“Go on, my pretty wanton,” he ordered, fondling my breasts. “I’ll not have it said I can’t bring a virgin to spending.”
With great care, I raised myself on my knees and along his cock, then slid back downward. It was not unpleasurable. I tried it again, and he groaned beneath me, rocking up to meet me in a most delicious fashion.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, catching me by the hips to guide me to his rhythm as if we were again partners in a dance. “Ride me hard, lass, and do not stop.”
That made sense to me, and now that I’d begun, I understood what was required of me. I thought of how I’d watched him ride so hard to win the race earlier that day, and how curious, yet exciting, it was to consider how now I was riding him in return. Before long I’d found confidence in my efforts, and as Charles had promised, pleasure soon replaced my first pain. I rode him and he drove me, the pair of us sweating and thrashing and crying out like two possessed, until at last I felt my cunny convulse with delight, and give up its maiden tribute to his plundering cock. I collapsed upon him, weary and sated, with his arm around my back.
“That was well done,” he said, grinning proudly as he pulled a pillow beneath his head.
I laughed happily. “It was,” I said. “I understand at last why this commerce is so much enjoyed.”
“ ‘ Commerce’?” he scoffed. “What nonsense is that? We’re hardly a pair of Cornhill merchants bickering at the Exchange.”
“It’s what we did, sir,” I said, laughing still. “That’s what it’s called at His Christian Majesty’s Court, between Louis and his mistresses. Commerce.”
“Commerce.” Now he laughed, too, bumping me up and down as I lay across him. “My cousin is more daft than ever I suspected. Here in England, we’re more plainspoken. We call it fucking.”
I didn’t laugh at that, but only smiled wistfully. I do not believe he noticed, which was well enough by me. Of course I’d heard that word before (many times this very night), and even employed it myself on occasion. I’d also come to understand its various shadings as a vulgar, common word, a word that a king might use, but also a Cheapside whore. My English was still not so wide as I could wish, but I knew another word that I’d have much preferred Charles had chosen to describe our actions that night. A simple word, yes, but to my sorrow, he never once did use it.
That word was “love.”
I stayed at Euston Hall for the remainder of October, until the fall race meetings ended with the month. The weather was balmy and fair, the way the best autumn weather can be, and I felt as if our days that month were as golden as the trees around us.
Though Charles nominally kept his own lodgings in Newmarket, he spent most of his time in my company, and we’d soon evolved a satisfying schedule to our days. I would come with Lady Arlington or one of the other ladies in her coach to the racecourse to watch the afternoon program. Charles was always quick to find me, for even if he were not racing himself, he still would usually be on horseback, roaming among the crowd or riding back and forth between the start and finish. He treated Newmarket like another, smaller kingdom in a way that was quite charming to see, overseeing the welfare of every last nag and jockey, no matter how humble.
Often I would leave the coach and walk with Charles as he surveyed his racing domain. Other days I’d sit with the king in what was called his chair, a small private pavilion of fluttering striped cloth situated above the course, where we would watch the training gallops and drink canary. Unlike most gentlemen, he’d no fear of showing his affections before others, and thus, wherever we were, he lavished me with a thousand little endearments and kisses to match.
In the evenings he would always come to Euston Hall, which continued full to brimming over with guests. We would keep to the company through supper, but soon after, we’d repair upstairs to the same bedchamber we’d used that first night, now reserved for us alone. There he introduced me to every aspect of amorous amusement and satisfaction, as is often the way between a gentleman of experience and a novice lady. He proved to be a generous, inventive lover, as eager to learn what pleased me as to teach me what pleased him, and it gave him special delight to see me blossom and become more accomplished under his tutelage. Here in the country, he’d seemed altogether happier, merrier, even younger, the stern lines around his mouth softening and his smile without reserve. I liked to think I’d much to do with it.
