Royal Harlot (33 page)

“Not that, you sly creature,” he said. “I meant for the ball this night. Will you open the dancing on Monmouth’s arm?”

“I?” My eyes widened with surprise. We were in the heart of Christmas season now, with a ball planned for nearly every night until Twelfth Night. Tonight’s was set for the Banqueting House, already bedecked with holly and other boughs of greenery brought down from Windsor. The first dance of any ball was by custom begun by the couple of highest rank in attendance. At Whitehall, that generally meant the king and queen, even if they never danced together again for the remainder of the evening, but now he was suggesting I claim that honor with his son. “If you’re not going, then I won’t—”

“Oh, I’ll be there,” he said. “Never a fear of that. But I thought it would be a pretty honor for Jamie to go in my stead, considering this will be his first ball in the Banqueting House.”

I tipped my head to one side, curious. “A pretty honor, indeed,” I said. “But why not with the queen as his partner? I know she has a rare fondness for His Grace.”

This was in fact so. Though no one could quite determine why, the queen had taken a special liking to her husband’s eldest bastard and had made something of a pet of the boy since he’d first come to court in the summer, saving special sweets for him at table and having him sit beside her in drawing rooms. Perhaps he was lonely for his grandmother the Queen Mother, his guardian for so much of his unsettled childhood. Perhaps Queen Catherine, being small, dark-haired, and foreign, as well as another Catholic outsider, reminded him of her. Or perhaps Catherine thought that by being kind to the son she’d win more affection from the father.

“The queen could let Jamie lead her, I suppose,” he said, musing, “but she feels uneasy with so much attention on her. It strikes me as unfair to the boy to make him responsible for supporting her.”

I studied him shrewdly. “Why do I guess, sir, that that’s but half of your reasoning?”

“The half.” He scowled, and shook his head. “You know I’ve found him a fine little Scottish bride. Countess of Buccleuch in her own right, and with a sufficient fortune to keep even him happy. I want them wed this spring, to save them both from mischief. The girl’s only twelve, you know, so—”

“Twelve?” I asked, raising one brow with mild surprise. “Isn’t that dipping a bit deep into the cradle, even for a Scottish peeress?”

“Mind that he’s only thirteen, Barbara,” he said, “so they should get on famously. But he needs some seasoning before he’s a husband, a chance to shine here at court, and I’d—”

“Oh, pish, sir,” I said. “That’s not the half, either, but a tiny scrap of the truth, isn’t it?”

He sighed with resignation, for he never was good at keeping such things from me.

“Very well, then, Barbara,” he said, “but you must swear not to tell a soul. The boy complained to me in confidence that the queen is not so skilled a dancer as you, and he’d much prefer to make his opening with you than with her.”

“He did?” My mouth curved with amusement. With my natural grace and long legs, I
was
a far better dancer than the squat little queen would ever be, but I hadn’t expected the thirteen-year-old duke to recognize it, too. “What excellent taste your fair Monmouth displays for his youth. Like the father, so the son.”

“There now, that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” he said peevishly. “You’ll give the poor young fellow the same teasing trouble as you do me, and then—”

“Oh, no, sir, I won’t,” I said softly, resting my gloved hand on his sleeve. “At ease, at ease. I’ll be as gentle as can be with him, elderly Aunt Castlemaine.”

“Don’t be too gentle,” he warned. “The boy’s wretchedly spoiled already.”

“Exactly like his father,” I murmured and raised my mouth to kiss him, my tongue darting warm between his chilled lips. “Exactly, exactly so.”

 
“I’m honored you’re my partner tonight, my lady.”

The Duke of Monmouth bowed before me, too deeply to be appropriate, really, and betraying his eagerness. He wore a flamboyant jacket and petticoat breeches of pale blue satin after the fashion of France—where, I’d heard, a gentleman’s suit of clothes required at least two hundred yards of silk ribbon to be worn in the presence of King Louis!—with so many points and furbelows and ribbons dangling from the waist and slashed sleeves that it seemed to be sprouting pink silk. He was dark complected like his father, but his features were more delicate, like those of his mother, the ill-fated Lucy Walters, they said. He was already taller than I, but with the gangliness of youth, his feet and hands seeming too large for the rest of him. He was trying with difficulty to grow a mustache like his father’s, a sparse sprinkle of hairs on his upper lip, and his voice refused to keep to a manly register, but squeaked upward at the most humiliating moments.

