeSieur and her children. Where she would run the estate and simply be herself.

  And she didn’t care what her mother thought.

  The banquet was over now, but the dancing and entertainments were only beginning. Queen Elizabeth hosted with all the aplomb of a generous monarch who was not in fear for Her life. Such a charade, with every courtier present no different than a hired player at a masque. Practiced wit, conspicuous costumes, and petty dramas.

  Henry sat beside her, a secret smile playing on his lips just for her. She wanted to disappear with him to their rooms and find out more about each other and, perhaps, seduce him with the actions from page one and twenty of the book.

  Baroness Ludlow approached and dropped into a low reverance, her olive-green velvet skirts pooling at Frances’s feet. Baroness Ludlow, a baroness, outranked Frances and owed her no courtesy, still the woman waited.

  Frances, uncertain, waved to give Baroness Ludlow permission to rise.