Skye O'Malley (37 page)

“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.

“Well done, lass,” he murmured softly, and she winked mischievously at him. They gained the landing and stood in the wide arch to the ballroom, waiting until the majordomo asked, “Names, please?”

“Sir Robert Small, and Señora Goya del Fuentes.”

Skye’s dark feathery eyebrows shot up.
Sir
Robert, indeed. Once again, Robbie had managed to surprise her.

“Sir Robert Small, and Señora Goya del Fuentes,” called out the majordomo, and suddenly the room became quiet and they faced a sea of upturned faces. Slowly, the two black-clad figures descended
the three wide steps. Geoffrey Southwood, resplendent in white and gold, came forward to take Skye’s hands and kiss them. She felt a delicious tingle race through her.

“Damme, madam, you outshine every woman here! Good evening, Sir Robert, I see you decided to use your title tonight.”

“I would do honor to your revels, m’lord. I thank you for including me.”

“May I steal Skye from you, sir?”

“But of course, m’lord. I see de Grenville across the room, and I’ve been wanting to talk to him.” Robbie bowed and walked away from them, his carriage erect and proud.

“The dancing won’t begin until the Queen arrives,” he said. “Walk with me now, and I’ll show you some of my house.”

“But your guests—”

“—are far too busy eating, drinking, and gossiping to notice my absence. Besides, if another man stares at you, I’m apt to find myself involved in a duel. Come, madam. I want you to myself.” And allowing her no further protest, he led her from the ballroom and through a small door. “The picture gallery,” he announced, “complete with a full complement of Southwood portraits.”

“I would have expected them to hang at your seat in Devon,” she remarked.

“They do when I’m there. These family paintings have traveled between London and Devon as often as I have. An eccentricity of mine.” For a moment they walked in silence, and then they stopped. He said simply, “Skye.” And there was such longing in his voice that she thrilled.

Looking shyly up at him, she wondered at the intense passion in his lime-green eyes. Her palms flattened against his broad chest as though she would hold him off. “Say nothing, my darling,” he commanded her, and brushed her lips with his.

“Geoffrey!” she whispered frantically.

His mouth moved gently over her face, down the side of her neck, across the tops of her breasts. He buried his face in the deep scented valley and felt her heart jumping erratically beneath his mouth. “Let me love you, Skye. Dear God, how I ache for wanting you, sweetheart.” They stood together like that, the black figure and the gold-and-white one, not moving.

There was a discreet scratching at the door, and Southwood instantly stepped back. “Enter!”

The door swung open, “My lord, the Queen’s barge has been sighted but a few minutes from here,” announced the footman.

“Very good.” The footman discreetly withdrew. “I must go to welcome Her Majesty. I’ll take you back to Robbie, my darling, and we’ll talk again later.”

With Robbie on one side of her and Richard de Grenville on the other, Skye joined the other guests in the garden near the dock, awaiting the arrival of the Queen.

“Damme, if you’re not a succulent sight,” said de Grenville.

“Thank you, m’lord.”

“Getting mighty close with old Geoff, aren’t you?” remarked de Grenville. “From the way he behaved at the Rose and Anchor I’d have thought you’d have not spoken to him again.”

“Geoffrey apologized very prettily for his behavior, m’lord de Grenville.”

“You know, of course, that he’s married,” de Grenville pressed.

“My lord, what exactly is it you seek to tell me?” Skye asked firmly.

De Grenville was discomfited. It would hardly be gentlemanly or sporting to tell her of the wager he and Southwood had entered into. “I simply do not wish you to be hurt, my dear, and Geoff is known to be a bit of a rake,” he said innocently.

“You’re most kind, m’lord,” she said coolly.

Trying to regain the lost ground, he changed the subject. “Ah, Young Bess herself! Look, my dear Skye, the Queen comes.”