Monmouth was, in short, the most charming young gentleman imaginable, and if he were a sweetmeat dusted with powdered sugar served to me on a silver salver, I would have devoured him in a single bite.

“You know the first dance tonight will be a
sarabande,
Your Grace?” I asked. The
sarabande
was an elegant, dignified dance with steps in triple time, much favored by the Iberians and thus by the queen. It was often danced to begin the evening, because the intricate steps displayed the ladies and gentlemen to advantage, and because the dance’s complexity was better undertaken before too much wine had been drunk by the participants—the opposite reasoning behind saving raucous country dances for after midnight. I wished His Grace to be aware of the
sarabande
’s challenges, and withdraw now if he’d any doubts.

“It’s a difficult dance to execute well, Your Grace,” I continued, “particularly before so large a crowd, and I would be perfectly happy to be your partner later in the evening if—”

“No!” he exclaimed plaintively, then realized how rude that must have sounded. “That is, Lady Castlemaine, nothing could make me abandon the pleasure of being your partner. Besides, I’ve been practicing the
sarabande
specially with my dancing master, to be ready.”

“I am honored, Your Grace, and impressed,” I said, delighted by his unwitting guilelessness. “Most gentlemen would not take that effort.”

He pressed his hand over his heart, a courtly gesture undermined by fingernails gnawed to their quick.

“My lady,” he said solemnly, “I am not most gentlemen.”

“How very true.” I smiled warmly at him, then glanced over his shoulder toward the gallery. The musicians were taking their seats, settling themselves and their instruments with a final tuning. As the first couple, we could take our places at any time.

“Your Grace,” I said, offering him my hand. “Whenever you please.”

He did not so much take my hand as seize it as his prize, as if ready to urge me onto a steeplechase instead of a
sarabande.
Gently I reined him back to a more reasonable pace as we entered the room and went to the center. As other couples fell in behind us, I could hear the startled murmurs rippling through the crowd. There was no place like this court for understanding all the delicacies of order and precedent, and having one of the great Christmas balls opened by the king’s mistress and the king’s bastard was a sight ripe for endless remark.

I’d taken care to dress for my role, too. I wore a gown of red velvet, embroidered overall with twisting vines of silver threads that caught the candlelight, and around my throat I wore my lover-king’s new Christmas gift to me, a large Venetian cross set with cabochon rubies and hung from a strand of pearls as thick around as my little finger. As was his custom, Charles had let me choose among the treasures that had been given to him by various other rulers and lords seeking favor, a system that offered me the finest jewels in Europe.

Now I sought, and found, Charles in elegant black and sitting in his tall-backed armchair, his expression indulgently bemused by the small, scandalous spectacle he’d created. I touched my fingers to the ruby-studded cross so he’d be sure to see I’d worn it, and he nodded, pleased to see me gratified. I’d wear it later with nothing else, to please him more.

Beside him, the queen was stony-faced and glowering at my having usurped both her place in the first dance, and with her husband’s son. Near Charles’s chair stood a genial Arlington, while beside the queen was Lord Clarendon, supported by a walking stick to ease the pain of his gouty foot and the equal agony of his disapproval—for even in the midst of the court’s yuletide festivities we were incapable of setting aside our politics.

“You know that every eye in the room is on us, Your Grace,” I said softly, giving his hand a small squeeze of reassurance. “Yet I care not, because you are my partner.”

His cheeks colored, the dear. “That’s what
I’m
supposed to say, my lady, not you.”

But then the music began and he was saved from having to make more conversation. We stepped, and spun, and paused and turned and stepped again, my skirts fanning out against his legs. I was impressed by how well he did, keeping every movement across the sanded floor with surprising grace. He truly
had
been toiling with his dancing master to do so well, though his fixed smile betrayed how carefully he was counting the measures so not to blunder. By the time the dance was done, his face was flushed from his exertions, but he was also close to crowing with pride, the happy young cockerel.

