Lady of the Knight

by Tori Phillips

  “She will keep an eye on me,” he replied.

  “And does Lady Alicia also know of your plan?”

  Andrew rolled his eyes with true horror. The mother of Brandon and Guy would descend upon him like an avenging angel. “I pray that the good Countess of Thornbury is both deaf and blind for the next two weeks.”

  “Amen to that,” Jack agreed.

  Chapter Eight

  Behind the curtain of rose silk that Andrew had drawn to give her some privacy, Rosie stared at the incredible pile of clothing that covered his large bed. She gently ran her finger down the bodice of a peach colored damask gown. Never had she felt anything so rich. She chewed on her thumbnail, then caught herself. Sir Andrew would take away one of her precious pennies if he spied her indulging in her “nasty habit.” She wiped her hands on the nightshirt she still wore, then ventured to pick up a white chemise made of the sheerest lawn. How could she possibly wear such a fine garment?

  On the other side of the flimsy wall, Sir Andrew cleared his throat. “How goes it, Rosie?” he asked with a cheery note.

  “If you need any help, Rosie, I am your man,” Jack offered. He could scarcely disguise the hunger in his voice. “I am well acquainted with the ins and outs of a lady’s apparel. In truth, I am the very champion when it comes to disrobing a woman.” He chuckled.

  “Go to the devil, Jack,” Sir Andrew suggested in a mild tone.

  Emboldened by the protection of the concealing bit of silk, Rosie stuck out her tongue in the direction of the lecherous young lord.

  “Rosie?” her protector called. “Is something amiss?”

  “Haint ever seen the like of all this, my lord.”

  He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Rosie, mind your vocabulary. Repeat after me. ‘I have never seen the like of all this.’”

  Jack chortled again. “Hoy day! Twould be easier to teach a pig to dance than to school yon strumpet into a lady. Your wager is already in Brandon’s pocket!”

  Rosie swore under her breath at Jack, then cleared her throat. “By my troth, Sir Andrew, I swear that I have never seen such goodly clothes, and, by my troth, Sir Jack, I am not a strumpet!”

  Both men laughed. Goblets clinked as they poured wine into them.

  “Well-spoken, my dear!” Sir Andrew called through the curtain.

  His compliment gave her courage. Taking a deep breath, Rosie drew off Andrew’s nightshirt. The men on the far side of the curtain lapsed into a breathless silence. The little hairs on the back of her neck tingled as if she were being observed. Covering her breasts with the shirt, she looked behind her to make sure that the gentlemen had not pulled aside the drape. Her silken shield still hung in place.

  Quickly, she dropped the chemise over her head. The hem fell to her ankles. She tied the lacing around her neck, creating a soft ruff just under her chin. Next she chose a pair of thin, cream-colored stockings and pulled them on, fastening them with red silk garters.

  On the other side of the curtain, Jack sighed. “How can you look so cool, old man?” he asked. “I am twice as hot as I was before now.”

  “Patience, my boy,” Sir Andrew replied. “Tis a virtue you lack in profusion.” He raised his voice. “The bum roll goes on next, my dear. Tis that thing that looks like a sausage. It ties around your waist.”

  Rosie again glanced over her shoulder. She could barely make out the men’s shapes as they lounged in their chairs. Jeremy’s vague shadow hovered near the pavilion’s entrance. She held up the padded roll.

  “To be sure!” she called to Sir Andrew. “I’ll look like a weaver’s distaff in this,” she added to herself. She wrinkled her nose as she tied the cumbersome thing in place. Then she stared at the bewildering mix on the bed, not sure what came next.

  Sir Andrew coughed in a manner that indicated he wanted her attention. “I believe you will need the corset, then a petticoat.”

  Rosie whirled around but saw through the silk that the lords had not moved. How did Sir Andrew know what she was doing? She put her hands to her hips and encountered the thick bum roll instead.

  “If ye be so wise tell me what does this corsey thing look like?”

  Jack stood up. “Allow me to show you, sweet daughter of Venus.”

  Rosie backed away from the curtain until the bum roll thumped against the footboard of the bed. “Your pardon, Sir Jack, but I was not a-speaking with ye, but to Sir Andrew. Ye stay right where ye be.”

