Margaret Moore (23 page)

“Do you see the earl anywhere?” she demanded.

“No, and he has only been absent these few moments looking for Sir Thomas.”

Arabella moved back as a pair of women pushed past them, trying to make their way through the crowd.

“What is this commotion? Oh, this is too aggravating,” Lady Lippet whined, turning this way and that without really pausing to see anything.

“Why, Lady Arabella, what a pleasure!” a deep, familiar, thrilling voice whispered in her ear.

With a gasp, she turned to find Neville at her side, slightly behind her.

Surely there was no man his equal in all the court or all of England, either. Although he was attired simply in black, his natural grace and bearing amply compensated for any lack of luxury in his clothes.

Then she got a good look at his face. Glancing at Lady Lippet, who was as yet oblivious to his arrival, Arabella moved back slightly to stand beside him. “Have you been ill?”

“I am merely tired.”

She gave him a quizzical look. He sounded just as he had on her first day in London.

Could illness be the explanation for his pale, drawn features and his bloodshot eyes—or was it something else? Lord Cheddersby had
not said where Neville had been seen; at the moment, Bankside came to mind. “Where have you been?”

“Here, there, about the town,” he replied.

A loud roar of approval went up from the crowd. Ignoring them, he took hold of her hand, the grip of his fingers strong as he gently pulled her back through the crowd, away from Lady Lippet.

“They are playing blindman’s buff,” he explained in that flippant drawl. “It amuses Frances Stewart. That and other childish games, like building houses of cards. As you know, the rest of the sophisticates of the court prefer other sport. Well, perhaps not Lady Castlemaine. When she plays blindman’s buff, she is forever running her hands over someone without being able to guess who they are, apparently.”

Now at the back of the mob, he began moving around the outside, yet drawing closer to the most boisterous group.

She wanted to be alone with him again, yet although he had detached her from Lady Lip-pet, he seemed intent on keeping her among the revelers. “I would rather not play.”

“The king himself requested that I summon you to the game.”

“Do you think I should play?” she asked, completely confused by his absence, his demeanor and his actions.

It was as if the memorable events of the other night had been a dream instead of reality. Or as if he wanted to forget what had happened.

“Most women would be flattered to have their presence requested by His Majesty.”

“I did not say I was not flattered,” she replied truthfully. “I have never played blind-man’s buff before and don’t wish to look foolish.”

“I don’t think you will.”

“Neville, I—”

Lady Castlemaine suddenly appeared directly in front of them, making something of an impediment, given the fullness of her satin skirts. It was no secret she was with child, either.

“There you are, Lord Farrington,” she purred, running a dismissive glance over Arabella.

Who barely refrained from curling her lip. This woman was surely the boldest, most immoral hussy at court, if not in all of England.

“Lady Castlemaine, may I present Lady Arabella Martin, my father’s ward and the daughter of the late Duke of Bellhurst.”

Lady Castlemaine’s eyes widened a little, and a patronizing smile appeared on her face. “So this is the country-bred beauty of whom I have heard.”

Arabella suddenly felt like a badly dressed, homely rustic.

The king’s mistress gave Neville an arch look. “You did not say she was so charmingly lovely. No doubt you want to keep her all to yourself. And here I intended to invite you to play cribbage with me, my lord.”

“Charles Berkeley is otherwise engaged? And Henry Jermyn?”

Lady Castlemaine’s smile disappeared. “I do not wish to play with them.”

“I do not know how to play your favorite games,” Neville replied lightly.

Her eyes narrowed, and Arabella realized she was quite forgotten by the woman before them. “I could teach you.”

“I know you are very skilled,” he answered. “Alas, I fear I am a slow study. Would you not agree, Lady Arabella?” He continued before either the now hostile Lady Castlemaine or Arabella could answer, “So good evening, my lady, and good luck in finding a partner.” He made a courteous bow.

Lady Castlemaine scowled as she turned and strode away.

Suddenly, the crowd in front of them parted like the Red Sea before Moses. King Charles, resplendent in purple and gold and with a white linen blindfold across his eyes, groped his way toward them.

Neville’s grip tightened.

“Come,”
he growled, tugging her backward. Without a word, and ignoring the smiles, smirks and surprised expressions of those around them, Neville led Arabella away from the king and into the Privy Garden.

Chapter 16

G
lad to be rid of Lady Castlemaine, Neville led Arabella toward a secluded portion of the garden where they would be undisturbed and where, hopefully, even the king’s own servants wouldn’t find them, should Charles send them searching.

He wondered what the king would make of their sudden defection, for Neville had not done what he was supposed to do. He was to take Arabella toward the king, who would “find” her. Touch her. Run his hands over her under the pretense of trying to discover who she was by touch alone.

What was that compared to what the king really wanted to do? What were those impertinent smirks from the other courtiers compared to Arabella’s possible fate after the king was done with her?

The king’s order was more important than
his mistress’s request, so he would do as the king commanded and present Arabella with the opportunity to be the king’s lover. If questioned, he would explain that he had gone with her into the garden for that very purpose.

He glanced at the lovely woman at his side. Tonight Arabella wore a heavy velvet and satin gown of dark green. Her hair was dressed in curls and ribbons, and her face remained free of cosmetics, her own lovely complexion requiring no assistance.

The warm spring air carried a hundred subtle scents: of blooming flowers, the shrubbery damp from an afternoon’s shower, the river, Arabella’s perfume. The silvery moonlight made the paths a ghostly white, and the shadows odd and unfamiliar. She kept looking at him uncertainly, with that same mixture of confusion and concern as when she had first seen him this evening.