I curtseyed my thanks to him as applause rippled through the hall. At once the musicians began the introduction to the next dance, and another set of couples began to assemble themselves on the floor behind us.

“I thank you for that honor, Your Grace,” I said with a smile, and began to turn away to take my place with his father.

But Monmouth seized my hand again, unwilling to give me up so soon. “A word before you go, my lady?” he begged urgently, tossing his black hair back from his eyes. “In private?”

“Very well, then,” I agreed, though I couldn’t begin to guess what that word might be. “A moment.”

Before I’d finished agreeing he was pulling me through the others and into the narrow hallway that led to the long path to the kitchens. His hand was endearingly moist with nervousness. Around us servants were hurrying great covered platters of food into the hall, but Monmouth cared only for me, drawing me to a halt as soon as we were out of sight of the other guests.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I cannot stay away from your father His Majesty for long,” I said, although I was entertained by his desire for such privacy. “Pray, what is this single word you so wished me to hear?”

“Only this, my lady,” he said, and boldly grabbing me about the waist, he kissed me, kissed me with considerable enthusiasm and not a hint of skill or finesse. Startled, I flailed with equal clumsiness in his arms, shoving against his stripling chest, yet still he clasped me tight. He was stronger than I expected, his youthful body already honed by the same manly sports that so pleased his father, making him as difficult to push aside as his sire. He ground his mouth against mine to thrust his greedy tongue within, and my single thought was of being violated thus by a large, unruly young dog. And oh, how he’d terrify that poor twelve-year-old bride!

Yet at the same time the untrammeled intensity of his assault was vastly flattering to a lady such as I, twenty-two and more than eight years his senior. It was . . .
exhilarating.
What he lacked in experience he’d traded for eagerness, and I also could not put from my thoughts the titillating realization that he was Charles’s son.

“More care, Your Grace, more care,” I whispered as I finally managed to turn my face away from his lips. “
Amour
is not a race to be won with breakneck haste. A lady appreciates being coaxed, and wooed.”

His face was flushed and his eyes were dark with longing, and I could feel his young heart thudding in his chest as if in fact he’d already finished half that race. I was wise to slow his pace, else he would shame himself in his breeches, or worse, on my petticoat.

“Like this, sweet,” I said, brushing my lips lightly over his before I gently increased the pressure. “And like this.”

At once his kiss was checked, the improvement immediate. The thought that I was teacher to so apt a pupil delighted me, and with more daring I took one of his hands from my waist and placed it lightly over my breast. Instinctively his fingers curved over the swelling flesh that my tight-laced bodice raised high for adulation, and instantly he forgot everything I’d taught him, lapsing back to the sloppy impetuosity of before.

But now I was roused by this impulsive lark, too, and answered his passion in kind, slipping my arms around the back of his neck to steady myself as I arched wantonly against him. He pushed me back against the wall, the wood panels pressed into the small of my back. His prick was hard in his breeches, a goodly size and ready for play. I wondered if he’d yet had any woman of flesh and blood, or only the ones that tumbled through his dreams as he slept.

“Oh, my lady,” he groaned into my mouth, his voice taking that unfortunate moment to squeak upward. “My lady, I—”

“James,” the king said sharply, “what is this?”

The boy jerked away from me, breathing hard and standing uncertainly to one side as he waited for his father’s reproach.

“Father,” he began. “Forgive me, Father, but—”

“Go,” Charles said. “Leave us.”

His head hanging more with relief than shame, Monmouth hurried away, leaving me alone with the king. Here in the shadows of the staircase, he was silhouetted with the light behind him, and I could not see his expression to judge his humor. How long had he been standing there? I wondered. How much had he seen of me and his son, or had he been watching, rather than seeing?

“Sir,” I said softly, still pressed against the wall. I tipped my head back, my lips parted in invitation, and shifted my legs restlessly against one another.