“That’s because all my feelings were pent up inside—and when I was in the same room with you, there was a veritable storm brewing inside of me!” She laughed softly, remembering. “I didn’t realize at first that you did this painting, Andrew. Don’t tell me that you’re responsible for all of these!”
“I confess, if you’ll promise not to hold them against me,” he replied a trifle ruefully. “In the past I tended to spend nearly every minute here either out with the horses or painting in the gallery. After Mother died, it seemed a good idea to hang this portrait, along with the one of my father. Betsy began complaining, quite shrewdly, that the wall needed ‘balancing,’ and soon she started bringing out all the other paintings I’d hidden away. I fear that the room’s beginning to look like a shrine to my rather average abilities.”
“Average?” echoed Micheline, “Pas du tout! You are very talented!”
“I paint because I enjoy it. It’s a challenge, and it relaxes me. The results are incidental.”
Micheline had moved down to stare at the portrait of the Duke of Aylesbury. In it, he was younger and more contented-looking. His hair was sandy, threaded with white strands, and the angles of his face were softer.
“I did that a dozen years ago, just after returning from my studies in Florence. Mother ‘commissioned’ it for Father’s birthday, hoping, I suppose, that the project would improve our relationship, but it all turned out badly, as usual. He was so critical of the finished product that I brought the painting back here and stored it in a cupboard. Years went by before I even looked at it again.”
“Don’t you think the duke has softened lately?”
Sandhurst made a sound that was half-sigh, half-laughter. “Perhaps. And perhaps you’re responsible. Look what you’ve done to my well-ordered existence!” Putting an arm around her waist, he kissed her hair. “If he has changed, I’ll be happy for his sake, not mine. I outgrew the need for parental approval before I ever left home. At this stage in my life, all I need is you, Michelle.”
He spoke in a matter-of-fact way that warmed her heart long after they’d finished looking at the rest of the paintings. There were two village scenes, one of the Cotswold hills at sunset, one of Cicely standing next to a beautiful horse, one of Betsy looking very proud, and lastly, a whimsical portrait of Percy the spaniel.
“Let’s go upstairs and have a bath,” Sandhurst said when they’d finished touring the hall. “Together.”
Micheline pretended to be scandalized, then twined her arms about his neck and pressed her body against his. “I’d love it… if Percy isn’t included in that invitation.”
The spaniel stood on the other side of the carved dog gate, looking forlorn as they climbed the wide staircase and disappeared from sight.
Chapter Thirty-Two
April 26-May 29, 1533
At dawn, Micheline awoke to find herself warm in the circle of Andrew’s arm, her face against his chest. The bedhangings of forest-green velvet were drawn back at the posts to allow the entrance of sunlight, and Sandhurst’s body was golden brown in its glow. Wonderingly Micheline gazed at his sculpted face, the lips parted slightly, vulnerably, as he slept. His brows, so mobile when he was awake, were still, and long lashes closed his eyes.
He slept with her and made love to her without reserve these days. Micheline gloried in the knowledge that he trusted her now, and acknowledged his need of her with equal ease. There was no reason to speak the words aloud in constant reassurance; both of them could comprehend each other’s feelings with barely a touch or a glance.
Micheline’s eyes roamed over Sandhurst’s body, for the warm spring nights invariably caused him to toss off the covers in his sleep. In her years with Bernard, she had never been acquainted with him as intimately as she already was with Andrew. She knew every contour of his face, the tendons of his neck and shoulders, the tapering lines of his chest, with its small mole on the far right side, the muscled ridges that progressed down his flat belly, and the sleek, hard contours of his rider’s legs. She knew the texture of the crisp dark hair on his arms and legs—and elsewhere. In the past, her first husband’s maleness had been a source of slight embarrassment. Neither it nor what was done with it was ever really acknowledged by either Micheline or Bernard. With Andrew, all was new and different. They shared everything, every feeling and delight. In the bath the day before, Micheline had found herself teasing him outrageously, until Sandhurst called her bluff and lifted her through the water, impaling her on the length of his hardness. To her surprise, she’d felt no embarrassment, only overwhelming pleasure and satisfaction as they moved rhythmically in the water, her hands in his damp hair, his mouth at her breasts.
