“Perhaps I shall declare it to all the country.” His voice was low and throaty.
I shook my head. “If you do that, everyone will know you’ve seen them naked.”
Castlemaine plopped herself beside me. “Looking is not the same as taking. Or touching. Or tasting.”
“People will judge all the same,” I said.
Charles smiled. “Seems unfair that the world will judge what they will about me and your legs, when in truth I have neither taken, touched, nor tasted.”
Castlemaine coiled a strand of my hair around her fingers. “That is why we do as we please and let the world be damned for judging.” She pulled the strand of hair back lightly, so I had to lean back on the bolsters. “So go ahead, little Frances will not mind.” Castlemaine propped her head on her hand and looked down into my eyes. “I know what he likes. I give it to him, and he keeps coming back to me. That is as close as one can get to having a king as a lover.”
She was wrong. I could have had King Louis. He had offered more than an exchange of riches for pleasure. He had offered his heart.
She put the ends of my hair in her mouth. “See the king? See how he looks at you?”
I decided to be just what he thought me: innocent, tugging at the sheet. “No man has ever touched me in such a way.” I hardly realized it was a lie.
“He is a gentle lover.”
“I’m afraid to do more than let him just look.”
“A man’s touch is no different than your own touch. Or mine.” She sat up and pulled my legs straight. “See?” She leaned down and kissed the side of my knee, swirling her tongue in a circle on my skin. She slid her hand between my thighs, then licked up to the hem of my chemise.
It would be a lie to say it had no effect on me, to claim it didn’t make my skin tingle. But as I watched King Charles’s reaction, the heat in my belly turned to a slow burning ache. He focused intently on what she was doing.
“See, darling?” Castlemaine kissed my thigh, grabbed the king’s hand, and put it on my shin. She moved to lie beside me again, pushing the edge of my chemise up. “Now,” she whispered. “Let the king taste the loveliest legs in England, and let England wonder if he ever really did.”
He glanced to my eyes and saw passion without resistance. When he leaned over, he caught the sensitive inside of my thigh with his lips. It was like an arrow straight through my body.
At that moment Castlemaine pushed her hand up beneath my chemise to slide her fingertips over my most private place. I gasped and unlocked my gaze from the king’s lips to gape at her and her wicked, crooked grin.
King Charles covered the wet spot his lips made on my leg with his palm and sat up.
Castlemaine jerked her fingers away and rested her hand on my hip.
He caressed the moist spot on my leg for a second, then stood. “That should please you, Lady Castlemaine.”
“You should question whether it pleased the little virgin, not me.”
“Let me worry about what pleases Frances.” He tore his gaze away from me. “For now I must leave in order to please my council members.”
She let out an exasperated huff. “Oh, go work if you wish. We shall stay here and play.”
I slid off the bed before she could grab me. “It’s my day for tea with the queen.”
King Charles laughed at Castlemaine’s disappointed expression. “I shall send Prudence in,” he said from the door.
“Help yourself.” She gestured toward her toilette table and regarded me with languid eyes. “He likes you.”
I perched on her stool and yanked a comb through my hair. “Oh, but he likes you best.”
“Yes,” she said softly.
I nearly cried with relief as Prudence entered with my clothes draped over her arms. I rushed to help her with them.
“You know,” Castlemaine said, “if you will trust me, he would come to like you more.”
“You mean he would know my body.”
“Of course. How else do you hope to please him?”
“I’m sure I don’t know how to please him.”
“You don’t have to do anything. Trust me, trust my guiding hand.”
Prudence yanked my bodice ties hard and fast. I kissed Castlemaine’s cheek and lavished her with thank-yous and praise as I left her. The sentiments fed her vanity. I slipped from her house through the back door, practically running through her garden and back gate. Prudence trotted to keep up.
CHAPTER 20
Whitehall Palace
December
The Russian envoys, in their long waistcoats and sashes, bowed before King Charles and Queen Catherine. They must have felt at home in London, where Whitehall Palace roofs were blanketed in white, and winter wind pounded the walls. I shivered where I stood in the line of queen’s attendants and eyed the thick furs the ambassadors presented to the king.
Winifred Wells crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Look how the queen hangs on King Charles’s arm. She’s hopelessly in love with him still.”
Cornbury leaned in to whisper. “So are you, Win.”
“I am not,” Wells snapped at him.
“Oh? You practically lie down before him whenever he speaks to you.”
Her mouth gaped. “My father was a loyal Royalist. I don’t see why I should not accommodate the king.” She shot me a look. “Somebody has to.”
I kept my expression passive. Which was worse—being ridiculed for being a king’s mistress or being ridiculed for not? I was thankful my family was tucked away at Somerset House so they didn’t have to hear such talk. I wondered what Richmond would think and longed for his advice, but he spent all his time in Kent.
“King Charles will want a new mistress when he learns about Lady Castlemaine’s affair with Harry Jermyn,” Wells announced. “And I’m ready to oblige him.”
A snorting sound escaped Cornbury. “Did you hear the Earl of Castlemaine was denied leave for Europe? She wants him in England while she’s with child. As if everyone doesn’t already know he’s a cuckold, now he’s a cuckold on a tether. Isn’t that so, Frances?”
