Forbidden Lord

by Helen Dickson

  Lord Taverner immediately excused himself and wove his way carefully through the dancers, intent on liquid refreshment. Goblets of wine were handed around by lackeys and tables had been laden with every kind of delicacy imaginable. Martin eagerly pointed out courtiers of note—Sir Francis Knollys, the elderly William Cecil, who was the Queen’s long-time advisor, Lord Robert Dudley, who was clearly enamoured of Elizabeth and hardly left her side—it was whispered he was her lover and the fact that he had a wife tucked conveniently out of the way in the country did not seem to concern him.

  On seeing the Queen for the first time in her life, Eleanor couldn’t take her eyes off her. She had always been curious about her, wanting to know what she looked like, this Protestant woman who had inherited the throne from her Catholic half-sister, and who excited so many voices in debate.

  Queen Elizabeth, with a large capacity for amusement, certainly knew how to enjoy herself, like her father before her. With her red hair and crimson-and-gold gown, the ruff open at the front so as to expose her bosom, and to allow it to rise in gauze wings edged with the finest lace at the back of her head, she moved about the room like a living, vibrant flame, full of confidence and life. Courtiers’ eyes followed her and their whispers discussed her.

  Her character and personality were as glittering as the jewels about her throat and the rings on her fingers. The imperious woman swirled around the floor with other dancers, her head thrown back and her lips parted in happy laughter as she was handed from one gentleman to the next.

  Eleanor presented a pleasing appearance in her finest tightly laced gown of lime-green taffeta embellished with gold thread and falling over her Spanish farthingale in liquid folds to her feet. The bodice and long hanging sleeves were heavily embroidered, and gold edged the small ruff and cuffs encircling her neck and wrists. Jewels and a fluffy white feather were pinned to her green velvet cap that hid the back of her hair, which was plaited behind her head, but the front was visible and attractively curled at the temples, with a central parting.

  She looked exquisite and drew the eyes of many curious and admiring gentlemen. The appearance of a fresh female face at Court always attracted attention, and even Lord Taverner’s eyes were seen to pass over his new daughter-in-law several times with a puffed-up pride.

  Eleanor loved the bustle and brilliance, the colour, the music and the atmosphere, and the raw, pulsing energy that seemed to emanate from the Queen herself and stalk the corridors and galleries of the Palace. With a sudden stirring of excitement and well-being she had not felt in a long time, feeling quite reckless, she smiled at Martin and insisted he dance the lively volta with her.

  It was a boisterous dance, considered bold, if not indecent, a dance much favoured by the Queen. It was unusual in that they moved and turned in a close embrace, with Martin’s arm around her waist, and a high-leaping step in which their two bodies were pressed together.

  Later, when there was a lull in festivities and the Queen had taken to her royal chair and courtiers ate and drank and gossiped among themselves, her eyes were drawn to a man who had just arrived and dropped down on one knee before the Queen. He was fashionably attired in a heavily jewelled outfit of dark blue velvet, the tunic slashed with scarlet, his long, muscular legs encased in fine black silk hose. The Queen gave him her hand and raised him up, smiling at him warmly.

  ‘See how the Queen favours him,’ murmured a male courtier standing close to Eleanor.

  The gentleman he was speaking to looked in that direction and eyed the newcomer thoughtfully. ‘Striking, is he not? Since he has returned from foreign parts, he has quickly become a great favourite of the Queen.’ He chuckled low. ‘After brazenly seizing a wealthy Spanish galleon in the Caribbean, she is much taken with him—calls him her pirate.’

  ‘And does he seek a high place at Court, do you think, by hanging around the Queen—as do many hundreds of other “true Protestants” loyal to her Majesty?’

  ‘Not him—he is not the sort. Although I hear he got his property back that Queen Mary confiscated.’ The courtier sighed. ‘It has to be said that every Protestant in England has business with the Queen nowadays—wanting property back and this and that in payment for their efforts to bring Elizabeth to the throne in favour of Mary. Only trouble is, the royal coffers are depleted and Elizabeth has inherited a poor, dispirited and divided country. Little wonder she receives that particular gentleman like a prince when he presented her with a chest of silver ingots and gold coin.’