  Sir Andrew chuckled. “Bravo, Rosie! You have taken the wind out of my young friend’s sails for he has no breath left to speak. A corset goes around your bust and regrettably flattens your very fine breasts.”

  She found the thing in question and eyed it with even more disgust than the bum roll. “Who thought up this piece of torture?”

  Sir Andrew gave a deep sigh. “The gods of fashion, I fear, and we poor humans must toil in abject slavery to their decrees.”

  She fitted the uncomfortable cage around her and began to lace it up. “What is the point of a woman’s breasts if they are flat, I ask you?”

  “By the book, the girl has hit the right nail upon its squared head. My very thoughts exactly, Rosie!” Jack replied. “I say, let us dispense with corset, bum roll and the whole lot!”

  Rosie paused in midlacing. “Does that mean that Sir Andrew must give up his bells as well?” she asked.

  “His what?”

  A light, silvery jingle answered Jack’s question. The younger man laughed and called for more wine.

  “Pull tighter, Rosie,” Sir Andrew advised.

  The hairs on the back of her neck tingled again. “How do ye know what’s what?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “I am a man of many skills, Rosie. Now hurry along or twill be midnight before you are dressed’ to meet the day.”

  She stared at the silken drape while she chewed on her little fingernail. Perhaps Sir Andrew was a wizard. That thought caused goose bumps to rise on her flesh. And yet, he was kind, and did not consort with a brindled cat nor did he have dried dead things hanging from his tent pole. Rosie remembered the witch woman who lived in the woods outside of her village. Many a time her foster father had threatened to sell her to that old hag. Rosie made the sign against the evil eye, then she pulled her laces tighter.

  “I can scarce draw a goodly breath,” she complained.

  “Excellent!” Sir Andrew remarked.

  She chose the plainest of the gowns. Even so, the bodice of the dark green taffeta was embellished with burgundy satin ribbons. Pretty golden rosettes danced around the square neckline. The tight sleeves fit almost as if they had been made just for her. Then she realized that she had encountered an insurmountable problem. She chewed on her thumbnail again while she contemplated what to do next.

  “Rosie!” Sir Andrew barked. “If you dine upon your fingernails one more time, I shall deduct a full sixpence from your meager earnings, and you do not yet have a sixpence to your abbreviated name.”

  Rosie snatched her thumb from her mouth. The man was a devil!

  Sir Andrew rose and crossed the rug until he stood next to the curtain. Rosie saw the toes of his green suede shoes peek under the bottom of the silk hanging. “I believe that you now require the services of a lady’s maid, my sweet. As there are none available, allow me to be your humble servant. Come forth and I will lace up your back. Have no fear. You wear twice as much now as you did last night.”

  Jack snickered. “Whoever heard of a shy harlot? Come out, Rosie, and let me be your undoing!”

  She clutched the long opening of the gown with both hands. “Hain…I am not a harlot!” she shouted.

  Sir Andrew placed his palm against the curtain. “Pay no mind to my Lord Stafford. I fear he is given too much drink, too much sport and far too many late nights. Do you want me to come in there…with you?” he asked, almost shyly.

  Rosie gave herself a shake. She had faced worse things than a drunken churl in her lifetime and probably would face a good deal more in the future. She
would not give either man the bloated satisfaction of knowing her fears. She kicked the curtain aside, tripped on the hem of the pale green underskirt and nearly fell headlong into Sir Andrew’s arms.

  Though taken by surprise, he caught her and turned her around in one smooth movement. “Hold quite still, Rosie, and twill be done.”

  Jack poured himself more wine from the pitcher on the table. “You are a killjoy, Andrew,” he sulked. “I could have trussed her up as well as you.”

  “Humph,” Sir Andrew replied as he pulled Rosie’s laces tight. “You begin to grow tedious, Jackanapes. Go bash someone’s head in the tiltyard. You need the practice. Better yet, go find your cousins and bash in their heads. I warrant they have been up to no good.”

  Jack downed his wine in a single gulp. “You speak the truth methinks. Lady Olivia cast her net for Guy after the joust yesterday and methinks he did not wish to wriggle free save in her bed last night.”

  Sir Andrew swore under his breath. “Tis a pity that Guy is so young and has not yet learned the difference between a jay and a turtledove.”

  Jack shrugged. “At least, he was warmed last night, while I went to my poor pallet alone. Is that not a sad tale, sweet toothsome Rosie?”

