“And who would help you with your gown, I should like to know?” Daisy drew the cloak from Skye. “His lordship’s?” Skye nodded. “Ha, ain’t he the gallant one!”
“Yes. He is,” said Skye, a little regretfully.
Daisy prattled on as she helped her mistress disrobe. “They say he’s left a trail of broken hearts from here to Devon. Highborn or low, they all loves the ‘Angel Earl.’ ” She looked slyly at her mistress’s flushed cheeks. “They say he’s a grand lover, and Lord knows you have no husband to answer to, mum.”
“Shame, Daisy!” Skye broke away from her reverie long enough to remember how young her maid was. “You take on London manners and morals too quickly. I think it not wise of you. Beware lest I send you back to Devon!”
“Oh, mum. I meant no harm! But with him so handsome and ye so bonny …” she trailed off, her head hanging lower and lower, with such a woebegone expression that Skye almost laughed. She sent Daisy off to her bed, cautioning her to think on her sins.
Grateful to be alone, Skye slowly washed her face and hands and cleaned her teeth. Sliding a simple mauve silk nightgown over her naked form, she climbed into bed. Dear God, how she had responded to the Earl’s kisses! And he had known it! She trembled. What kind of a woman was she to respond so fervently? She began to weep softly, ashamed of her wantonness, ashamed of her inability to remain faithful to the memory of her beloved husband. When at last she fell asleep, it was an exhausted and restless sleep.
The next day, as Skye sat hollow-eyed, sipping Turkish coffee in the library with Robert Small, there arrived a messenger in the green-and-white livery of the Earl of Lynmouth. He flourished a bow and presented her with an exquisitely carved rectangular ebony box. The captain raised an inquisitive eyebrow as Skye accepted the box and lifted the lid. On the red velvet lining lay one perfect carved ivory rose, its stem and leaves wrought from green gold. Beneath it was a folded sheet of vellum. It read: “In memory of a perfect evening. Geoffrey.” A pink flush rose in her cheeks, but she said merely, “Convey my deepest thanks to Lord Southwood.” The footman bowed himself from the library.
“So,” remarked the captain, when they were alone again, “the evening went well. I would not have believed it, judging by your woebegone expression, Skye. Perhaps the gift is by way of an apology?”
“You needn’t worry, Robbie.” She handed him the Earl’s note.
Perusing it, he looked back up at her. “Then what is it, lass? Why are you so troubled?”
“Oh, Robbie! He asked if he might kiss me, and—I let him!”
“And you found it distasteful?”
“Nooo,” she wailed. “Oh, Robbie! I liked it, that’s what’s wrong. And worse, I wanted him to make love to me! How could I? What kind of wanton am I?”
“Christ’s blessed nightshirt!” roared the little man. He thought a moment, his head in his hands, and then he began. “Listen to me, Skye. I sometimes forget that damned memory of yours still has gaps in it. Khalid has been dead for two years, and it is time you found yourself another man. You’re not expected to remain true to his memory forever. There is nothing wrong in what you felt. God Almighty, you’re a beautiful young woman, lass, and it’s natural you responded to the Earl. He’s a handsome devil. Try your wings with him if he attracts you. But remember this—he’s a married man. Don’t get hurt.”
“Oh, Robbie, how could you even suggest such a thing? My lord Khalid—”
“Khalid is dead, Skye! He would be the first one to tell you to go on with your life. He wouldn’t want you to bury yourself along with him.”
“But Robbie, I don’t love Lord Southwood.”
“Lord, lass, I should hope not. He’s married.”
“But I still want him to make love to me.”
He began to laugh. “What you feel for the Earl is desire, lust, passion. Sometimes those feelings go along with love, but more often not. The churches would like us to feel guilty about such emotions, but don’t you do it! Those feelings are human nature. You won’t have them with every man you meet, so don’t fret.” He put a friendly arm about her. “Skye, lass. I know I’m many years older, but if having the protection of marriage and my name would make you feel safe, I’d gladly marry you. I’d ask nothing of you. It would be in name only.”
She was stunned. “Why, Robbie, how kind you are. You always have been, since our first meeting. What a good man you are! Thank you, but I must stand on my own two feet. I somehow feel that Khalid would want me to be strong and independent.”
