The Dark Lady's Mask (12 page)

Aemilia dropped her gaze to hide her disappointment. So he had indeed gone without saying farewell. Perhaps he'd meant to say good-bye, but not finding her, had left the book behind instead.

“The book is yours to do with as you like,” she told Lady Mary.

But something else had diverted Mary's attention. When she stooped to pick something off the floor, Aemilia felt her throat constrict. Lady Mary dangled the breeches in the space between them. Her face was so angry and wounded, Aemilia had to look away.

“My lady, forgive me,” she began, wondering how she would explain riding out as a boy.

“These are my husband's.” Lady Mary's voice rang in cold accusation.

Aemilia shook her head and held her hands out to ward herself as she divined what ugly conclusion Lady Mary must have drawn. “No, no, my lady, I swear I never—”

“Don't you dare dissemble.
Look
at me!” Lady Mary took Aemilia's chin in a bruising grip. “I've kept you fed and clothed for four long years since Susan saw the last of you. Now tell me how you came in the possession of my husband's breeches.”

“I wear them for riding,” Aemilia said lamely.
Ask Lord Hunsdon,
she was tempted to add, but he was no longer there.

“Liar! You're no better than the slattern who bore you.”

Mary's blow knocked her sideways. When Aemilia forced herself to sit back up, her mouth was wet. She touched her lips then drew her hand away to see her fingers bright with blood.

Lady Mary was standing over her. “Peregrine never kept his promise to me, so why should I keep my promise to him?” She hurled the book and breeches at Aemilia. “By tomorrow morning, I want you gone.”

A
EMILIA TOLD HERSELF THAT
this was her last chance, that she'd truly nothing left to lose. Her face still smarting, she dressed in her men's clothes and ran to the stables. Rushing past the groom and stable boys without looking or speaking to them, she saddled and bridled Bathsheba.

“Mistress Amy?” the groom asked, his voice rising in concern.

Before he could stop her, she sprang into the saddle and was off, tearing down the Four Mile Riding. The ancient double-planted oak trees streamed past and the wind stung her injured lip as Bathsheba raced forward, pure muscle and momentum. They swept by the gatehouse and headed south toward the highway where they continued at a steady ground-covering canter until Aemila sighted the black stallion and rider. She spurred forward, as shameless as a mare in season.

When she caught up with Lord Hunsdon, she was panting, the sweat pouring down her cheeks like tears. He looked at her in alarm, reaching out his hand.

“Mistress Bassano, what happened to your face?”

She cut him short, her voice savage. “I dare you to race me to the bridge.”

Then she was off, not daring to look back to see if he followed. Lord Hunsdon, a bastard as she was, who called her father a good man.

Through her tears, she saw him galloping shoulder to shoulder with her. She kicked Bathsheba forward, letting him chase her to the bridge where, winded and spent, she slipped off her blowing mare. She thought she might collapse in the summer weeds, but instead she made herself turn to him as he leapt off his stallion.
What do you play at?

Lord Hunsdon's face was stern. “Tell me what happened.”

“Lady Mary said I must be gone by morning.”

“Did she beat you?” He seemed horrified. “Because I gave you a book?”

Aemilia flinched when he touched her bloodied lip. Then her eyes locked with his. Slowly, deliberately, she tugged off his glove and kissed his hand. The strange fever held her in its thrall and now she called it by its name. Desire.

“You are a wild creature,” he murmured.

He pulled off her cap and freed her hair from its bindings, letting it fall loose in his hands. Aemilia remembered when she had found Susan and Master Wingfield in the shadow of the yew hedge, Susan's face tilted to her lover's. Now Lord Hunsdon bent his face to hers. Avoiding her injured lip, he kissed her brow then her throat, his mouth like a brand. He clasped her body against his, her breasts against his chest, his groin to her belly. A shock ran through her as she felt the proof of his desire for her. Sensations she had no words for pulsed inside her. A bewildered softening.

Lord Hunsdon held her at arm's length, his eyes moving over her face. “If you're seeking deliverance from Lady Mary, you don't have to throw yourself at me, you know. But if this is truly what you want, we'll do it the proper way.”

Aemilia stared, uncomprehending. It had never occurred to her that there was a correct way to do what she had just done.

He took her hand and led her to her mare. “We'll return to Grimsthorpe so that you can pack your things and ride out as a lady. I shall tell Lady Mary I'm escorting you back to your family home.”

 

EMILIA THOUGHT THEY WOULD
travel to London with all speed, but Lord Hunsdon seemed content to take his time. “Your poor mare has galloped quite enough. Let our pace be leisurely out of kindness to the horses if nothing else.”

While she and Lord Hunsdon rode side by side with his retinue following at a distance, he practiced his Italian with her. He questioned her about her history until she told him of her family's tragedy, Master Holland's treachery, her father's death, her sister's ruin and demise, and of her education at Grimsthorpe. After they supped together at the first inn, he asked her to read Dante to him before they retired to their separate rooms. Aemilia lay rigid in the unfamiliar bed as she awaited his knock on her chamber door. But there was only the silence of the deepening night.

So their strange journey continued. Lord Hunsdon made no advances, but his eyes were on her always, intent and examining, while they rode and while they shared their meals.

Only when they reached Saffron Walden did his finger brush Aemilia's mouth when he helped her down from the saddle. “Your lip has healed.”

She shivered at his touch.

At the Maypole Inn Lord Hunsdon took two rooms, as always, but these chambers were adjoining and the door between them did not possess a lock.

A
LONE IN HER ROOM
, Aemilia's stomach knotted. She spent an age washing her face and combing out her hair, but she could no longer put off undressing for bed. She had stepped out of her skirts and unlaced and removed her bodice when the door opened.