  Having overheard the courtiers’ innuendo, Eleanor gazed at the newcomer with renewed interest. And then she became numb, for his stance, the way he held his head and the thick dark hair curling vigorously into his nape she recognised. It was William, but how could it be? For a moment she doubted, but the moment was short lived. It was only a moment, a moment she spent in a daze of emotions—of joy, bewilderment, hopelessness and despair.

  And then he swung round to face her and she felt as though she had been struck dead, unable to form any sort of coherent thought. They looked at one another from across the distance that separated them and once more, as though their minds were linked by some invisible thread, their eyes and hearts spoke to one another.

  Eleanor’s heart had not stopped yearning for him, hungering for him, no matter how savagely she pushed the feelings away. Her female body was not concerned with what went on in her mind, only the physical need to be close to this man. She knew by his expression that he was not as stunned as she was. In fact, he was not at all surprised to see her at Court. Had he known about her marriage all along?

  As she moved slowly towards him he watched her, unable to believe this glorious creature was the same young woman he had taken to his home, the same young woman he had taken to his bed. His spirits had been badly bruised by the knowledge that she had left Staxton Hall, and when Godfrey had told him about Eleanor’s marriage to Martin Taverner—‘Inasmuch as you intended to wed her yourself,’ Godfrey had said, ‘I thought you should know,’—the bottom had dropped out of his world.

  In the frozen silence that had followed that announcement, white-hot fury, the like of which William had never experienced before consumed him. Hatred and jealousy had sunk their poisonous fangs into his heart and almost destroyed him. Passing before his eyes were visions of a bewitching, tantalising young woman dressed as a youth riding beside him, Eleanor wanting to despise him, but finding she could not, Eleanor lying in his arms, her glorious wealth of honey-gold hair spread over his chest, kissing him, laughing at him and with him.

  Why had she done this? Why had she left him to wed another? He despised himself for his stupidity, for trusting her, for wanting her more than any other woman. But as his anger had waned, suddenly nothing seemed important anymore. Not the future, and not even his revenge on the man who had sent him to spend three years in purgatory. Outwardly he seemed the same, his face impassive, but inside everything had begun to crumble, to break up and bleed, draining the life out of him.

  When she stood before him, he inclined his head slightly, his indomitable male pride coming to the fore. ‘Madam.’

  His voice spoke as if to a stranger. Eleanor’s throat swelled with pain. His mouth was set in a bitter line, his black brows drawn in a straight bar across his angry eyes, and she saw how resolute his expression was. The harsh light made him look stern and judgemental. His iron-hard determination, his rigid resolution to treat her as no more than a passing acquaintance, tore her to shreds.

  ‘William! I—I trust you are—well,’ she murmured, her nervousness making her stammer almost as bad as her husband.

  ‘Please do not concern yourself with my health, Lady Taverner,’ he said coldly, with emphasis in the saying of her new name. ‘I would like to be polite and say that marriage suits you, but your eyes tell me it does not.’ His gaze slid to her husband standing several paces away.

  Eleanor followed his gaze, feeling suddenly cold. Martin was conversing heatedly with Sir Richard Grey, who was lounging indo
lently against a window that looked out over the Thames. Aware of Eleanor’s attention he shoved himself upright, and with all the swagger of his title and privilege sketched a mocking bow, his legs long and narrow in white silk hose.

  Eleanor frowned, for her feelings for this particular gentleman were no different from what they had been when he had been a frequent visitor at Fryston Hall—she disliked him intensely. Sir Richard gave Martin an incriminating look, and she wasn’t in any doubt about the nature of his feelings for her husband, and having seen how Martin followed Sir Richard around like a love-sick calf, she wasn’t in any doubt about Martin’s feelings in that regard, either.

  Recalling how Martin had showered attention on her months before at Catherine’s wedding and how Sir Richard had watched him covetously, seeing her as a threat, she realised at last why Sir Richard Grey had been so eager to see the back of her.

