by Jane Feather
“Dispatches from The Hague.” Daniel folded the documents he had been reading when she came into the courtyard and thrust them deep into the pocket of his doublet. “The messenger arrived this morning.”
“From the king?”
“Aye.”
“Well, what do they say?”
Daniel shook his head. “I cannot divulge the contents, elf. His Majesty commands that I keep them to myself.”
“But I am your wife.”
He tweaked her nose. “Not even my wife would persuade me to break the king’s confidence. Anyway, they touch upon matters that will not interest you.”
“How can you know that?” she demanded. “What interests you interests me, or d’ye think me too young and feebleminded to understand your weighty affairs?”
“Now you are being a foolish and importunate child,” Daniel chided unwisely. “I do not consider ye feebleminded, but y’are as yet inexperienced in matters of state and will find nothing of interest in the dispatches, even were I at liberty to divulge their contents.”
Henrietta flushed indignantly and stubbornly persevered. “I know more than you think. Is it news of the Scots, or of the court at The Hague, or of England?”
Daniel regarded her gravely for a minute, then he stood up. “Did you not hear me aright, Henrietta?”
She followed him into the house and up to the shuttered bedchamber with its cool tiled floor and whitewashed walls, watching as he put the documents into the strongbox standing on the marquetry chest. “I cannot imagine what could be so secret that I cannot know of it.”
Daniel simply shrugged. “We have been invited to an entertainment given by the Duke de Medina de las Torres this evening. Don Fuentes, the duke’s secretary, presented me with the invitation this morning at court.”
As he had hoped, the news diverted Henrietta from her grievance. “’Tis the first social invitation we have received. Could it mean something important?”
“Perchance,” he replied. “I certainly think we should go and see.”
“What shall I wear?” She ran to the enormous clothes press. “’Tis such a shame that we have only plain Puritan clothes when everyone here is so magnificent.”
Daniel said nothing, simply watched her as she rummaged disconsolately through the sober-hued garments. Then her restless movements stilled.
“Whatever is this?” Wonderingly, she drew out a mass of cherry-striped silk and ivory taffeta. “’Tis beautiful. Who does it belong to?”
“Well, it won’t fit me,” Daniel said solemnly. “And I do not know who else keeps their clothes in that press.”
“Where did it come from?” she asked, quite unable to respond to his teasing in the face of this amazing surprise.
“From the sempstress,” he replied.
“Oh, Daniel, you know that is not what I mean.” She shook out the folds. “Is it for me? Truly for me?”
“Try it on,” he said. “The sempstress worked from one of your other gowns, but if there is need of alteration she can do it this afternoon.”
The gown was a cherry-striped silk with a deep lace collar and matching lace frothing at the edges of the elbow-length, richly puffed sleeves adorned with cherry velvet bands and ribbon knots. The underskirt was of ivory taffeta, delicately embroidered with silver flowers. Henrietta had never owned such a magnificent garment.
Daniel nodded with satisfaction when she stood arrayed in her finery, twirling for his inspection. The fit was perfect and the color complimented her skin, hair, and eyes exactly as he had envisaged.
“It must have been monstrously expensive,” she said with a worried frown. “And we do not have very much money.”
“More than enough for a few new gowns,” he reassured her. “You must select materials, and we will instruct the sempstress to make you some others.”
“But what of you?” Still troubled, she regarded him, her head tilted to one side. “’Tis hardly fair that I should have such wonderful new clothes and you should have to wear your old ones.”
“Will I shame you?” he teased, then caught her hands as she drove a small fist into his midriff. “That is not the way I would be thanked. I would prefer a kiss.”
She stood on tiptoe and planted a series of darting kisses on his mouth. “Is that enough, or would you like more?”
“More,” he replied. “Many, many more.”