Now she stared down past Andrew’s hard belly, thinking that his manhood was as beautifully made as his hands. When she touched it lightly, it awoke.
“Good morrow,” Sandhurst whispered huskily into her ear, then nibbled on the lobe. “My lady wife. What sweet words.”
Although they’d loved twice the night before, Micheline found that her hunger for him could not be appeased. She turned on her side just as he did, her breasts and hips pressing against the lean lines of his body.
“I’m so pleased to be here,” she whispered, smiling. “So pleased to be your wife.”
His kisses scorched the curve of her throat while his agile fingers wandered down her spine to explore the satiny curves of her derriere.
“Mmm” was the only verbal response he could manage.
*
Later that morning Andrew took Micheline out to the stables. Already it was a glorious day. The sun shone brightly, wildflowers lent their fragrance to the breeze, and even Percy pranced hither and yon in high spirits.
The stables were built of honey-colored stone and handsomely maintained. Grooms busied themselves exercising or grooming the horses outside, while a tall, raw-boned man with windblown white hair walked forward to greet the Marquess and Marchioness of Sandhurst.
“Welcome home, my lord,” he said soberly, though his tone was belied by warm gray eyes. “ ’Tis good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back.” Andrew extended his hand, smiling. “I’d like you to meet Lady Sandhurst. Sweetheart, this is Trymme, the marshal here at Sandhurst Manor—and also Betsy’s husband. Trymme is in charge of the stables, the grooms, and all the horses.”
“I’m happy to know you, sir,” Micheline said sincerely.
“Likewise, my lady. I hope you are pleased with your new home.”
Her iris-blue eyes shone with pleasure. “I love it!”
“My wife has a fondness for horses,” Andrew confided. “I thought I’d let her choose one for her own—and I ought to say hello to Hampstead. He’s well, I trust?”
“Quite! He serviced Willow, that young mare you approved of, and that went very well. He’s just been groomed and is waiting to see you, my lord. I thought you might be along to exercise him.”
“Thanks, Trymme. How fares little Stroller? Has she foaled yet?”
“No, my lord. Any day now.”
Micheline listened with only half an ear as the two men continued to talk. They all walked along the stable boxes, where Andrew petted each muzzle and smiled into each pair of large, hopeful eyes.
“I’ve never seen such beautiful horses!” Micheline finally exclaimed. “Is this a breed you’ve developed yourself?”
Sandhurst couldn’t repress a chuckle. “On the contrary, fondling. These are all Arabian horses. There’s no finer horse on earth, in my opinion, and for the most part, I’m keeping the bloodlines pure. We have done a small amount of experimenting—crossbreeding between the Arabs and some Welsh Mountain ponies, which, though similar in looks and temperament, are naturally smaller. The king keeps threatening to decree that all stock under fourteen hands high must be eliminated, so we’ve been working to make these pretty ponies larger. We’ve also bred a few of the Arabians with Chapman horses from Yorkshire, to see what improvements might be made on some of the na
tive breeds.” He smiled ironically. “Make no mistake; I’m very fond of British and European horses, but once one becomes used to Arabians…”
“One is spoiled?” Micheline supplied, beginning to understand. Each of these horses possessed a lovely head, with large eyes and a small muzzle, carried on an elegant neck. Their bodies were compact, their legs long, slender, and strong. Although colors varied, the silky texture of each horse’s coat, mane, and high-set tail was constant.
Sandhurst nodded. “There’s much more than beauty involved, though, as you’ll discover. Arabs are intelligent, gay-spirited, and gentle. They’re also extraordinarily fast, with great stamina and an ability to carry weight. Most endearing to me, however, is the love of these horses for human companionship. That’s the real reason I breed them. I love them in return.”
He’d stopped in front of an open box, where a young groom was putting a bridle on an elegant sable-brown stallion. When the horse saw Sandhurst, it neighed softly and nodded its head.