“What is it, Neville?” she asked anxiously when he halted near a particularly ugly statue. “You
have
been ill, haven’t you? You still look far from well.”

“I have merely been imbibing in Bankside.”

“Why?”

“I do not have to explain anything I do to you.”

She looked away, obviously hurt.

Good. She should not care about him, just as he must not care about her. Therefore, he
would ignore his own pain, because of what he now had to do. “Arabella, I congratulate you.”

“Congratulate me? Why? What have I done?”

“You have attracted the notice of a very important man.”

“If you refer to the Duke of Buckingham, I regret that I have.” Her expression brightened. “Unless you mean the notice of another man who is much more important to me?”

He wanted to groan with dismay as she looked at him with guarded hopefulness. “I do not mean the duke, but I do not refer to myself, either. Vain I may be, but not so vain as to account myself very important.”

“Oh.”

“I daresay an ‘oh’ has to be better than your ‘ahs’ have been, yet you do not sound very enthusiastic.”

“I am not.”

“Perhaps it will increase your pleasure when you learn who this very important person is.”

She took his hands in hers. “There is only one man I care about.”

Her tender touch, combined with her heartfelt words, nearly overwhelmed him. “Have you not yet realized I am speaking of the king?” he asked dutifully.

She smiled her beguiling smile. “Everyone keeps mistaking the king’s kindness for something more.”

“You are too modest.”

“He is flirtatious, as are most courtiers, I have discovered. However, the king has never said anything at all to me to indicate that he has any such base desire.”

“He has to others—to me.”

“To you?”

“Yes.”

“To be any man’s mistress is to be sinful and immoral,” she said firmly. “The Bible does not say, Do not commit adultery unless you are the king.”

“An excellent point,” Neville observed, “and one rarely thought of in these debauched days.”

“Besides, there is only one man I love.”

Neville might have felt worse if someone had stuck a knife through his ribs and twisted. He might have.

“I have seen so-called love die too many times to have much faith in it,” he observed.

“Love always dies?” she asked softly.

“It has been my experience thus far.”

She contemplated his answer, then fixed her shrewd gaze upon him. “Thus far,” she noted. “You leave room for hope.”

“A man must always live in hope. But why talk of these things, Arabella? What do you know of love between men and women, of desire and passion?”

“That I have not yet shared a man’s bed does
not mean I am ignorant of physical desire. Indeed, I have felt much more than merely that.”

“What more need there be than passionate desire?”

“Love, my lord. True, lasting, devoted love.”

“Many women have claimed to love me,” he said, taking refuge behind his light-hearted mask once more, although his heart throbbed as if it would burst through his ribs. “And sworn their eternal devotion, too. Regrettably, their notion of eternity apparently comprised a month or two.”

“Then they did not love,” Arabella replied, not acknowledging his attempt to make sport of this subject. “Neville, although I am young, I know whereof I speak, and it is of a love that fills your heart with joy. That makes long, dark days brighter. That brings happiness in the midst of pain, hope when all seems hopeless. A love that sees beyond apparent change.” Her hands tightened around his. “A love I have known since a summer’s afternoon in the Earl of Barrsettshire’s garden.”

Holding up his hand as if it was something rare and precious, she tenderly kissed his palm. How soft and gentle were her womanly lips against his tougher masculine flesh! How shining were her eyes when she raised them to look at him with love and faith and compassion!

Then she turned his hand over and nearly unmanned him when she pressed her lips to
the mark that still remained where she had burned him. The place was seared anew.

Yet the anguish he felt now was nothing compared to that burn, and he was sure his aching heart would never heal.

He wanted to moan with despair, for the love he felt for her could not be. It must not be.

One last kiss, his heart begged. One last embrace to last him a lifetime.

To feel her lips upon his just once more and for the last time to sense a passionate desire that matched and enflamed his own. To know a kiss that spoke both of possession and surrender.

Instead, with more effort than it would have taken him to lift one of the king’s statues, he tugged his hand away. “I’faith, pretty Arabella, I thought you had learned some sophistication since your arrival in London. Are you such a simpleton that you are insensible to the honor the king does you by desiring you and the rewards he could offer you?”

Her brow furrowed as she frowned, yet he continued inexorably, “His mistresses are housed, clothed, and honored with titles and estates. If they bear him children, the children are also given titles and estates. They will be able to marry into the first families of England.”

Arabella didn’t know what to make of his
words. What was he doing? What was happening? What was he really saying? “So that means they are expensive whores, but they are whores nonetheless.”

“Or merely practical.”

“Better to starve than demean oneself.”

“You have never starved.”

“I told you my father believed in fasting.”

“I take it that is a refusal.”

“Of course!”

“Very well. I shall inform His Majesty that you do not wish to play blindman’s buff or any other game.”

“Please do.”

He turned to go. She grabbed his arm to make him halt, and he glanced back, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

“Neville, do you not care for me at all?” she asked, her eyes pleading with him to tell the truth.

It took every ounce of determination he had to lift her hand from his arm. “I found your naiveté amusing for a time, and you are an undeniably lovely woman—but love? That is for fools.”

Then he marched back to the Banqueting House, abandoning her, unable to tell her why she must not love him.

Although he was not as lax and disgraceful as his father believed, somewhere within him there was a great flaw or failing.

It must be so, for even his own mother had not been able to love him.

And he could not abide the thought that Arabella would one day find it.

Lady Lippet, in obvious high dudgeon, exited the Banqueting House. She marched down the main path of the Privy Garden, then spotted Arabella standing so motionless beside a statue that she might have been one herself.