An arm shot out of the dark and grabbed her around the waist. Before she had a chance to scream, she heard Ravenscroft's high-spirited laughter.
“Let go of me, Mr. Ravenscroft!” she said, pushing his arm away.
“Certainly, my dear,” Ravenscroft said, obeying immediately. He didn't seem the least bit disappointed. “I cannot believe you did it!” he said admiringly. Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips in a courtly kiss. The ridiculousness of the situation got the better of her, and she began to laugh. Here she was standing naked in the grass with a man and he was kissing her hand!
Ravenscroft joined her laughter. “You are a chameleon,” he said when he caught his breath again, and the admiration in his voice made Billie's throat constrict. “I never know what you will be next.” He put a hand on her shoulder, and Billie didn't protest. She recalled that Richard, in one of his less generous moods, had said she was “flighty” or “lacked substance” or some such thing. It was the same quality about her that Ravenscroft was now praising.
Naked. At the edge of a forest.
The thought of Richard made her heart ache, but the feel of Ravenscroft's hand, the nearness of his body, the look in his eyes made her ache in very different places. That ache was much more immediate.
His hand moved slowly from her shoulder to her elbow, his eyes holding hers. It was a gesture that might well have been platonic in other circumstances, but standing naked together on a hot August night, it was something else entirely. Ravenscroft obviously wasn't feeling platonic — she was close enough to see that much at least.
The thought sent Billie into giggles, and Ravenscroft let go of her arm and shook his head. “I didn't realize my attempts at seduction were so amusing.”
Billie chuckled. “Oh, they're as dangerous as any man could want. It's just this situation ....” Her statement trailed off into more laughter, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. His arms went around her, and he pulled her to him tightly. Billie stopped laughing. She looked into eyes that had no color in the lack of light, and Ravenscroft took her face in his hands and kissed her. There was a hollow feeling in Billie's chest and an ache between her legs, but her brain was still working, and her brain told her she had neither contraception nor the foggiest idea of where she was in her cycle. Ah, but the kiss felt so good — not to mention the rest of him pressed so intimately to her body.
Billie sighed and pushed Ravenscroft away gently. “I can't, Damon. I might get pregnant.”
“Not everything leads to pregnancy.”
She shook her head. “I don't want people to talk. I don't want to betray my masquerade. If we don't join the others soon, they will know for sure.”
Ravenscroft grinned. “Then find your clothes and dress, and we will race to Rosamond's Fountain.”
As Billie pulled on her breeches, she could hardly believe the ease with which Ravenscroft had given up his seduction attempt. But then, she doubted he had given it up entirely — it was only postponed. This man had time and he took it.
He had a great ass too, Billie reflected as she chased him across the meadow.
Breathing heavily, Harry Savile let himself down on the edge of the fountain where the other men already lounged. “Last again, I presume?” he said good-humoredly.
“Not this time, Harry,” Lord Rochester said. “Armstrong and Ravenscroft are not here yet.” The men around the fountain broke out in uproarious laughter.
“I wonder what could have happened to them,” Hoyle said deliberately.
“Envious, Hoyle?” Lovelace asked, and Hoyle shrugged.
“I didn't know Ravenscroft had a taste for boys,” Savile said.
The Earl chuckled. “Who's to say he does?”
“Armstrong would be a pleasant armful either way,” Lovelace said.
“Do you have any money on the matter, my lord?” Etherege asked.
Rochester shook his head. “I find Will a very charming youth and Clarinda a very beautiful maid. Why should I choose one over the other?”
Hoyle looked at his host with one eyebrow raised. “Did you not just now try to force the issue?”
“I will not do so again. After this little jaunt, I think Armstrong has proved his mettle.”
Savile pushed himself up from the stone fountain, shivering slightly. “I must admit, I find it hard to believe he might not be what he seems. Certainly Will is a smooth-skinned lad, but so are you, my lord.”
Rochester sat up a little straighter and peered into the darkness. “I do believe our delinquents are nearing.”
