by Diana Rubino
Last eve an inebriated George met a stunning redheaded wench named Lil at one of the riverfront taverns and sweet-talked her back to Pluckley House, sneaking her past his wife's chambers to his own.
His sobriety finally returned at dawn when he snuggled up to her for a final frolic, and reaching around, clamped onto a flaccid male member, and glimpsed a curly red wig coiled between their bodies. His willing partner of the night had been another man!
George's indignant braying was louder than the shattering of glass as the sylph jammed the wig back on and leapt through the window to his escape.
Who else but the Duke of Clarence, when deep in his cups, could indulge in a carnal caper with a man, thinking it was a wench?
Just as she finished penning this priceless piece, there was a knock at her chamber door. Expecting the courier she'd summoned to deliver the letter to Richard, she gave it to her maid, who opened the door without hesitating.
There, to her dismay, stood Valentine, his blue eyes searching the chamber.
His gaze met hers, imploring her to give him this one last moment.
She stared back at him, transfixed. His hair was windblown, the scent of leather and the outdoors wafting towards her, she could almost feel his arms around her, his vibrant kiss…
The maid unknowingly handed the letter to Valentine and he took it, looking down at it, then back over at her.
She flew to the door, nudged the maid aside and snatched the letter from his hand. "Do not touch that letter!"
Here he was, the man who'd caused the death of several innocent people, and had nearly caused hers. To think she'd been so attracted to him, his rugged handsome maleness, his soft sensuous lips that made hers tingle with delight.
He was nothing more than a two-faced deceiver who would likely commit treason as the final act in the little play he had been constructing ever since he had known her.
"What is this you are dispatching to Richard?" he asked, his brows knitting.
"None of your business. Now get ye gone. You are a miscreant, a villain, and I shall never trust you again!"
She tried to shove the door shut but he caught it, swinging it open again. She had to step back to avoid being hit with it.
"We may never see each other again, so you will listen to me, Dove. I was sick with worry about you when I heard from the servants what had happened. Every night I spent hours in that chapel praying for your swift recovery. Please, I did it for you, Dove," he pleaded.
"Aye, betrayed me for my own good," she sneered.
"Betrayed? What is it you think I've done?"
She turned away, unable to look at him, yet something almost forced her to etch his image into her memory, the blond locks, his expressive eyes, that brilliant smile...
Despite her anger and fear she peeked at the leg muscles evident under the tight hose tucked into leather boots.
"Dove, for pity's sake, at least tell me what you are accusing me of."
She looked at Mary and the girl withdrew, not out of the room as Valentine hoped, but over to the window seat. He stared from one woman to the next, feeling as though Dove was slipping from him even though she was so close he could stretch out one hand to stroke the rare silvery hair he had always loved so well….
"You gave me false information. And I have every reason to believe it was deliberate and instigated by the Queen. I almost died in the fire at the inn, and several innocent folk did die, not to mention lose their property and their livelihood. For that I shall never believe another word you say."
"Nay! It was not false! And as for a fire, I know nothing about any deaths at an inn. Please let me explain!"
She shoved at his chest with his hands, unable to budge him. "Get ye gone and never come near me again!"
"Please, Dove, you must listen. I'm being sent north. Please, we must talk before it's too late—"
But it already was. Her swinging open the door, and his obvious attempt to see her being observed by one of the Queen's spies, sent a multitude of guards clamoring around her.
"As God is my witness, I never—"
Two of the King's men-at-arms seized Valentine and dragged him away, his protests and pleadings echoing through the corridor, but fell on deaf ears.
Denys swung away from the commotion, kicking the door shut behind her, and falling into the arms of the faithful Mary, who held her as she wept, while a shadowy figure sped past Denys' doorway, scrambled down the corridor, and headed for the Queen's apartments.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The following night, certain there was no danger of seeing Valentine now, Denys attended the evening meal in the great hall for the first time since the fire.
The music was just as bright, the courtiers devouring just as much food and drink.
King Edward's fool stood beside him, displaying his usual knack for sending the King into fits of laughter.
But the atmosphere lacked that spark of vigor it had before. And she knew why.
It was because Valentine Starbury was gone.
Queen Elizabeth rose from her seat at the high table and a hush descended over the great hall. "His Highness the King and I bid you good evening."
King Edward, sitting at her side, nodded, smiled warmly, and began to disinterestedly twirl an apple by its stem.
"I am about to announce the forthcoming nuptials of one of the most...the most outstanding knight in the realm."
Denys sat in confused silence; no one had mentioned a word about a knight's wedding.