“Aye, lass. I think he would, but should you ever change your mind, the offer stands open. Remember that.”
She bent and kissed his cheek. “I do love you, Robbie, but not the way a woman loves a man. I could not marry you, even for safety’s sake, but never stop being my friend.”
“I won’t, lass. I won’t,” he said quietly, thinking, I owe Khalid more than I can ever repay, and watching over you is such a small thing. Lord God, let her find happiness, the fierce man prayed.
CHAPTER 15
EVER SINCE ELIZABETH TUDOR HAD ASCENDED THE THRONE of England, the Earl of Lynmouth had held a masqued ball on Twelfth Night. Not the first year, however, for Queen Mary had died on the morning of November 17, 1558, and Twelfth Night had been only seven weeks later. The Court was still in mourning for her.
This year would be the third time the Earl’s fête would be held, and invitations were eagerly sought. Skye received her invitation on the morning of New Year’s Day. Geoffrey Southwood came calling and planned to deliver it himself. She had not seen him since that mid-November night, but she had dreamed of his kisses ever since. She hurried from her own apartments, where she had dressed, to the second-floor receiving room. Her burgundy velvet gown was offset by exquisite, delicate ecru lace along the sleeves. The square neckline was low, and bordered by the same lace. A little above it dangled a necklace of small rubies and pearls. Her midnight hair was parted in the center and fell in soft curls, Italian fashion, about her shoulders. It gave her a charmingly youthful appearance.
“My lord Earl! A happy New Year to you,” she cried gaily, sweeping into the richly furnished receiving room. Dear Heaven, he was so incredibly handsome, dressed all in black velvet trimmed with sable, wearing a great heavy gold pendant about his neck.
“Mistress Goya del Fuentes, a happy year to you also.” His gleaming green eyes swept over her. Christ’s bones, she was beautiful! “I have brought you a small gift,” he said.
She colored becomingly. “My lord, it is not necessary, and I have nothing for you.”
“I will take a kiss, sweetheart, for one of your kisses is worth more than anything else.”
“Oh!” Before she could protest he swept her masterfully into his arms, and took possession of her lips. The blood sang, roared, and pounded in her ears and she matched him kiss for kiss until they were both breathless. Her breasts began to swell with longing, the nipples chafing against her silk chemise. His mouth scorched down the side of her neck to her shoulder, then across the tops of her breasts, which threatened to burst the confines of the burgundy gown.
“I want to make love to you,” he said softly.
“I know,” she answered breathlessly, “but I need more time. I have known no man but my late husband, and I am confused. And afraid.”
“I won’t force you, sweetheart. Rape holds no charm for me.” He led her to the brocade settle and they sat together. He drew a small jeweler’s box from his left pocket. “I have been on constant call to Her Majesty,” he explained. “We kept Christmas at Hampton Court, but the Queen is now at Whitehall, and I was able to get away for a while. I have bought these because I thought they matched your eyes.”
Skye took the proffered box. She opened it without taking her eyes from him. Inside the box were a pair of round sapphire earrings that dangled from two tiny gold beads. She lifted one up to the bright morning sunlight and, like a prism, it caught the light and twinkled a rainbow back at her. The sapphires were a
mong the finest she’d ever seen, and certainly Indian.
“My lord, I cannot. They are far too valuable,” she sighed regretfully.
“Geoffrey, sweetheart, and I beg you not to be silly. What harm is there in two friends exchanging gifts on New Year’s Day?”
“But I have nothing for you,” she protested again.
“Nothing? Have you not given me the hope that someday we might share love between us? And your sweet kisses are far more precious to me than jewels. Come, love, let me fasten the sapphires into your little ears.” His hands brushed her curls back, making her shiver, and he carefully set the earrings in their places. “Perfection,” he said.
Skye faced the pier glass, turning this way and that to admire the sparkling, richly blue stones. “Damn you,” she said softly, “they’re beautiful—and I love them!”