Panting, Armstrong arrived first at the fountain, Ravenscroft close behind. “I did not hear when Lord Lovelace suggested a race, and when Mr. Ravenscroft noticed that I was not with the rest, he came back to get me.”
“Very admirable of you, Damon,” the Earl said with friendly sarcasm.
Ravenscroft shrugged and smiled.
18
The Poetesse Afra, next shew'd her sweete face
And swore by her Poetry, and her black Ace;
The Lawrell by a double right was her owne,
For the Plays she had writ, and the Conquests she had won.
Apollo acknowledg'd, 'twas hard to deny her,
But to deale frankly, and Ingeniously by her,
He told her, were Conquests and Charmes her pretense,
She ought to have pleaded a Douzen years since.
“A Session of the Poets,” attributed to John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
“So Killigrew is interested in our Mamamouchi.” The Earl gestured towards Ravenscroft with his wine glass, sunshine glinting on the red liquid. “But the question is, are you interested in writing for the King's Company?”
Ravenscroft watched the precarious way the wine sloshed in his host's goblet and shrugged. “'Tis tempting, I must admit.”
The weather was much too fine to stay indoors, and Rochester had a picnic prepared, an elaborate affair carted by horse down to a stand of trees near the Keeper's Lodge. In the distance, they could see the impressive ruins of Woodstock Palace, destroyed during the civil war. Ravenscroft knew the Earl only had High Lodge on loan from the King, but when treated to such a sumptuous meal in this kind of setting, it was hard to take Rochester's complaints of poverty seriously. An intimate friend of King Charles would have a very different idea of poverty than a younger son trying to live by his wits. Certainly Rochester was right when he said nothing he had was his own, everything belonging either to his wife or his liege, but there were very few people who had any kind of rights to an estate like this, loan or not.
“Drury Lane is oft empty, Ravenscroft,” Etherege said, getting up from the folding stool with a grimace. He looked as if he would have preferred to stay inside for the meal, no matter how fine the weather. “I would remain at Dorset Garden.”
“A gentleman-poet need hardly worry how full the house is,” Ravenscroft said, and the rest of the company laughed.
Etherege turned his attention from Ravenscroft to the earl. “Should we not return to High Lodge, my lord? I find I am not of a pastoral disposition. Ants and aching joints give me little pleasure.”
Chuckling, Lord Rochester took his free hand from Elizabeth Barry's waist and gestured for the servant to begin packing up. It was as easy as that for a poor noble. Ravenscroft smiled slightly and his gaze caught that of Clarinda where she was lounging next to a tree in an excellent imitation of a young man. She too had been smiling, but as their eyes met, her expression became more serious. She did not drop her gaze, however, and her chin went up slightly: it was almost as if she were daring him. Ravenscroft would have been very happy to take that dare. He wanted to pull her behind the tree and kiss her until her knees grew weak, press himself against her and hear her draw in her breath, but she was quite right; it wouldn't do here. Ah, but he longed to feel the swell of her hip under his hand again, to feel her under him — or on top of him or any which way fancy might take them. His gaze did not waver, and when Clarinda's eyes went e
ven wider than normal, he felt sure she had recognized the desire in his own. He wanted her to come to him without drawing back, and he would do his best to make sure she did. He had time. But he was sorely tempted to dash through the company and clasp the handsome youth around the waist — and destroy her masquerade. Then again, he did not want to do that. He enjoyed the game tremendously.
“What has Killigrew offered you, Ravenscroft, to make you consider changing to the company without an audience?” Lord Rochester asked, interrupting Ravenscroft's fantasies. Ravenscroft turned his attention from Clarinda with a hint of a sigh.
“An option to become a shareholder if I provide the company with three plays a year,” Ravenscroft said with a grin.
Lovelace gave a low whistle as they all rose. “The same contract Killigrew used to entice the poet laureate to his company.”
Their host drew Elizabeth's arm through his own and led his guests towards the wide drive. “Congratulations, Mamamouchi.”