  She cast him a cool glance down the bridge of her nose. “I have heard sadder ones than that, my lord.”

  Sir Andrew gave her laces one final tug. “Touché, Jack!”

  He turned Rosie around to face them, and swept a stray lock of hair from her eyes. His gentle touch made her shiver with pleasure. He bowed over her hand as if she were the queen herself. Then he flashed her a quick wink. Warmed by his approval, she smiled at him in return.

  Sir Andrew swept his arm in a wide arc. “There now, my friends, behold a fine lady, newly minted. What say you?”

  Jack raked her with a hot gaze. “She looks good enough to feast upon, old man. Let’s unwrap this pretty package and have a merry time.”

  Sir Andrew glared at the younger man. “Out of my sight, weasel!”

  Instead of taking offense, Jack merely laughed. He replaced his goblet on the table, saluted Rosie with a leer, and then strode out the open entrance. “Fare thee well, graybeard!” he called over his shoulder.

  Once he was truly gone Rosie relaxed. Jack made her extremely nervous. She did not trust him an inch.

  Sir Andrew snapped his fingers at the silent squire. “Well, Jeremy? Speak! I require your opinion. What do you think of my lady?”

  The boy wet his lips. “In God’s truth, she is passing fair, my lord, and I would not have believed it if I had not seen it happen.”

  His words and the enraptured look on his face gave Rosie a measure of delight. She straightened herself with as much dignity as she possessed. “Tis true, my lord?” she asked her employer.

  The warmth in his hazel eyes answered her before he spoke. “Aye, little Rosie. Come, see for yourself.” He pointed to a large mirror that was propped between two chests.

  Lifting her layers of skirts out of the way, Rosie shuffled across the rug to take a closer look. A stranger with a halo of sun-kissed hair stared back at her from the glass. The discomfort of the constricting clothes fell away as she drank in her reflection. She had never seen herself except in a pool of water and never in such glorious finery. She touched a rosette and the girl in the glass did the same.

  “Tis witchcraft!” she breathed, tilting her head to one side, then the other. Her image moved as she did.

  Sir Andrew came up behind her and chuckled as he looked into the glass over her shoulder. “Nay, Rosie. Tis merely the skill of the Venetian who made it. You, however, are a thing divine—and you look every inch a gentlewoman.” He filled the tent with his laughter. “By Saint Peter! This wild conceit of mine is really going to work!”

  Rosie touched the glass with her finger. The thing must tell the truth for Sir Andrew looked the same in it as he did in person. She touched her cheek, then her hair in wonderment. “I look pretty,” she murmured.

  Sir Andrew leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “More than that, my sweet. You look like a lady.”

  His warm breath tickled her neck and made her feel a little light-headed. She started to thank him but the words died on her lips. Instead, she snapped her mouth shut as she stared past her reflection and into the pink bower where she had changed her clothes. Her happiness veered sharply to anger. She glared at her grinning employer.

  He lifted his brows. “How now, Rosie?”

  “You!” Fury almost choked her. “You are a…a false-faced villain, my lord! You lewd rascals were aspying on me the whole time. Aye! And laughing at me out of the sides of your mouths, I’ll warrant!”

  Sir Andrew showed no contrition. Instead, he grinned all the more. “At least, my lady has not abandoned the proper usage of the king’s English,” he remarked to Jeremy.

  Rosie wished she dared to box his ears, but her common sense held her in check. “Twas a vile trick to play upon me. Methought ye were a magician who could read my mind!”

  “Nay, Rosie.” He took her face in his hands and caressed her cheek with his thumb. “I am merely a man in the company of a pretty lass.”

  Her ill humor melted away as ice in sunlight, though she tried to hold on to it for a little longer. How could anyone stay angry at such a charmer when he smiled so warmly and touched her with such tenderness? She thought he might kiss her. He had that look in his eye. She moistened her lips in unconscious expectation and even rose a little on her toes.

  Instead, Sir Andrew chuckled, then released her. “I beg your forgiveness, my sweet. Twas not intended, but when we beheld you as the good Lord made you, well, we thought twould be a sin against beauty to turn away. Forgive this old fool for his whim, my dear.”

  At that moment, Rosie would have forgiven him every crime on earth. “You are not so old, my lord,” she remarked while her heart hammered against the confines of the corset, “so do not let that coxcomb Stafford tell ye otherwise.”