The formal presentations had ended, and I ignored him. To avoid escorting Queen Catherine back to her chambers, I broke rank and slipped to the wall lined with Russian treasures, casting my eyes over them without really seeing them. I couldn’t bear her questioning looks; she obviously knew all about my dinners with Castlemaine’s King Street faction. But could I keep my place if I didn’t try harder to become the king’s mistress myself?
King Charles appeared at my side and gestured to the hunting hawks that sat on blocks in a row. “Did you see these?”
He watched me stroke the breast of a small goshawk. A leather mask covered its eyes, and golden jesses hung around its foot.
“You like her?” asked King Charles.
“She is magnificent. So powerful.” I wondered how it must feel to wear a leather hood over one’s eyes. Such a creature should not be bound and blinded.
“Good.” He leaned close to whisper. “She is yours. We must go hawking when spring comes.”
“You would take me hawking?”
“Of course.” Then he added, “If it pleases the queen, we shall take all her court.”
My heart fell. For just a moment, I felt my tight control over myself loosen. I dropped my hand from the hawk’s breast and sighed.
“Before we go out, maybe a few lessons on hawking, just you and I?”
Buckingham’s voice tore across the hall. “What say, Your Majesty?”
The king and I turned to face a cluster of courtiers.
“The Duke of York here says that Russian women have the most beautiful legs in all the world, but I favor English legs myself. Being king, you shall have the final say.”
King Charles shot me a quick glance. He turned to the court and pitched his voice for the whole hall. “Now, you gentlemen know how far I roamed during my travels.”
There were a few soft laughs. This is how King Charles referred to hi
s period of exile whenever he told stories of his adventures abroad.
“Across Europe was I forced to wander before God restored me home. Though I saw the turn of many a favorable leg while away”—he paused to absorb the laughter—“I am most pleased to be in England. For here I’ve found the finest legs in all the world on … Frances Stuart.”
Curious and jealous stares turned on me. “Frances, show them.”
I didn’t wait more than a heartbeat. I stepped forward and clutched up the flounces of my skirts. I pointed one high-heeled mule out farther than the other in a pretty pose before I let my skirts fall back down.
Gentlemen applauded, grinning appreciatively. But an anguished expression crossed the Duke of York’s face. “Her legs are far too slender and long to suit me. I prefer plump legs, cased in green silk stockings.”
Whispers and snickers flew around the hall, gossip about who the Duke of York’s latest mistress could be. No one wore green stockings anymore. His duchess certainly didn’t.
King Charles pulled me away. “I told you I would declare it.”
“It’s not that you declared it that pleased me. It’s that you think it at all.”
He looked troubled, confused. “Forgive me, my angel. I wish you good night.” He bowed his head slightly and walked out.
Buckingham headed toward me. I could see in his face that he was coming to gloat in my success, to remind me I owed it all to him. But York cut him off, placed himself before me, and said, “I ought to explain my comment.”
“Explanations would be best served elsewhere,” I said, and gestured to the Earl of Chesterfield where he had cornered his wife, barraging her with accusations, while gesturing violently toward York.
He glanced at them. “What I mean is, I want to apologize for my comment.”
Something in his expression told me to slip away, for, other than the king, no man in England had a worse reputation for womanizing than the king’s brother. “No harm done, Your Grace.”
I escaped to my apartments alone, never so thankful that my family was away from court. For as long as I was trying to win King Charles’s attention, harm was indeed being done to everyone, including myself.
CHAPTER 21
Castlemaine’s King Street House
Early February 1663
“Your Majesty is drunk!”
King Charles laughed and lunged for my skirts. “You dare accuse the crown of being unable to handle its liquor?”
I squealed and dodged him, running down the gallery with my curls streaming wildly in every direction. As I rounded the corner, I crashed into Castlemaine herself. She glittered from neck to waist with jewels, Christmas gifts presented to King Charles that she’d managed to wheedle away from him. I’d seen her drink nearly a bottle of wine this night, yet she didn’t even stumble when I bumped her. I, however, nearly went sprawling.
She caught me. “Why do you run from the king?”
I ducked behind her, giggling. “The king is drunk and breaking the rules of blind man’s buff.”
The king leaned against the wall. “There is absolutely no rule stating that the players in blind man’s buff must be wearing all their clothes.”
Several other courtiers filtered in behind her. “I cannot say there is such a rule when none exists,” Castlemaine replied.
The king wrapped one arm tightly around my waist. “I have you now, fair angel. Off with that bodice and commence to play!”
“I’ll not shed my clothes, Your Majesty!” I felt myself mold into him.
“I’ll shed them from her!” called Bennet.
“Oh, Frances,” whispered King Charles against my cheek. “I’m aching for another glimpse of you.”
Castlemaine stepped to me. “You’ve been playing coy long enough.”
I realized the room was spinning. Too much wine.
Castlemaine leaned in as though she would kiss my cheek. “King Charles can be a gentle lover. Now, what would it take for you to give him your maidenhood?”