“Is it not rich?” Ravenscroft said. The greatest temptation of the deal was the opportunity to aggravate Dryden. Ravenscroft rarely forgot an insult.
“Would you take the Bayes from Dryden, dear Damon?” Aphra asked. She was walking with Hoyle, her hand on the crook of his elbow. Their frequently stormy relationship seemed to be in a calmer phase at present.
“'Twould not be hard, I vow,” Henry Savile said. “These days, the man would rather scribble essays than produce plays, it seems.”
Lord Rochester's eyebrow shot up and he smiled a slow, suggestive smile. “Perhaps the stage holds no attraction for him now that Reeves has left it.”
“He has not fulfilled his contract in many a year,” Ravenscroft added, his grin growing even wider. He glanced back at Clarinda, who was following Aphra and Hoyle, but she was looking at the earl. “Hardly proper behavior for a laureate.”
“To be the leading playwright in the King's Company is quite different than deserving to wear the laurels,” Rochester said. “Perhaps we can come up with a more deserving scribbler. We have quite a company of pretenders to the title on the premises.”
Ravenscroft chuckled in anticipation. If they were lucky, Rochester would treat them to one of his famous diatribes.
“Now our Mamamouchi here would obviously be interested,” the Earl began. “His plays are admittedly entertaining, and his heroines are particularly enjoyable, but they are farce. Apollo would never give the laurels to a writer of farce.”
Ravenscroft did not feel insulted; although Lord Rochester was as brutally mocking with his friends as he was with his enemies, they invariably put up with the uncompromising nature of his wit. Perhaps it was the force of his personality. Ravenscroft was reminded of the prophecy Clarinda made when the Earl was masquerading as Dr. Alexander Bendo: the genius going to waste was especially obvious when he held forth in one of his scintillating moods.
“George may have the finest fancy of all scribblers, but Apollo would hardly forgive him seven years' silence,” the Earl continued.
“And what of Astrea, my lord?” Etherege asked with a smirk.
Lord Rochester examined Aphra critically. “'Tis true, the lady-poet has some fine plays to boast of, and nearly as many conquests as plays. But a woman is in her prime when her body is ripe. She will not do either.”
Ravenscroft heard Clarinda suck in her breath, and turned. She looked nearly ready to draw on their host, but Aphra was laughing. Certainly, Astrea was no longer as beautiful as she must have been in her youth, but she was still a very handsome woman for her age, and the assembled company was well aware of it. Obviously, their American friend did not know how to appreciate Rochester's wit; it was more of an insult to be ignored by the man than it was to suffer his brutal comments.
“And Nat Lee, my lord?” Aphra asked, the laugh still lurking in her voice.
Rochester was silent for a moment, considering. “To judge by the rubies in his face, the man has as much wit as wine can supply. But he is a serious, serious tragedian, our Nat; he tries too hard. Apollo would not like that at all.”
“I have heard you praise Otway, my lord,” Ravenscroft suggested.
“Then you heard wrong.”
Ravenscroft grinned. Otway had fallen desperately in love with Elizabeth Barry well before she became Rochester's paramour, but even though she had never been interested in the plump playwright, Rochester still seemed jealous.
“I have seen Otway on the stage,” the Earl added. “He definitely would not do.”
Laughing gaily, the company approached Rosamund's Fountain, the site of their mad race the night before. At the thought, Ravenscroft's fingers curled slightly, remembering the smooth curve of back and hip, and his gaze traveled inexorably to the maid as man. Her color was high and she was looking everywhere but at him. Ravenscroft grinned. Not much longer, and she would be his — quite of her own choice, the way he liked it. He'd heard unappealing stories of Lord Rochester's doings in the villages around Oxford before Elizabeth Barry had come to High Lodge for her training as an actress, but adventures with semi-willing village maids were not to Ravenscroft's taste. Clarinda — or Will, or whatever her name was — now she was very much to his taste.