But what pleased me the most was having his company to myself. Despite so many other courtiers visiting the county for the meetings, Charles and I were able to keep to ourselves as much as we wished. I’d no competition for his attention from ministers, ambassadors, or Parliament as I did in London, nor from any other of the beautiful women preening and pouting for his attention, like Lady Castlemaine, Mrs. Gwyn, and even the queen. For that month, I was his only lady, and I basked in the glory of his devotion, certain that this was only the beginning of a long and wondrous friendship.
On the last afternoon of our stay, Charles spent the whole day at Euston. We borrowed mounts from the Arlingtons’ stables and rode out through the hall’s parks and lands. The afternoon was cool and gray with the leaves gone from the trees and the first hint of coming frost in the air, a fitting day for farewells. In preparation for the winter, the gardeners had closed down the pipes to the park’s fountains and wrapped the lead statues in dry leaves and rough cloth against the coming frosts. Now instead of cheery cupids clutching fat, spewing dolphins, we saw only dreary lumpen figures standing guard over the still ponds, like shrouded mourners for summer past.
We stopped by one of these ponds to water our horses, and Charles helped me down so I might stretch my legs as well. I wore a witty black beaver hat much like Charles’s, and my scarlet riding habit, cut close to my body with flaring skirts, and laced with gold, offered the only cheery spot of color in the somber landscape.
“Summer’s truly done now, sir,” I said sadly, gazing over the empty fields. We were just within sight of the red brick hall, the famous twin domes on the north and south wings seeming to sit on the bare tree-tops like giant goose eggs in nests. “I wish we’d come out riding more often while we were here.”
“So do I,” he said, slipping his arm familiarly around my waist as we began to walk along the edge of the pond, leading our horses. “You ride well for a lady.”
“Ha, that’s weak praise from an old centaur like you,” I scoffed, poking him lightly in the arm. “Well for a lady.”
“I intended nothing weak about it,” he said with mock indignation. “But to please you, I’ll change it. You ride well.”
I curtsied and grinned. “Thank you, sir. I learned from my father, who rode like the wind. I had to learn to keep up, or be left behind.”
“You never speak of your father,” he said, surprised. “Did he die when you were young?”
“Oh, no, sir, he lives still.” I hadn’t seen my family for several years now. I’d never told them my reasons for coming to England; they’d been disappointed enough in me without that. I could scarce imagine my proud father’s reaction if he’d known the truth. “Guillaume de Penancoet, Comte de Keroualle, Seigneur de Kerboronné and de la Villeneuve. He lives with my mother and younger sister, in our old château near Brest.”
“Mirabile dictu,” he said. “And here I’ve never thought of you as having a family.”
“I didn’t hatch from an egg, sir.” I shrugged, absently kicking my skirts through the dry leaves and grass. It had always seemed to me that Charles had trouble enough with his own family without having to hear of mine as well; besides, once I’d left home, Madame and the others I’d met at Court had become more truly my family than the one I’d left behind.
“If you did,” he teased, “it would have been the most beautiful egg imaginable, like a giant pearl lined with gold.”
“Oh, sir, that is nonsense,” I scolded, even as I delighted in his jests. It was a sign of how comfortable we’d become in each other’s company that we could be foolish like
this, as if he wasn’t a king at all.
“No nonsense at all, when you are my rarest little bird,” he said, kissing me lightly on my cheek. “What do you think he’d make of me, the old Comte de Keroualle?”
“My father?” I stopped walking, and unpinned my hat, rubbing my head where the pins had pulled in my hair. “My father is a stern old soldier, sir, and does not care for anyone he hasn’t known for twenty years.”
He laughed. “You’re being exceptionally polite, Louise.”
“I always am, sir.” I swung my hat lightly in my hand. “My father sent me to Paris to find a husband, and he is not happy that I’ve yet to acquire one. Can you figure the rest, sir?”
“I can,” he said softly, and from the thoughtful way he glanced at me, he’d likely filled in the details of my tale for himself, including his own awkward place in it. He took my hand and drew off my yellow glove, and kissed my fingers, watching me over my hand.