They stood looking out over the garden, across the colorful sea of guests. The Queen’s barge had docked and now the Earl of Lynmouth was handing his royal guest out. For a brief moment Elizabeth stood viewing her subjects. Then a small cheer rippled across the garden. The young Queen was just twenty-seven, and even from a distance Skye could see that she was lovely. Tall for a woman and with an angular slenderness, she, like Skye, had chosen to wear her hair differently than current fashion dictated. Parted in the center, it fell in long, red-gold waves down her back. It was dressed with many strings of pearls. The Queen had chosen to represent “Springtime” and was gowned in apple-green brocade, heavily encrusted with gold embroidery and diamonds. Her beautiful long aristocratic fingers sparkled with rings. Her almond-shaped eyes glittered like the finest jet and her smile was merry.

Lord Southwood led his honored guest through the garden, through the lines of bowing and curtseying courtiers, and into the ballroom. The ballroom, like the gallery across the hall, extended the length of the house. The Queen seated herself on a small throne
set upon a raised dais, and one by one the guests approached her to present themselves. Southwood stood near her throne.

Escorted by both Robbie and de Grenville, Skye was brought before the Queen.

“De Grenville, you rogue! ’Tis good to see you,” smiled Elizabeth. “I was not aware you were up from Devon.”

“Just today, Majesty,” said de Grenville, kissing her hand. “Would I miss Southwood’s fête? And a chance to gaze upon England’s fairest?”

Elizabeth dimpled prettily. “And who would you present to me, Dickon?”

“First, Majesty, an old friend and Devon neighbor, Sir Robert Small, captain of the
Mermaid
.”

Robert Small knelt reverently and kissed the Queen’s hand. “Madam,” he began, but his eyes filled with tears and he could not go on.

“Why, sir, what honor you do me,” said Elizabeth kindly.

“All England thanks God for Your Majesty,” said Robert Small, somewhat recovered.

“All England should thank God for stout seamen like yourself, Sir Robert,” replied the Queen. “You are our future.” Elizabeth’s gray-black eyes then flitted over Skye.

“Mistress Goya del Fuentes, Majesty,” said Geoffrey, from the Queen’s left.

Skye’s curtsey was graceful.

“The lady from Algiers?”

“Yes, Majesty,” answered Skye, her eyes modestly lowered.

“I understand your late husband was a merchant prince there.”

“Yes, Majesty.” Skye looked up, gazing directly at the Queen.

“You and Sir Robert are business partners? A bit unusual for a woman, is it not?”

“As unusual as it is for a woman to be Queen in her own right, Majesty. But I have never believed that being a woman meant one lacked intelligence. Certainly Your Majesty has disproven that notion.” The deep-blue eyes held the grayish black ones.

Elizabeth Tudor’s eyes narrowed a moment as she studied Skye. Then she laughed. “You desire a charter of me,” she said. “We will talk on it soon.” Turning to Southwood, she said girlishly, “My feet itch, m’lord. Let us begin dancing.”

Dismissed, Skye swept the Queen another curtsey, and moved away swiftly on the arms of her two gallants, her black skirts billowing.

“By God,” said de Grenville admiringly, “the Queen likes you. She likes damn few women, Skye. What’s this about a charter?”

“Robbie and I have formed our own trading company, m’lord, and Lord Southwood is aiding us in obtaining a royal charter.”

Damn the man! thought de Grenville. So that’s how he got to her. I must think hard on this or I may yet lose my barge. He was about to ask her to dance when Lord Southwood, having opened the ball with the Queen, approached them and claimed her. Eyes sparkling, Skye gave him her hand, and they moved off into the figure leaving Robert and de Grenville by the door.

“He seems quite taken with her, Robbie,” de Grenville murmured pensively.

“Aye,” replied the captain, “and I’m afraid she with him.”

“Lord and Lady Burke,” intoned the majordomo.

“Who are they, Dickon?” asked Robbie.

“Southwood’s neighbors on the other side. He’s some Irish chieftain’s heir. I suppose Geoffrey felt bound to ask them.”