Daniel watched her that night with pride in his eyes. The girlish prettiness was somehow enhanced by an air of confidence, exemplified in the way she held herself, in the way she moved, in the clear ease with which she was conversing, mingling in a society so vastly different from any she had known hitherto. In fact, he thought, it would not be too much of an exaggeration to call her beautiful tonight. The elegant gown set off her slight figure to perfection. Caught up high under her bosom, it fell open in soft, graceful folds to reveal the embroidered underskirt. High-heeled satin pumps displayed the turn of a dainty ankle, matched by the curve of her forearm, the fragility of her wrists emerging from the frothy lace at her sleeves. She wore her hair drawn back from her face, held in place with a circlet of creamy pearls, a matching necklace clasped at her throat. They had been his wedding gift to Nan, but he did not suffer the slightest pang at seeing them adorn Henrietta, so perfect were they for the pink and ivory of her skin, the rich glossy corn silk color of her hair. No, his child bride was become a most pleasing young woman, a wife in whom a man could justifiably take pride.
“Our gathering is much enriched by Doña Drummond’s presence, Sir Daniel. She is a veritable jewel.” The elaborate compliment came from one Don Alonzo Jerez, who bowed deeply, a vision himself in a scarlet satin doublet and wide petticoat britches, a profusion of diamond-studded Belgian lace at his wrists and throat.
“Forgive the conceit, Don Alonzo, but I must agree with you.” Daniel returned the bow with matching depth. Don Alonzo Jerez had the ear of King Philip IV’s chief chamberlain.
“Doña Teresa would like to visit your wife in the morning. I trust she will be receiving.”
“She will be honored,” Daniel said, and bowed again. Don Alonzo’s wife was chamberlain to the queen and such a visit could only herald an invitation for Henrietta to attend upon Her Majesty. Maybe they were progressing in this elaborate dance of protocol, but he could not help a tiny stab of unease. For all her newfound beauty and confidence, Henrietta was still unsophisticated and unschooled in matters of diplomacy, and the queen’s court was a hotbed of intrigue and gossip. He could not follow her there, so she would have to find her own path through the maze without his guidance. Daniel was not entirely sure she was ready to do so.
Henrietta, unaware as yet of the plans being made for her, was enjoying herself. She seemed to be receiving the most flattering attentions from men and women alike, the music was entrancing, and she seized eagerly upon the long-denied opportunity for dancing, her pleasure so clearly evident in her smile, the sparkle in her eyes, the lightness of her feet, that those in her vicinity basked in her enjoyment and found their own heightened.
“How much do you think she is in her husband’s confidence, Doña Teresa?” The question came from a tall woman, gray hair hidden beneath a most delicate, jewel-encrusted mantilla, black eyes sharp in her painted face.
“’Tis hard to say, but I understand he is a sensible man,” replied the other, a plump lady whose eyes were no less sharp and face no less painted than her companion’s.
“One who would not share state confidences with his young wife?” The marchioness of Aitona raised an eyebrow as she looked across the crowded room with its rich Persian carpets and cloth of gold hangings to where Sir Daniel Drummond stood in conversation. “He keeps a close eye on her, I think…and a fond one.”
“She is young, and ’tis to be assumed still naive,” said the other thoughtfully. “If there’s affection between them, we may be able to work upon it…she will wish to be of service to her husband.”
“Indeed,” murmured the marchioness.
“I understand dispatches arrived from The Hague this forenoon.”
“And an envoy extraordinary is expected from the English Parliament,” mused Doña Teresa. “I understand from the queen that His Majesty is most anxious to discover whether the court at The Hague has a reliable spy network in England. ’Twould be revealing to discover if the dispatches for The Hague contained information about the imminent arrival in Madrid of Parliament’s envoy extraordinary.”
The marchioness simply nodded, her eyes on the slight figure under discussion. “She’s a taking little thing. The queen will find her pleasing, I think.”
“And useful.”
“And most useful, if we play it aright.”
It was well past midnight when Daniel moved across the still-thronged ballroom toward the doors standing open onto a balustraded terrace hanging over lush gardens, where fountains played and majestic elms lined the winding walks, the whole lit with flambeaux glowing under the star-filled velvet blackness of a southern sky.