  William’s eyes flicked over him and he gave no outward sign that he was in any way affected by Richard Grey, but inside his emotions were roiling and seething with ice-cold fury and contempt. If his suspicions that Grey had worked hand in glove with Atwood to dispose of him three years earlier were proven, then he had a score to settle with that particular courtier, but this was neither the time nor the place for a confrontation.

  ‘Your—husband exercises no regard for a lady, and I doubt his wife will be an exception. He is friendly with Sir Richard Grey I see, a man as devious and greedy as Atwood, a man who lives only for pleasure—and sordid pleasure at that. Your spouse looks put out about something, Eleanor.’ He looked down at her and cocked a mocking brow. ‘Trouble in paradise, my love?’

  She scowled. ‘Don’t be impertinent, William—and I am not your love.’

  ‘Trouble in marriage is usually found beneath the sheets,’ he remarked sarcastically. ‘It has not gone unnoticed that your husband keeps the company of—a certain type of gentleman, that he is favoured by them and that his position at Court was granted in a short time.’

  Eleanor’s features tightened. ‘What are you implying, William?’

  ‘It is true that young men who hang about the Court do seem to improve their station in this manner.’

  Eleanor was not unaware of his meaning and wished he hadn’t spoken of it. Her cheeks turned poppy red and she looked away, deeply embarrassed. ‘Please don’t speak of Martin in this way. It—it isn’t polite.’

  A roguish grin curled his lips. ‘I don’t feel like being polite. How well you defend him.’

  ‘Of course I do. He is my husband.’

  Placing his finger beneath her chin, William turned her face back to his. ‘In name only, I’d wager.’ A smile of satisfaction curved his lips when he saw the truth she was too innocent to conceal in her eyes.

  ‘I—I had no idea it would be so difficult.’

  ‘That’s too bad, Eleanor. You should have thought of that before you married him.’

  William’s voice was bitter and it was clear that forgiveness was far from his heart. He wanted nothing to do with her, his attitude said.

  He studied her with the casual interest of a man who meets a woman for the first time, a woman he does not find particularly attractive, he would have her believe, but in his eyes was a darkness, a darkness that concealed his innermost thoughts and his emotions.

  Eleanor searched his eyes for something, to see something of the tenderness he had shown her. There must be something, there had to be, but those incredible silver-grey eyes only stared back at her, cold as a block of ice and without emotion and memories of tender kisses and passionate embraces they had shared at Staxton Hall. Determined not to make a fool of herself, with her heart breaking, she lowered her eyes and bobbed a small curtsy.

  ‘Excuse me. My—husband is beckoning.’

  William’s eyes looked right through her, as if he didn’t want to see her, and then he moved on.

  Turning slightly, when Eleanor’s gaze lighted on Richard Grey she caught a look of intense hatred on his face as he stared at William’s retreating back. It was so virulent it stunned her. Then an instant later it was smoothed away and she wondered if it had been her imagination or even a trick of the light.

  Having seen Eleanor exchange words with Lord Marston, Martin left his friends and his comfortable vantage point at the refreshment table, where he was able to supply himself with a never-ending amount of wine, and came to her. ‘You are acquainted with Lord Marston, Eleanor?’

  ‘You know I am, Martin,’ she replied, her tone of voice one she would use to a tiresome child. ‘I stayed at his house with his family when I was in Yorkshire. I did tell you.’

  ‘Yes, of c-course. I do remember. Then would it not be p-polite to introduce me?’

  ‘I think not. Lord Marston has left.’

  ‘Then come. The Queen wishes me to present you to her.’

  Tired of dancing and feeling she could stomach no more of the jollities and that she must have some fresh air, making the appropriate excuses Eleanor set her glass down and left quickly. She was not given a second glance by most of the courtiers—it was not uncommon to see someone leave to go outside, away from the closeness of the crowded and over-heated room. The corridor was empty and mercifully cool. Suddenly, to her left, a door, already ajar, was opened farther and a hand shot out and pulled her inside a small room.

  ‘At last,’ a voice growled. ‘I was beginning to think you’d never leave the revelries.’