  Sir Andrew glowed at her words. Then he took up her slate and made a bold stroke upon it. “You know how to flatter a gentleman, Rosie. Tis a lesson many ladies have not yet learned.”

  Though she could not count in a book-learned manner, she could see that the number of her pennies had grown. Sir Andrew moved to the far side of the tent and beckoned to her. “Let us see you walk, my sweet.”

  Rosie shuffled a few steps, then stopped. She knew she must look like a tortoise. “Tis nigh impossible! I cannot move with all this cloth and wire wrapped about me. Nor can I raise my arms to my shoulders. In faith, I can barely breathe. How does anyone run in such heavy attire?”

  His eyes twinkled with merriment. “Ladies do not run at all.”

  Rosie wrinkled her nose. “Then tis no wonder that ladies are pregnant all the time,” she observed.

  Jeremy exploded in a fit of laughter. Sir Andrew joined him. “You are the very soul of wit, my dear,” he said when he had caught his breath. “I must remember that one. Twould amuse the Earl of Thornbury.”

  He clapped his hands. “But to business! Jeremy, take my lady’s arm in yours and be her supporter. Rosie, lift your skirts a little with your other hand. Nay, do not display too much leg or you will attract company of the wrong sort in no time. Jeremy! Mind your eyes and not the lady’s ankles. Rosie, lower your skirts just so.” He demonstrated.

  Rosie did not dare to giggle, though out of the corner of her eye she spied a smirk hovering on Jeremy’s lips. She pinched his arm. The boy instantly became the model of gravity.

  Sir Andrew waved his hands in the air as if he conducted a band of minstrels. “Rosie, head up, shoulders back! Good! Now then, my ducklings, take one step forward. Nay, Rosie, do not look at your feet. They are Jeremy’s concern. Her feet, you ass, not your clodhoppers. And another step. Better and better! Jeremy, escort the fair damsel around our humble dwelling. Rosie, chin up, eyes downcast.”

  “Why?” she called over her shoulder as the squire steered her around the tent pol
e. “How can I keep my head up if you want my eyes down, and why should I keep my eyes down if I am not supposed to look at my feet? What am I supposed to look at?”

  “Nothing and everything!” Sir Andrew replied.

  “Do not confuse the matter by asking him questions,” Jeremy advised her, “or we will be walking in circles the whole day.”

  “Excellent!” applauded Sir Andrew as they rounded the pole once more to face him. “Now curtsy for me.”

  Rosie sent a quick look of appeal to the squire. The boy stared straight ahead. “Haint ever curtsied afore,” she muttered.

  Sir Andrew cupped his ear. “What was that, my dear? Did I detect a slight lapse in your vocabulary?” He reached for the slate.

  Rosie gasped as she watched him erase one of his marks. “Oy! Haint fair!” she yowled.

  He rubbed out another stroke. Two pennies gone in less than a minute. Sir Andrew might be a gentleman but he was a coney-catcher, all the same. Rosie despaired of ever keeping so much as a groat.

  Sir Andrew fanned himself with the smudged slate. “Would you care to revise and repeat your last two statements, Rosie?”

  “Say it properly,” Jeremy pleaded. “Or we will never eat dinner.”

  “Haint had breakfast yet,” Rosie whispered back.

  Jeremy winced. Sir Andrew cocked his head and held his finger above another chalk mark.

  She pursed her lips, then said slowly, “I have not eaten any breakfast. I have never curtsied afore and I think it is not fair that you take away my money when I haven’t even seen the color of it yet, so please you, my lord.”

  He chuckled softly. “You do indeed, my lady.”

  He quickly gave her back the three pennies he had wiped away and added one more. Then he put the slate on the table and stood before his stiff couple. “When a lady does reverence, she puts her feet like so.” He turned his toes out so that they faced in opposite directions, one foot slightly ahead of the other. “Then she bends her knees like so.”

  Rosie giggled. “With respect, my lord, ye look like a blessed frog.”

  Sir Andrew straightened immediately and assumed a more manly pose. “I have no idea if frogs or any other denizens of cow ponds enjoy a particularly beatific state, Rosie, but tis no matter to me at all. You are the one who must look like your frog. Now!” He pointed to her and then to the slate with a meaningful look.