He chuckled. “I’m happy to see you exhibit even the tiniest bit of greed, sweet Skye. Now, love, I’ve something else for you before I go. An invitation to my Twelfth Night masque. Will you come? Perhaps Captain Small will escort you? The Queen will be there. I have not yet broached the subject of a royal charter for your trading company, but I shall do so before the ball, and I will endeavor to present you to Her Majesty that evening.”
“Oh, Geoffrey, how lovely! Of course I shall come, and Robbie shall be my escort, though I doubt I can get him into anything overly elegant. Robbie takes no pleasure in lavish dressing.”
He nodded, satisfied. “I must get back to Whitehall now, sweetheart.” He rose and she moved toward him. He towered over her, making Skye feel very small as she gazed up at him. His long fingers trailed smoothly over her upturned face. “I’m a patient man as long as the prize is worth the wait, my pet.”
“I could disappoint you, Geoffrey,” she frowned up at him, her face intent.
“I think not, Skye. I think not.” He brushed her lips lightly with his. “What would you like for Twelfth Night?”
“My lord! You must not spoil me!”
“Sweetheart, I’ve not even begun to, but I shall. Until Twelfth Night.” She hadn’t time to reply before he nodded and, turning, left the room without another word.
Geoffrey Southwood strode down to the river bank and hailed a waterman to take him the short distance back to the palace. “Whitehall,” he said, climbing into the little boat and seating himself.
“Aye, me lord,” the waterman said as he pushed off into the stream. “I’m going to enjoy de Grenville’s barge very much,” the Earl said softly to himself. Then he grew somber. It was no longer a game. To his surprise, his heart had become deeply involved. He had not been entirely truthful in letting Skye believe that the Queen had kept him at Hampton Court. There had been several occasions over the past few weeks when he might have returned home. But he had chosen not to because he had wanted time to think.
She had been so very vulnerable that November night, and he could have taken her easily. She was young. She had known a great love. Widowed two years, she was now obviously ready for a man. His bet with de Grenville might have been won then and there. But she had trembled faintly in his arms, and somehow he couldn’t dishonor her. Geoffrey was amazed at himself, for he had never been soft, or overly concerned with the feelings of others.
When he had returned to his house that night he had found a plump little maid bringing wood to his bedchamber. His green eyes narrowed speculatively for desire rode him fiercely. He slid an arm about her little waist, and she giggled.
“What’s your name, lass?”
“Poll, m’lud.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen, St. Thomas’s Day past, m’lud.”
“Are you willing?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Are you a virgin?”
“Nay, sir,” she said as she shed her blouse, revealing breasts generous for one so young. Her skirts and petticoats rapidly followed, and she was naked.
There were no preliminaries. He loosened his codpiece and, pulling her to the bed, pushed her down and fell on her. He pumped into her methodically until she cried her pleasure. The ache in his manhood was finally soothed. Rolling off her, he lay quietly for a moment and then rose from the bed. Drawing a gold piece from his purse, he gave it to her. “Run along now, Poll.” The girl gathered up her garments and, giving him a saucy smile, ran from the bedroom.
He sighed now with the memory. He had been physically appeased, but by no means satisfied. It was Skye he had wanted. There was an innocence about her, though she had been married, widowed, and was a mother. That innocence made him want to love Skye, not betray her.
There was no doubt about it, the Earl of Lynmouth was feeling the pangs of real love for the first time in his life.
Robert Small was not thrilled by the invitation to the masque. “Dammit, Skye, I’m no gallant to be escorting you.”
“Now, Robbie, stop grumbling. Geoffrey suggested it himself, though I warned him you’d fuss. The Queen will be there, and he has promised to present us.”
His weathered face softened a little. “Well, I’d like to meet Young Bess, I would. What must I wear?”
“Nothing overly ornate. I promise. I have decided to go as ‘Night.’ Your costume will match mine. I’ll have them done, so you need go only for one or two fittings with the tailor.”
“Very well, poppet. I can’t let you go alone else those elegant Court popinjays overwhelm you.”
She kept her word, and on the night of the masque Robert Small found himself dressed quite simply though very elegantly indeed in a black velvet doublet sewn with tiny silver brilliants, and edged in silver lace at the neck and sleeves. The short round black breeches were lined in stiff horsehair to puff them out. He wore black silk stockings and thick-soled black leather shoes with silver rosettes. His short cape was also of black velvet, lined in cloth of silver and trimmed in sable.