  Her cheeks aflame with indignation, Eleanor spun round to see William closing the door. ‘William!’ She stared at him in bewilderment, feeling strange and momentarily tongue-tied. He had clearly been waiting for an opportunity to confront her, but what could he have to say to her that wasn’t unfavourable? A he towered over her his face was furious.

  ‘If you have anything further to say about Martin, then you might as well let me have it and have done. If you are annoyed by—’

  ‘Annoyed!’ he roared, flinging his arms wide and restlessly beginning to pace the wooden floor, his boots resounding loudly. ‘God above, Eleanor, annoyed doesn’t begin to describe what I am feeling. Will you tell me what in hell’s name you were thinking of to marry that—that lame excuse for a man?’

  Eleanor paled. ‘Have a care what you say, William.’

  ‘Have you no sense? I hadn’t been gone from Staxton Hall two minutes before you left. Why in God’s name did you do it?’

  Her lips tightened. ‘Please don’t blaspheme. I find it offensive.’

  ‘Blaspheme! Damn it all, Eleanor, you’d make an archbishop blaspheme. What the devil possessed you to marry Martin Taverner of all people?’

  His unprovoked attack caught her on the raw. Her face went white but on each cheekbone was a vivid splash of scarlet. Her eyes glittered and narrowed like those of a cat and her anger increased to a madness as explosive as his.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I? I have every right to do as I please. Since when did I need your permission to leave your house and return to London?’

  ‘When your uncle placed you under my authority.’

  ‘Your authority? You are not my keeper, William. You never were. My husband is. I am no longer your concern.’

  Raising his brows slowly, tauntingly at her, a contemptuous curl to his lips, he said, ‘Had I a glass I would raise a toast to you. Your beguiling beauty and vulnerability had me fooled and quite undone for a time. When I left you at my home I truly thought you would be there when I returned.’

  ‘What? Waiting for you? You conceited beast. Did you really not stop to ask yourself why I returned to London?’

  ‘Tell me. I would like to know.’

  ‘There were several reasons—the main one being that I loathed myself for being so weak and stupid that I succumbed to your seduction. You of all people! My father’s betrayer! I must have taken leave of my senses and you will never know how much I hated myself. Your mother told me I was welcome to stay at Staxton Hall indefinitely, but I could sense her disapproval of me. I considered that under the
circumstances and to salvage something of my pride it was best that I left. You also knew Martin wanted to marry me, so it should not have come as such a surprise.’

  ‘Damn you, Eleanor,’ he growled, ‘it was. I never thought you would do something so stupid. You might as well have sold your soul to the devil when you married him. You know what he is and because of it he will drag you down to his level—the gutter.’

  Eleanor drew back in the face of his harsh attack on Martin. ‘I—I know he prefers the company of men to that of women—as do many other gentlemen at Court it would seem—but he is kind and generous to me.’

  ‘Like hell he is.’ A murderous glint appeared in William’s eyes. ‘But why the rush to marry him? Why not wait for a better offer?’

  ‘From whom? You? And what could you offer me, William, tell me that? Married to Catherine, it would certainly not be anything decent. Your whore. That’s what I would be, and condemned because of it.’

  William’s face showed his astonishment. ‘What the hell are you talking about? And what has Catherine got to do with any of this?’

  ‘Oh, stop it, William,’ she flared, beside herself with anger. ‘Stop it. Don’t pretend you don’t know.’

  ‘Believe me, I don’t. It would seem you are accusing me of something that is quite beyond me for the moment.’

  ‘Then why don’t you tell me the real reason why you left Staxton Hall in such a hurry?’

  William’s eyes narrowed. His anger that had diminished a moment before resurrected itself and he glowered down at her upturned, furious face. He was not a man to be taken to task about anything, and though he wanted this woman and knew he always would, he was not about to let her throw her weight about like a Billingsgate fishwife.

  ‘I seem to recall telling you that it was personal. When I want to tell you more, I will—though why you should feel it is any concern of yours, I cannot imagine.’ His voice was icy and his lean face darkened ominously, as though daring her to question this statement.