Henrietta was standing at the edge of the terrace, a glass of Venetian crystal in her hand, her face upturned to her interlocuter, a young and most handsome grandee with shining brown eyes and a neat little beard. Daniel became suddenly aware of the shabbiness of his own clothes beside the silken, laced, and brocaded richness of Harry’s admirer—and it was very clear he was an admirer. It was also very clear that Lady Drummond was greatly relishing the admiration as a delighted trill of laughter broke from her lips and she tapped her courtier’s hand with her fan in flirtatious mock-rebuke.
Daniel stroked his chin pensively, deciding that he didn’t care for his wife to play the coquette with anyone but himself. However, he was not about to act the jealous husband; it was far too demeaning a role. He made his way across the terrace toward her.
“It grows late, my dear wife,” he said, bowing before her, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.
Henrietta looked thoroughly startled at such an unusual salute from her husband. “I had not thought it so. Are you acquainted with Don Pedro Escobal? He has been amusing me most wonderfully with some very wicked stories.” Her lips curved in an entrancing smile at Don Pedro. “May I introduce my husband, sir.”
“Sir Daniel.” The Spaniard bowed deeply. “I have heard much of you and am delighted to make your acquaintance at last. I must thank you for permitting me to enjoy your wife’s company this evening.”
“Did he permit it?” asked Henrietta, forgetting for an instant the punctiliousness of this society. “I had thought ’twas I who permitted it.”
Daniel’s lips twitched as he watched the young man search for an appropriate response to this unconventional declaration.
“You are too kind, Doña Drummond,” Don Pedro said, bowing over her hand. “But ’tis even kinder of your husband to deprive himself of your company in order that others may enjoy it.”
“Oh, bravo, sir!” Henrietta clapped her hands admiringly. “That was most neatly said.”
“But I fear I must now take my wife away,” Daniel said easily. “’Tis time we made our farewells.”
“Is he not the most handsome man?” Henrietta breathed as she walked off on her husband’s arm.
“Tolerable,” Daniel replied in an offhand fashion. “If you care for little beards and pointed chins.”
“Daniel!” She stopped dead at the entrance to the reception room. “Y’are not jealous!”
“Of course not,” he said loftily. “What an absurd idea.”
She peeped up at him through her eyelashes. “Y’are!”
“Am not!” The black eyes danced at her. “You have too great a conceit of yourself, my child.”
She touched her lips with her tongue. “I do not think so, sir. I have received a great many compliments this night.”
“’Tis the Spanish way,” he said in airy dismissal. “’Tis not to be taken seriously.”
“Nay, I suppose not,” she said in a small voice, looking down at her feet.
Instantly remorseful, Daniel patted her hand. “It was but in jest, love. Y’are looking radiant tonight; ’tis no wonder you have received compliments.” When she made no response, but continued to walk with her eyes on her feet, he pulled her toward a secluded window embrasure, shielded by a richly hued tapestry where silver and azure thread mingled in an elaborate design. “I did not mean to hurt your feelings, elf. Surely you know that.” Catching her chin in customary fashion, he tilted her face toward him. Her eyes were brimming with mischievous laughter.
“Wretch!” he scolded vigorously. “For a minute, I really believed I had upset you.”
“You have but yourself to blame,” she informed him, tossing her head.
He probably had, Daniel thought. There was a quality to this Henrietta he had not seen before. Then she put a hand on his arm and whispered, “He is not nearly so handsome as you.”
“Oh, you do not have to spare my feelings,” he said, tracing her mouth with his fingertip. “I am aware I cannot hold a candle to such youth and elegance.”
Henrietta looked stricken. “How could you believe such a thing? Y’are a thousand times more elegant and handsome; and I do not care for callowness.”
“I think you are going to have to prove to me that you prefer the graybeard to the youth,” he said softly, holding her gaze until the deep velvety pools of her eyes seemed to engulf him.