“This is Hampstead.” He walked forward to greet his favorite steed and Micheline was touched by the scene. Andrew, with his own lithe strength, seemed to belong among such beautiful horses. “Come and say hello, sweetheart.”
When Micheline reached the stallion, Sandhurst slipped a wedge of apple into her hand and she offered it with a few gentle words of greeting. Hampstead munched the fruit slowly, as if scrutinizing her, then he seemed to smile, showing strong white teeth.
Happiness welled up inside her as she stroked his sleek mane and coat. In the past there had been few people she’d liked as well as horses, particularly her Gustave, who must be languishing without her at Angouleme.
Andrew took Hampstead’s reins and led him out of the box. “Have you seen a horse yet that strikes your fancy?” he inquired of Micheline.
“Each is more splendid than the last! I couldn’t begin—” At that moment her eyes fell on an exquisite long-legged filly being groomed in the sunlight. The horse was a warm shade of chestnut, with white stockings and a long white blaze accentuating the beauty of her face. As if sensing Micheline’s admiration, the filly tilted her head slightly, returning her gaze.
“Aha.” Sandhurst’s murmur was scarcely audible. He smiled in Trymme’s direction. “I’d say we’ve just made a match.”
*
During the next month Micheline settled into life at Sandhurst Manor as if she had lived there always. Indeed, she had never been nearly so happy in the home where she had grown up.
Each morning Sandhurst and his bride rose early, usually sharing a piece or two of fresh fruit en route to the stables. Micheline was fascinated by the various aspects of horse-breeding and was never bored by the sometimes long conversations between Andrew and Trymme. Often she was there early enough to feed Primrose, her white-stockinged filly, a light breakfast of oats, timothy and clover hay, peas, sliced carrots, and apple peelings. Then she and Andrew would exercise Primrose and Hampstead, riding either south over the hills or north to the village. Usually they would stop at some point, leaving the horses to graze while they lay down in the meadows.
Drifts of flowers blanketed the hillsides. Micheline was enchanted by the snakeshead fritallery, a flower mottled with light and dark purple which hung its head in the spring sunshine. One day she and Sandhurst lay kissing in a sea of cowslip and forget-me-nots while Percy chased elusive green-veined white butterflies and wobbly little lambs over the sloping hill. They were far from the manor, seemingly alone in a world of their own. When Andrew loosened her bodice to free her breasts, warm and pale in the sunshine, Micheline could only stretch sensuously and bask in the shivery sensations his mouth and hands evoked. Her own hands caressed him through his buff doublet and breeches, curving around the ridge of his arousal until her skirts somehow were hitched up and Micheline felt soft hay and wildflowers under her thighs. She unfastened Andrew’s codpiece and their bodies joined in a torrent of sweet desire. Above her was a sky that Andrew called “heaven’s own blue,” and as they mated there in the sun-drenched meadow, it seemed to Micheline that heaven itself could not possibly surpass the life they’d fashioned together on earth.
Even when they were apart, she was happy. Some afternoons Sandhurst painted or looked after estate business while she rode Primrose alone or became acquainted with the workings of her new household. The servants adored Micheline since she refused to put on airs, and even the cook, a sturdy old woman called Lettice, welcomed her into the kitchen, where they worked at inventing dishes that combined the elements Micheline liked best in French cooking with the usual English preparations.
May Day came and the manor house wore garlands of flowers and hawthorn branches on its windows and doors. That afternoon Micheline put on a gown of white muslin trimmed with thin yellow silk ribbons, and Mary helped her secure a wreath of colorful flowers in her loose fire-gold curls. She and Andrew rode into the village to preside over the crowning of the Queen of the May, an honor bestowed upon a comely milkmaid called Isabel. The townspeople danced and sang all day long, many of them cavorting in circles around a flower-decked maypole near the parish church. Everyone was delighted by the new Lady Sandhurst, who was prettier and gayer than any of the rosy-cheeked village girls.
As May progressed, Micheline’s contentment grew apace. The absence of her monthly flow confirmed her happy suspicion that she and Andrew had created new life that spring along with the rest of nature’s creatures. Sandhurst was delighted, but far from surprised. Laughing, he told her that he’d have been frankly astonished if she hadn’t been with child by now.