"By order of His Highness King Edward the Fourth and Queen Elizabeth, that is myself..." She paused for laughter but none came, so she hurried on, "Sir Valentine Starbury, Duke of Norwich, is to be married in a fortnight."
That was a surprise to Denys, and she felt a pang that had naught to do with the succulent meal she had just eaten.
She tried to tell herself that she felt sorry for the poor wench who would have to put up with his hypocrisy, treachery, his incorrigible ambition, his—
"He will be wed to my dear niece, Denys!"
She'd heard her name, but it hadn't registered in her brain. Why is Elizabeth saying my name? she wondered, shaking her head, meeting all the curious and dubiously polite smiles and nods coming her way.
What have I got to do with...
Then it hit her. Like a boulder crashing down on her head, the words came together and Elizabeth was holding up her tankard.
Everyone was rising, the minstrels, the courtiers, even the King himself was on his feet, looking right at her, smiling with that compassionate look of apology in his eyes...
She managed to maintain her dignity and somehow got through all the toasting, the platitudes, the insipid murmurs of acclamation.
Now she was surer than ever that the two of them had conspired against her. What could Elizabeth have offered Valentine to get him to so willingly fall in with her plans?
More to the point, what would she have to offer him to get him to let her go?
For surely to marry a man like that would be like signing her own death warrant…
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Denys entered the Queen's chambers without an appointment the following morning. She had spent the evening packing what remained of her clothes and most prized possessions.
Now she was ready to declare her refusal to marry that varlet Valentine Starbury, and then leave court forever.
She had no idea where she would go or what she would do, but at least if she headed north, she could discuss all that had happened with Richard, and see if he had any ideas. Then there was the Duchess of Scarborough's relations…
She hated asked for help from anyone, but she had lost just about everything else at this point. Perhaps it was time to sacrifice false pride, too.
Of all the spiteful things Elizabeth had done to her over the years, the humiliations, the public beratings and private beatings, nothing could come close to marrying her off to the treacherous Valentine Starbury.
Still in a stunned haze,
she managed to find a coherent string of words despite the fact that her aunt was looking at her as though she wished her in the deepest pit of hell.
"I am here to tell you that I do not intend to obey you with respect to marrying any man, least of all Starbury, when you yourself pointed out what an unsuitable choice he would be for any woman who wished to have a respectable and uneventful marriage."
Elizabeth smirked. "But I also told you that you had been seen at diverse times with him, in compromising situations, and I will not have you casting a shadow on this family any longer."
"At times when? 'Tis false!"
"You were seen having a lover's quarrel with him only the other day, so don't trouble to deny it or lie to me any longer. I would tolerate this behavior no more. As of now your chambers will be guarded around the clock. Either you marry him, or enter the convent. It is your choice."
"Then I choose the convent!"
"You have not enough property for them to take you."
Denys stiffened. "In that case, I certainly don't have enough for an ambitious man like Starbury either."
"There are all different kinds of currency with which to make a bargain, young miss. So mind your manners and do as you're told. And don't even think about defying me again! You are to behave like a proper court lady until your marriage, or I shall have you clapped into the Tower!"
Elizabeth snapped her fingers and two men-at-arms now stepped from the shadows before Denys could utter another word.
They took Denys by the elbows, and escorted her from the Queen's apartments so fast, her feet never even touched the floor.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Denys had not minded when she had been alone resting and recuperating after her ordeal in Leicestershire. But now that she was confined to her room by the Queen's guards twenty-four hours a day, the solitude rankled.
They flanked her chamber doors, held vigil at the foot of her bed, observed her every bite at mealtimes, monitored her at the privy, at her embroidery, at her music, and followed her back to bed.
Without a moment of privacy, she was beginning to think marriage to Valentine Starbury could not be much worse.
Escape wasn't possible now. If she had managed to get word to Richard, she might have had a hope of assistance. But she had not made her way north as she had hoped, and had not dared confide her suspicions in a letter which could have been intercepted by the Queen or anyone at the court spying on her.
The stark truth was staring her in the face: she had no ally assisting her. She wasn't even allowed to write letters. Even if she had had pen and parchment, she knew whatever she wrote would be seen by the Queen. She was under virtual house arrest, with no one to turn to, and sat miserably contrasting her present fate with what she had hoped might be when Valentine had first given her the clue regarding the Duchess of Somerset.
Ah, Valentine, that traitor. She had been so close to falling in love with him, thinking they might have a future together after all despite their silly misunderstandings. Now he had betrayed her to her worst enemy, her own erstwhile aunt.