“I’d like to hear more, you know,” he said. “Of your family, your home, your past. Of you.”
“It’s very ordinary, sir,” I protested, and compared to his life, it was. “My family has lived in the same château for a hundred years, and my parents are content with that. My sister, Henriette-Mauricette, is eight years younger than I, and my brother, Sebastien, was three years older. He died two years ago, in the service of France.”
“May your brother rest in God’s arms,” he said gravely, and with a sincerity that touched me. “I know what it is to lose a brother and a sister.”
I tried to smile, and knew if I’d tried any harder, I’d cry. “I told you, sir,” I said instead. “It’s all ordinary enough.”
“No, it’s not,” he said, “because it’s your family, Louise, and to me there is nothing ordinary about you.”
He pulled me tenderly against his chest, and I dropped my hat to the grass, slipping my arms around his waist to hold him close. He held me, lightly stroking my hair in a way that comforted us both.
“I’ve a notion, sweet,” he said at last. “What if we keep riding now, and forget entirely about London tomorrow?”
“I’d like that, sir,” I said, and I would. “I’d like that very much.”
“So would I,” he said, his voice tinged with melancholy. “I love London, but I do not love all that will be waiting for me to tend to at Whitehall. We’ve had our merry time here, but alas, now it’s back to my share of the world’s woes.”
I understood. All the troubles, large and small, that Charles had left behind in London would still be there when he returned, and by now likely doubled and joined with fresh cares as well. The coming war with the Dutch, England’s lack of funds to pay for the preparations, his relations with Louis and France, and his brother’s remarriage would each clamor for his attention, as would all the other more routine demands of ruling the country.
It pained me mightily to know I’d only added to his challenges. He’d already been criticized for having me, a Catholic Frenchwoman, among the queen’s ladies, and faulted more for his open attentions to me. But once it became known (as it likely already was) that I was now his mistress, the attacks on us both would only grow.
“I am sorry, sir,” I said, meaning everything. “I’m sorry.”
He drew me close and smiled. “I am, too. But I’m sorriest that my time here with you is nearly done.”
I felt a small catch in my heart at that. “But I’ll return with you to Whitehall, sir,” I said, pushing away far enough to gaze up into his face. “My lodgings will still be only a few steps from your rooms. Nothing need change for us.”
“But it will, Louise,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. “No matter how you or I might wish otherwise, it won’t be the same. It can’t be. Nothing in this life ever stays the same.”
He kissed me then, a kiss more melancholy than passionate, while the dry leaves of last summer swirled around our feet.
The following day, Charles left Newmarket for London with his brother, his friends, and his attendants, doubtless a riotous group as they always were. My departure from Euston Hall was more sober, traveling as I did with Lady Arlington and her little daughter, Isabella, in their coach. For most of the journey to London, the two of them prattled on together in high-pitched singsong voices and dressed and undressed Isabella’s three lady dolls. I was in no humor for child’s play. Instead I drew the hood of my cloak up to shield my face and retreated to my corner of the seat, and there stared morosely from the window. The threatening gray skies of yesterday had yielded a chill and drizzling rain today, a perfect match for my dismal mood.
I had recently learned a new word of English, one that had caught my ear and my fancy. This word was “honeymoon,” a pretty country expression for the halcyon days that followed a wedding, and the time when the first raptures of love between a new husband and wife will wax their fullest and most tender.
My mock wedding to Charles had been false from beginning to end, a cruel amusement that had pleased everyone, it seemed, but me. But the short weeks that had followed had been a true honeymoon for us, and I grieved to see them end.
I blew my breath against the window to make a tiny cloud upon the glass, and with my fingertip I traced a heart upon it.
Only hours before, Charles had warned me that nothing stayed the same in this life. To my sorrow, I’d learn soon enough how terribly true his words would be.