“Let us go home at once.” On this imperative statement, she turned and marched out of the embrasure, her skirt flowing gracefully around her, her heels clicking on the black-and-white marble floor, a purposeful tilt to her small head. “Come quickly,” she commanded over her shoulder. “I do not wish to tarry with this demonstration and it cannot take place here.”
“Indeed it cannot,” he murmured, following her impetuous progress across the reception room. “But we must make our farewells in decent fashion.”
“Oh, pah!” Nevertheless, she slowed, allowing him to take her arm and direct her toward their hosts.
He could feel the vibrating impatience in the hand resting on his arm, could hear it in her voice as she struggled to master her eagerness to be off, and responded with suitably leisured courtesy to the Duke and Duchess of Medina. At last, however, they were free to make the last curtsy, the last bow, and hasten into the warm night.
“I thought we would never get away.” Henrietta breathed a sigh of relief and skipped on the cobbles. “Kiss me.”
“Here? In the middle of the street?”
“Yes.” She nodded vigorously. “’Twas you who created a powerful excitement with your talk of demonstrations.”
“So I did.” He lowered his mouth to hers, tasting the wine-sweetness of her lips, inhaling the delicate fragrance of her skin.
Abruptly, she took over what had been intended as a gentle salute, a mere preliminary to what would ensue in the bedchamber. Her tongue pushed insistently between his lips, her arms went around his neck, her hands riffling through his hair to palm his scalp, gripping his head tightly as her body moved passionately against his.
“What the devil are you doing?” He pulled back, his breathing ragged. “’Tis not the place for this.”
There was a wildness in her eyes and she laughed, a gay and heedless laugh. “You would have me prove something to you. I will prove that passion for my graybeard husband transcends all caution. I would make love under the stars, husband. Now.”
“Dear God,” Daniel exclaimed under his breath. “’Tis the full moon!”
She laughed again, looking up to where the great golden round hung benevolently in the star-filled sky. “Maybe so. Let us go in here.” She darted through a small gate leading into a darkened garden, quiet and still, heavy with the scents of honeysuckle, sweet basil, and roses. She came into his arms again, her hands moving intimately over his body, busy with the fastening of his britches, sliding within to caress him with deft strokes and assured touches. And all the while she kissed him, his throat, his chin, the corner of his mouth, his eyelids, fire-
tipped kisses that heated his blood and drove all thoughts of caution from his head.
An arbor of rosebushes beckoned and they moved almost blindly to within its deep, scented darkness. Daniel drew her toward a carved wooden bench as she nibbled his ear, whispering to him, softly erotic. He was drowning in the warm, whispering, fragrant wonder of her. He sat down and she understood without words what he wanted of her, drawing up her skirts and petticoats as she stood in front of him, baring herself under the night’s soft touch, so that he could run his hands down the creamy, gleaming length of thigh, over the soft roundness of her knees, up to play in the moon-washed, corn silk-colored tangle at the apex of her thighs, slipping between to feel the heated readiness of her. When he drew her down astride his lap, she took him within her self, tightening around him, willing him to become a part of her, part of her essence. Her knees held fast to his thighs and her body moved with a rhythmic vigor that carried them both, until she slowed, eased into a gentle, languorous motion that lapped them in a sensuous sea of delight. Daniel was content to leave the play to her direction. When he would have lifted her from him at the moment of climax, she placed her hands on his shoulders and held him tightly within, glorying in the throbbing pulsing of his release, until a cry broke from her and she fell forward to rest her lips against his forehead as the waves of joy broke over her.
“Mayhap we have made a son,” she whispered, when she could draw breath again.
Daniel stroked her narrow back, feeling the fragility of her shoulder blades through the rich silk of her gown, feeling the warm flesh of her thighs pressed to his own. “I never seem to anticipate your impulses,” he said ruefully. “And ye have more than a fair share, my elf.”
She raised her head to look down at his face in the shadows. “Would ye not have had that happen?”
A finger of moonlight pierced the shadowy darkness, touching the planes of his face, sparking in the black depths of his eyes. “I’d prefer you to be safe at home when y’are with child,” he said.