Yet if the Somerset lead had not been a valid one, then why had poor Ian died? For the more she thought about it, the more she felt it was too odd a coincidence that he had happened to be in her chamber just as it was going up in flames, and had perished. She wished now she had asked to see his body…
But she had nearly lost her own life. And now her aunt was forfeiting hers in earnest by marrying her to Valentine Starbury, who had all of the chivalry of a tom cat and had been bought off with her dowry and goodness only knew what other offers of royal preferment the wily Elizabeth might have enticed him with. Though knowing her, she certainly had no intention of keeping her end of the bargain…
Thus Denys' grim thoughts turned, and turned again.
She spent many hours sitting in her chambers quietly strumming random chords on her lute, deep in misery, feeling like a mouse being toyed with by a tabby. Yet despite herself she began to hope…
She recalled the revulsion that shuddered through her when she had read her aunt's command that she wed Richard.
She tried to conjure up that same reaction now, at the thought of marrying Valentine. But it was like trying to convince herself that she hated flowers and romance. The attraction between them was undeniable.
She couldn't force herself to feel repulsed at him. She couldn't prevent her heart from fluttering as his visage appeared in her mind's eye. She couldn't stop the flush spreading over her cheeks when she beckoned the memory of that first kiss, which was many times each day—and night.
She even began to believe he'd been telling the truth when he'd pleaded his innocence. Could he have committed such an unspeakable act as to plot her death with Bess?
No, even though all appearances were against him, she didn't want to believe he was capable of something so heartless. He was Richard's friend. Surely they could not be so different, the one so honest and upright he had steel for a backbone, the other so treacherous he would have killed an inn full of innocent people to keep whatever secret the Queen wanted to hide?
She shook her head. No, not her Valentine.
Stiffening her back at how tender her thoughts of him had become, she reached to take the white rose from her bed stand drawer. She scooped up the fallen petals and made a move to toss them all into the fire.
But she couldn't. She held one to her cheek, inhaled its lingering scent, and returned them all to the drawer once more with a sigh.
Finally she sat down and asked herself quite honestly: Do you really want to escape marriage to Valentine, even suspecting what you do?
Her honest answer came faster than she expected.
No, she didn't….
The question was, how could she wed him without ever being sure of the truth? About her family, or about the man she was about to marry?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
As Denys slept she felt a gentle brush upon her cheek. She smiled dreamily, knowing it was real. That familiar touch, the strong fingers roughly calloused, yet so tender.
With a kittenish yawn, she opened her eyes and saw the kind face smiling down at her, the eyes as blue as the morning sky that framed them.
"Uncle Ned!"
"'Aye, 'tis only I, dear one. Good morn. Before departing for France, I wanted to bid you Godspeed—my little Dove is going to be a married lady soon."
She sat up and wound her fingers through his tightly. She never wanted to let go of him, she wanted him protecting her always. Did she dare confide in him all that had happened to her, what she suspected?
But he was already slipping away from her, sitting up against the post at the foot of the bed. "I wish I could be there to give you away, my dear."
"Uncle Ned, I'm going to miss you so much. I knew this had to happen someday, but now that 'tis upon me, I—" She faltered, shrugged.
She didn't have to explain; he knew what she meant.
"I know, dear; don't think many a man doesn't feel just that way when facing the prospect of marriage. I would have lived my days in carefree bachelorhood, but there are forces stronger than we that dictate certain rites of passage we must obey."
"Well, Uncle Ned, I knew I had to become a woman some time," she said, and they shared a laugh, for they both knew since she'd been back at court, the prattle had usually centered on the Queen's spinster niece and what to do with her.
"Valentine will make a fit husband, I promise," Uncle Ned assured her with a wink.
"Oh, Uncle Ned, 'tis not like he proposed to me personally. He's as happy with his bachelorhood as—" her voice lowered, "—well, as you were, sire."
"Somehow I have a feeling he would have proposed had he a chance. Richard summoned him up to Yorkshire so hastily, he barely had time to pack a pair of trews. But from what I've seen, though he never confided in me personally, I could tell he wished to win your heart. Many a marriage takes place without a heart, sadly, too many." He sighed, yet never lost that dimpled smile.
&
nbsp; She knew it was his own marriage he was referring to. "Well, I've always wanted someone to love me, Uncle Ned. Oh, I know you love me. But I meant—that way." She turned away, knowing she was blushing scarlet.
"In a romantic way." He always knew what she was feeling, could put it into words ever better than she. "Roses and moonlight. Kisses and caresses. Two souls joined as one."
Oh, how he knew! But what else did he know about his own wife, and how Valentine might even at this very moment be planning not only her wedding, but her funeral?