After the picnic, Ravenscroft took advantage of the stables to take a short ride around the estate. He was not a particularly good horseman — he did not have the kind of income to afford a horse or its upkeep, so he usually walked or took a chair. He was not staying for the races, since Aphra wanted to return to London with Elizabeth, and Ravenscroft had volunteered to accompany them; for wherever Aphra went, Clarinda followed. Before they left, he wanted a chance to ride. And to think.
Clarinda and her masquerades fascinated him like no one had since he was a green youth. When she disappeared from the Dorset Garden Theater all those years ago, it left him with a hollow feeling completely out of proportion with the length of time he'd known her. And when she'd reappeared, the extent of his elation took him by surprise.
But Edward Ravenscroft was in a bind. His prey was within reach — just not in the appropriate guise, making the usual strategies he relied on impossible. Flirtation was out of the question; courting by gesture or deed as well. A gentle touch of elbow or hip or shoulder could either get him locked up for sodomy or Clarinda unmasked. All that was left to him were words, and a very subtle use of them at that.
Normally he enjoyed a challenge, but this time he couldn't deny some frustration.
Billie took off her plumed hat and threw it on the bed. Rochester's joking comments at the picnic couldn't help but remind her of the way Aphra would be judged in the following decades and centuries — as a woman and not as a writer, and a thoroughly immoral woman at that.
There was a firm knock on the door, and Aphra poked her head in. “I've been wanting to speak with you,” she said, a mischievous grin on her face. “May I come in?”
“Certainly,” Billie replied, sinking into a brocade chair and propping her booted feet on the daybed.
Aphra laughed and took a seat on the daybed next to Billie's feet. “When I see you thus, I find it hard to believe you are not the young man you pretend to be. You seem born to the role.”
Billie grimaced. She was certainly born more to this role than the one she played in skirts. “At the moment I'm finding it more and more difficult to forget my sex,” she admitted.
Aphra leaned forward, her eyes bright. “I heard what happened at the stream last night. And you were not unmasked?”
“Only by Ravenscroft.”
There was a brief silence as Aphra inspected Billie, apparently trying to judge how far she could go. “And ...?”
Images of a tight male ass racing ahead of her across a dark meadow made thinking straight difficult. Billie answered the question she thought Aphra was asking with a slight shake of the head. “The moon was not right.”
Aphra chuckled. “Do you know no other tricks than that, Clarinda?” Billie shook her head. “Have you never heard of soaking a sponge in vine
gar?” Billie's eyes went wide. “Juniper? Pennyroyal? Rue?”
“Rue?” Billie repeated.
“'Tis the most effective means I know to be assured you will not regret a night of passion nine months later.” Aphra frowned. “Unfortunately, I did not know about it when it could have saved me from regret. But enough of that. It seems your education is lacking.”
What! Had Aphra borne a child? Billie's confusion over Ravenscroft was forgotten. “It seems so,” she said carefully. “How widespread is this education?”
Aphra shrugged. “My mother does not appear to have had it. What I know, I learned from actresses.”
Billie could hardly believe all the biological gems Aphra was letting fall. “Your mother?” she prompted.
“She almost had my sister out of wedlock,” Aphra explained. “But I did not come here to talk about my mother. What is going on between you and Damon?”
Billie would have loved to delve deeper into Aphra's background, but she could hardly ignore such a direct question. “I am attracted to him,” she admitted. “But I don't know if I want to get involved.”
“Is there a man in the colonies?”
“No.” It would be hard to explain her ill-defined moral scruples — or the fact that she had recently broken up with a man who was not yet born. “Experience has made me wary.”
Aphra looked at Billie closely and nodded. “We have much more freedom now than our mothers did, but that does not make decisions easier.”
“True,” Billie said, finding it uncanny how similar the situation was between her generation and Aphra's. The sexual double bind in the amoral age of the Restoration was much like that Billie suffered from during her undergraduate years — damned if you did and damned if you didn't. “Hang decisions.”
Chameleon in a Mirror Page 21