The Earl slid an arm tightly about her as they danced the intricate figure. “If one more of those fops leers at you,” he muttered between gritted teeth, “I shall resort to my sword.”

Her laughter bubbled up soft, warm, and rich. “La, Geoffrey,” she teased, “surely you’re not jealous.”

“Yes, I’m jealous, and we’ll discuss it later, sweetheart, rest assured.” Skye laughed, delighted.

She was having the most wonderful time of her life. The handsome Earl was outrageously attentive, and there wasn’t a man here who hadn’t complimented her. She danced every dance, ate supper surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen besides de Grenville and Robbie, and drank just enough sweet wine to add to her gaiety. At midnight everyone unmasked to delighted shouts, though most had long ago identified their friends beneath the ornate masks.

Across the ballroom, Niall Burke stared in rigid shock at the beautiful woman in the magnificent diamonds and black velvet who stood directly across the room from him, laughing up at the Earl of Lynmouth. It couldn’t be! It simply could not be! Skye was dead! They had all explained that she was dead, told him and told him until he’d had no choice but to accept it.

“By God,” he heard the man next to him saying. “Southwood was always a lucky devil. If Señora Goya del Fuentes isn’t already his mistress then she soon will be, judging by the looks passing between them.”

“She’s lived in the East,” another man chimed in, “and I imagine
she knows some of the things those harem girls know. God, I wonder …”

“Don’t be a young fool, Hugh! Southwood has marked her for himself as plainly as if he’d put a brand on her forehead. If he catches you sniffing around her he’ll skewer you without a second thought.”

The two men moved away, leaving Niall Burke to his whirling thoughts. How could two women look so alike? Somehow he must meet this Señora Goya del Fuentes, but who did he know who could introduce them?

“Will you dance with me, Niall?”

“What? Constanzita, love—what is it?”

Constanza laughed, shaking her dark gold curls. “How can anyone daydream in the midst of all this revelry?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I was admiring the lady across the room in the black velvet costume. She looks quite familiar.”

“Señora Goya del Fuentes? Perhaps you do know her. Though her husband was a Spaniard, she is Irish.”

He thought he might be sick, but he gripped his emotions. “How do you know that, Constanza?”

“She owns Greenwood, the house on the other side of this one, the last one in the row. Our bargeman and hers are brothers. The maids and the bargemen gossip, and I hear things from my tiring woman. They say the Earl is mad for her.”

“A lady does not listen to servants’ gossip,” he cut her off curtly. “I wish to go home now.”

She was hurt, and protested, “But it’s just after midnight. Even the Queen is still here. It would be rude to leave before the Queen herself leaves.”

“I am not well, Constanza,” he said sharply, “and I wish to leave.”

Instantly contrite, she reached up to feel his forehead. “You do feel warm, my love. We will make our apologies to Lord Southwood, but say that I am ill. He will understand that better.”

They moved across the room and approached the Earl of Lynmouth, who was gazing down at Skye, his white velvet-clad arm around her midnight velvet shoulders. They made an extraordinarily handsome couple. Southwood smiled as they approached.

“My lord Burke, I hope you and your lovely lady are enjoying yourselves.” Geoffrey smiled graciously. “Allow me to present our new neighbor, Señora Goya del Fuentes. Skye, sweetheart, Lord and Lady Burke own the house on the other side of me.”

“Also built by your grandfather for a
belle amie
?” she teased him.

The Earl laughed. He was so intent on Skye that he did not notice Niall Burke’s stunned look.
Her voice!
It was her voice! Her name and her voice.

“Lord and Lady Burke. I am delighted to meet you,” she looked straight at Niall without a flicker of recognition. Her voice reflected only politeness. Niall Burke thought he was surely going mad. Mastering his fear and anguish, he said, “You’ll forgive us, my lord, if we leave early. Constanza complains of one of her violent headaches.”