Lord Hunsdon entered to find her in her shift and stays. Instinctively, she reached for her discarded skirt to cover herself. It seemed particularly undignified to be caught half undressed. Could he not have waited until she was under the covers in her nightshift?

He gently pried the skirt from her and laid it over a chair.

“Now I see the young lady
en déshabillé,
” he said, handing her a goblet of claret. “Not the hoyden, though both enchant me.”

Aemilia lowered her face to the cup and drank deeply. A red drop spilled from her lip and ran down her throat. He caught it with his finger. Taking the goblet from her, he kissed her mouth until she kissed him back.

What am I doing? What have I brought upon myself?
It's far too late to back out,
she thought, as he laid her on the bed and began to unlace her stays. She took a gulp of air. He lay beside her, his eyes burning into hers.

“This arrangement will come to naught,” he said softly, “unless both of us take pleasure in it. Do you understand?”

Aemilia nodded and tried to conjure Susan's bliss in the garden, losing herself in the schoolmaster's arms. But when Lord Hunsdon opened her stays and cupped her breasts through her shift, she shrank.

“Don't be afraid,” he said, his mouth moving to her pounding heart. “I won't take your maidenhead until you speak to a midwife about how to keep from getting with child. Tonight I shall teach you pleasure.”

He took off her stays and pulled her shift over her head so that she was naked but for her stockings and garters.

“Aren't you a jewel?” he whispered, running his hands down the length of her body.

He stroked and kissed her breasts until she lost herself beyond shame. He palmed her belly and the inside of her thighs, caressing her where she hadn't even dared to touch herself, stroking her until she throbbed against his fingers, a vehement heat rising in her belly, her cries indistinguishable from the doves in the thatch.

N
O DAUGHTER OF MINE
shall be a courtesan.
Papa's voice rang inside Aemilia as she rode toward her old home in Norton Folgate.
But Papa,
she thought, fighting back her tears.
It's you I vindicate.

The house was so run-down, she nearly didn't recognize it. Her father's garden was a waste of weeds. The thatch roof sagged. Even the glass had been taken out of the windows—sold to pay debts, she guessed.

She remained in her saddle, as aloof as any highborn lady, while Lord Hunsdon's men drove Master Holland from her father's house. She heard them warning her brother-in-law that if ever he troubled her or her mother again, the Lord Chamberlain would see him thrown into debtors' prison.

She blinked to see a thin, frail woman watching her from the open doorway.
Mother.
Margaret Johnson, whom she had shunned at her father's funeral.

“Go to her,” Lord Hunsdon said, lifting Aemilia down from the saddle. “It's a most pitiful thing for mother and daughter to be estranged.”

Aemilia stepped toward the threshold where her mother hovered, ghost pale, her mouth trembling, her face wrung. Mother's beautiful blond hair had gone white. Aemilia stood before her, tried to speak, and failed.

“My darling girl.” Mother's eyes filled as she touched Aemilia's cheek. “I prayed you'd come home. Marry, you've grown into such a beauty. The very image of your father.”

Aemilia collapsed weeping in her mother's arms.

“Your old room is a shambles, I'll confess, but we'll clean it and make it nice again.” Mother clung to her.

Aemilia had to take a deep breath before she spoke. “I shan't be living with you, Mother. I shall be staying in Westminster. But I promise you'll never lack for anything again.”

Her face a question mark, Mother looked from Aemilia to Lord Hunsdon, who stood at the gate holding the reins of both their horses. Then she wept fresh tears. “Daughter, can you ever forgive me? It's because of me you—”

“Hush.” Aemilia stood tall and pushed back her shoulders. “I am to join Lord Hunsdon at court.” Her voice shook with the astonishment of it all. She took her mother's face in her hands and uttered the same words Susan had said to her four years ago. “Be happy for me.”

E
VERYTHING HAPPENED SO FAST
, like a violent thunderstorm that shook earth and sky then left serene blue heavens in its wake. In a gown of dark red silk with a standing ruff of Venetian lace to frame her black hair, Aemilia swept into the Royal Presence Chamber on Lord Hunsdon's arm. She felt light-headed, as though her feet didn't touch the floor. Her lover drew her past the gawping courtiers who bowed and curtsied. He led her all the way toward the throne where the Queen sat in state.

“Your Royal Highness, may I present Aemilia Bassano.”

Letting go of her lover's hand, Aemilia swooped down in the curtsy she had practiced all morning. “Your Majesty.”

Rising again, she met the Queen's green eyes, nearly identical to those of her lover.

A page boy handed Aemilia a lute, and she began to play and sing the song she had composed.

The Phoenix of her age, whose worth does bind

All worthy minds so long as they have breath,

In links of admiration, love, and zeal,

To the dear Mother of our Commonweal.

The Queen's raptor-sharp gaze gentled, and she granted Aemilia the grace of her smile, her ringed hand raised in blessing. “The Lord Chamberlain does not exaggerate your talents, Mistress Bassano.”

Aemilia flushed in rapture. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the pride and possessiveness on her lover's face. Slowly and reverently, she backed away from the throne and took her place again at the Lord Chamberlain's side. Then, looking past the aristocrats in their velvets and diamonds, she located the royal musicians and smiled in sheer joy at Jasper's unbelieving face.

A
EMILIA COULD SCARCELY BELIEVE
the company she kept. She dropped in an ecstatic curtsy before Mary Sidney Herbert, the Countess of Pembroke and the greatest woman poet in all England.

“My lady, do you recall our first meeting when I was a child with my father?” Aemilia asked, her heart beating in her throat. “I told you that I, too, aspired to write poetry.”