“You have done very well, mademoiselle.” The Marquis de Croissy sat across from me, perched on the very edge of his chair like a crow ready poised for flight. He’d wasted no time calling on me once I’d returned to my Whitehall lodgings; I’d barely unpacked my trunks before he appeared.
“I reported all the affairs at Euston Hall to His Most Christian Majesty,” he continued, “and he was exceptionally pleased by how you have attached yourself to the English king. He wishes me to commend you, mademoiselle, and congratulate you on your sacrifice for him, and for France.”
I flushed, shamed to imagine Louis reading the ambassador’s letter telling of how I had finally become Charles’s mistress. Of course Louis would have been amused, even titillated—everyone else certainly was, whether they’d been among the party at Euston or simply heard of the events—and I cringed to think of my deflowering being discussed not only in London, but in Paris as well.
“Please tell His Most Christian Majesty that I am honored,” I said, pouring myself more tea to mask my discomfort. “How many other Frenchwomen are offered royal congratulations for similar accomplishments?”
“Don’t make light of this, mademoiselle,” Lord de Croissy said sharply. “I assure you the king does not. Now that you have finally taken this first step, he is eager for you to proceed with your next responsibilities.”
I looked up at him swiftly, the teapot still in my hand. “There is more, my lord?”
“Of course.” He frowned, displeased with my surprise. “The seduction was only the beginning. Now that you have secured the king’s confidence, we expect you to use it for the betterment of France. You are to encourage the king in his country’s preparations for the war against the Dutch. You are to remind him of his promised conversion to our faith, and to urge him forward. Finally, you are to suggest that his brother, His Grace the Duke of York, wed a princess whose country is sympathetic to France. There will be letters coming to you shortly with more instruction in these matters, but the sooner you begin, the greater our profit.”
“That is all, my lord?” With a righteous clatter, I set the teapot down on the table between us. “Why not ask me to sail a ship of war to conquer the Dutch myself ? Would that satisfy His Most Christian Majesty? Or why not ask me to grow wings so that I might fly to the top of every English flagstaff in London and replace their colors with the French?”
He leaned forward over the table, his hands on the edge as if ready to leap across at me. “I speak in perfect seriousness, mademoiselle, and I would appreciate it if you would as well.”
“But, my lord—”
/>
“We all know the weaknesses of the English king,” he said, “just as we now see how well you have exploited them. In the last month, you must surely have learned much of the king’s habits and secrets, more than any of us could ever hope to know. We expect you to use this knowledge to the advantage of your country.”
I looked down at my tea, unable to meet his eye. Yes, I’d learned much of Charles while at Euston, but I’d learned it because he’d trusted me not only as a partner in his bed, but as his friend. Now the ambassador expected me to twist that trust about and betray it for the sake of France. To be sure, it was no more than I’d promised Louis I’d do, but when I’d made that promise, I’d not realized what it would cost me to keep it. How could I, when I’d not loved Charles as I did now?
He sighed impatiently at my silence, and launched upon another course of persuasion. “You are a beautiful woman, mademoiselle. I need not advise you on the best ways to withhold or reward the king with the favors he most desires. These are skills that come naturally to a lady like yourself, and we’ll trust you to use your advantages as you see fit.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I said softly, my head still bowed to hide my unease.
He tapped his fingers on the table from restlessness, or perhaps to draw my attention. “But I must urge haste, mademoiselle. The king is not known for his faithfulness. There is no knowing how long he will be infatuated with you.”
I looked up at him with a small catch in my breath, Charles’s own words echoing in my ears.
Nothing in this life ever stays the same. . . .
“What have you heard, my lord?” I demanded. “What has happened?”
The marquis smiled, clearly pleased he’d discovered the weakness in my own armor. “Nothing in that particular arena, mademoiselle,” he said easily. “It would have taken a bold lady indeed to pry the king from your side this last month. But his friends have not been idle. There are many who already resent your power over him, and are doing their best to poison him against you.”
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