The kind of reality Micheline had been forced to deal with in Yorkshire couldn’t be held at bay indefinitely, however. The third week of the month brought several days of rain, which refreshed the landscape but kept the couple indoors. One afternoon they sat side by side in a library window seat, sharing a volume of The Book of Merlin.
Sandhurst stretched out lean-muscled legs and propped them on a placet. Unused to prolonged inactivity, he was finding it harder by the minute to resist the distracting charms of his bride. As raindrops splashed the mullioned window behind them, his gaze wandered from the printed page to the generous display of Micheline’s bosom above a low square neckline.
“What are you looking at, my lord?” she inquired primly.
“I find you far more absorbing than Merlin, my lady.” His head dipped to kiss the tempting curve of her flesh.
“An interesting choice of words,” she observed, shifting against the window seat in a way that told him she was already aroused.
He looked up and smiled boyishly. “Very apt.” His eyes softened at the sight of her face, the picture of radiant beauty framed by a spill of brandy-colored curls. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d pinned up her hair since arriving at Sandhurst Manor. “You know, you positively glow.”
“Marriage… and your baby would seem to agree with me.” She ran her fingers through his luxuriant hair, occasional strands gilded by long days spent in the sun, while his face was tanned and handsome.
Tenderly he kissed her mouth. “I’m glad you’re happy here.” Sitting back next to her, Sandhurst distractedly drew a pattern with his forefinger on the slim back of Micheline’s hand. “I rather hate to bring this up, but you probably realize that we must begin preparations to travel to London. If it were anything except the coronation, I’d say devil take it and remain here, but it’s just not that easy. If we don’t make the effort, King Henry will remember.”
“It’s even more than that, Andrew. We’re to meet Cicely in London. You hadn’t forgotten, had you?”
He sighed. “I’ve been trying to. Are you certain you want to carry through with those plans, in light of the baby? I don’t want Cicely upsetting you. I worry that you’ll feel unwell and never mention it.”
“You must not worry,” Micheline insisted, aware that his anxiety was rooted in the knowledge that she had lost a baby during her first marriage. “The other time, I felt completely different
right from the first day. It was as if that baby was not meant to be born.”
“Swear that you’ll tell me if you have any pain.”
“Honestly, I’ve never felt better in my life! You’ve seen how I’ve been eating! I’m thriving, Andrew.”
“You must swear,” he persisted, squeezing her hand.
“Very well, then, I swear.”
*
The twenty-ninth of May fell on a Thursday. Dawn had scarcely begun to lighten the London sky when a knock sounded on the door of Andrew and Micheline’s spacious bedchamber at Weston House.
Sandhurst slowly opened one eye to find his wife looking at him in bewilderment. “If that’s Rupert, I’ll kill him for certain this time,” he muttered, his voice husky with sleep.
“Please, don’t. I so deplore violence.” She playfully pulled the covers over her head to escape his withering glance.
The knock was repeated and Cicely’s voice came through the door. “Andrew, you haven’t forgotten that you promised to take me downriver to watch the queen’s entry into the city, have you?”
“I am not awake enough to even think yet, let alone forget our plans for the day!” He fell back on the pillows and closed his eyes. “Come back in two hours and I’ll let you know then if I forgot.”
“Stop teasing me!” Her voice rose childishly.
“I assure you, I am quite serious. The procession of boats won’t be leaving London for Greenwich Palace until midday. I’m not so old and doddering that I require an entire morning to dress and walk outside to the barge.”
“But the river is already thronged with boats!”
“There will always be space for one more. I hereby close the subject, advising you to make yourself scarce until eight o’clock.”
“But Andrew—”
“Leave us! If you want to depart for Greenwich now, get Rupert to take you! I want to sleep!”
When there was no further argument from the hallway, Sandhurst burrowed under the covers and enfolded Micheline in his arms. “Actually that’s not quite true. Mmm, you’re warm.” Kissing her throat, he caressed a breast, hip, and slim thigh. “And soft.” His hand lightly traveled back up the inside of her leg until Micheline flinched slightly.
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