Skye presented him with a beautiful golden sword, its handle sprinkled with small sapphires, rubies, and diamonds. To her vast amusement he swaggered before the receiving-room pier glass, a little smile playing across his lips.
“Do you think you might crow?” she teased.
He reddened. “Ah, give over, Skye. But damned if I don’t look as good as any dandy.”
“You do. I only wish Dame Cecily could see you.”
“Thank God she can’t! I’d never hear the end of it. She’s always trying to rig me out for some party or other, but I’ve avoided her so far. Now don’t you tell on me.”
Skye laughed. “All right, Robbie I’ll keep this a secret.”
He sighed, turned from the mirror, then eyed her critically. “Isn’t your neckline a bit low?”
“No, Robbie, it isn’t,” she said softly, “it’s the height of fashion. Now let me have the mirror, if you can tear yourself away.” He sniffed in mock offense and she stuck her tongue out at him.
“I’ll see the coach is ready, Mistress Peacock,” he said, striding grandly from the room.
Skye stood quietly gazing at her image. Her black velvet dress was magnificent, and she knew she should eclipse every woman at the masque. The low, square neckline was unrelieved by any lace at all, but offered a very daring show of white breasts instead. The sleeves, full to just below the elbow, were slashed to show silver lace inserts. The silver lace was repeated at her wrists. The black velvet bell-shaped skirt parted to reveal a black brocade underskirt which had moons, stars, planets, and comets embroidered on it in silver, pearls, and diamonds. Her black silk stockings with their silver lace rosette garters were sewn with tiny diamond brilliants, as were her narrow, pointed, high-heeled black silk shoes.
Her hair, parted in the center, was arranged in a soft chignon at the nape of her neck. This new French fashion would also set her apart from the other women at the masque. They would still be wearing their hair puffed out at each side. Her pearl-and-diamond hair ornaments were shaped like stars and tiny crescent moons.
Her necklace was a magnificently opulent display of blue-w
hite diamonds. There was a matching bracelet. And in her ears were pear-shaped diamonds that fell from baroque pearls. On the fingers of her left hand she wore rings set with a great flashing round diamond, a heart-shaped ruby, and a sapphire. On her right hand was a large, irregularly shaped baroque pearl, and a square-cut emerald.
Her eyes were highlighted with just a touch of blue kohl, but her cheeks were pink with excitement and needed no artifice. Her perfume had been made this past summer from the damask roses at Wren Court, and sent up to London by Dame Cecily at Christmas. Her mirror told her she was perfection, and for the first time in months Skye felt completely confident despite the fact that tonight, when she arrived at the Earl’s house, she would be entering a new and alien world.
“Ready, lass?”
She whirled around and, picking up her silver mask, said brightly, “I’m ready, Robbie.” He carefully draped a sable-lined and-trimmed long cape about her shoulders, and descending the stairs together they walked swiftly from the house to the coach. “How silly,” remarked Skye, “when I live so nearby to have to take my coach.”
“You could hardly walk. That wouldn’t make a grand entrance at all, now would it? The beautiful, mysterious, Señora Goya del Fuentes should make a good first impression. I can guarantee that within the next half-hour every noble popinjay at Court will be falling over himself to meet you.”
“Oh, Robbie,” she laughed, “you sound like a suspicious father.”
The coach quickly reached the gates of Lynmouth House and drove up the drive to the brightly lit palace. Arriving at the front door Skye became aware, for the first time, of the grandeur of the building. The dark-red brick palace stood four stories high, towering over the river and its own beautiful, carefully designed gardens. Built early in the reign of Henry VIII, it had all the sprawling, boisterous magnificence of the monarch himself. It was considered a perfect example of Tudor architecture. Footmen in the azure and gold colors of the Southwood family ran to open the carriage door and help the occupants out. Skye took Robbie’s arm and entered the big marble foyer where a footman hurried forward to take Skye’s cloak. Several women guests were standing nearby and as her gown was revealed, they gasped. The corners of her mouth twitched, but she feigned indifference. Slipping her hand through Robbie’s arm again, they began to ascend the wide staircase.
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