The king wore a half grin. “Anything you require.”
“I—” I lost the words when I looked in his eyes. “A wedding,” I blurted.
King Charles’s face fell. He looked at Castlemaine. “Did you hear that? She wants a wedding, and yet I’m already married.”
She tipped her head back, laughing. “La Belle Stuart wants a wedding, so a wedding she’ll have.” She turned. “Ladies and lords! Frances and I are to be wed!”
The group of courtiers, all as drunk as we, cheered and applauded. Buckingham called out. “I’ll send for a minister.”
“B-but I’ve not consented to wed you,” I stammered.
She called loudly, “Why, Frances … don’t you love me?”
Buckingham and Bennet snickered. Even King Charles guffawed. I glanced around at the amused faces and knew I either had to play along or be branded a bigger prude than Queen Catherine.
So I reached out to Castlemaine. “Very well. Wed me and protect me from this ravenous monarch!”
She tugged my arm, wresting me from King Charles’s grasp. “Come, let us prepare ourselves before the minister arrives.”
We traipsed to the bedchambers. Ladies took me into Castlemaine’s wardrobe and outfitted me as a bride in a lace chemise, pink silk skirts, and matching bodice. They powdered my face, poured my wine, perfumed me, and smeared Spanish red on my lips.
Violinists began playing, and King Charles presented Castlemaine dressed as a man in doublet, petticoat breeches, and hose. Buckingham marched out, draped in mantuas as if they were bishop’s robes, and planted himself before Groom Castlemaine and me. Everyone howled with laughter when he imitated Bishop Sheldon preaching a sermon. He demanded vows. Groom Castlemaine gave a ridiculous speech about manly love, hoping she could “rise to the task” of pleasing her bride.
Ladies ushered me into Castlemaine’s bedchamber, plied me with a drink of creamy sack posset, stripped me to my chemise, and pushed me into bed. Castlemaine leaned in and kissed me hard on the mouth as she rolled off my stocking. She flung it over the bed curtains and pulled away, closing them tight behind her.
I lay back on the bolsters and tried to make myself stop spinning. Jokes and laughter filtered into my ears as they supposedly undressed my groom. Castlemaine gave another speech—something about lacking the physical manifestation of manly love. The bed curtain parted slightly. King Charles grinned through its opening. The room was stark silent; everyone had left us. I sat upright, but the swirling effects of wine struck me down.
He climbed in. “Do you need a husband’s loving ways to cure you?”
I put a hand to my head. “I did not marry you. It was that other scoundrel.”
“That other scoundrel has no—”
“Yes, I heard. No manly parts.” I gave him a hard look.
“Entertain me in her stead.”
“You call giving you my virginity entertaining you?” I sat up. “And what will I give you tomorrow when you grow bored?” The bed went spinning, and I fell back again.
“One doesn’t have to steal virginity to please a maiden.” He settled against the bolsters. “I only meant that I’m very sorry if it was she you wanted to bed tonight.”
My cheeks burned as I remembered how Castlemaine had touched me before in this same bed. “She is wicked and you know it.”
“I am far more wicked than she. That is why I need her.” He toyed with a ribbon tie from my chemise, twirling it around his finger. “A man’s needs are not always based in good reason.”
I didn’t move.
“The Bible says when one sweeps a house free of evil, one must replace it with goodness lest the evil find room to return.” He eyed me. “You are goodness.”
“You do not have the look of a man who has been reading the Bible, Majesty.”
He put his arm across my waist and pulled me toward him. “You are so lovely. So fresh. So much better than me. I would need you if I were to get rid of her.” He traced a circle on my breas
t with the tip of his finger. “But I can make you wicked. God, I could make you love being wicked.”
My breath caught in my throat.
He moved his hand to my waist, traced my navel, my hips. “I’ve tried to stay away from you.” He rubbed his lips over the thin chemise covering my breasts. “You are such an angel, and I am sordid as hell.”
Angel. My mind cleared, as if passion lifted the wine fog and replaced it with scheming. “Oh, Charles.” His name was just breath coming off my lips.
He lifted his head and looked into my eyes. “Yes, say just my name.”
“Charles.”
Passion seized him. He kissed me fiercely and pulled my chest to his. I sighed, filling myself with his scent of sandalwood and wine. My body longed for satisfaction. He grazed his lips against my chin, my neck. When he cupped my breasts in his hands and buried his face between them, tears burned my throat. “Please, no—”
He looked at my face. “No, don’t cry. God, don’t. I’m so sorry.” He pulled away and lifted the coverlet over me. “Please forgive me.” He frowned. “You were right earlier.” He rubbed his head. “I’m quite drunk.” The King of England curled his long legs and lay beside me.
He held my face. “I am a scoundrel trying to have my way with you. Like the angel you are, you put a stop to me.” He stroked the back of his hand down my cheek. “But admit one thing to me.”
I clutched the coverlet.
“Your body responded quite naturally. Did you like it?”
Heat crept up my cheek, and I forced myself to look away. “Y-yes,” I whispered.
“Then I must keep my distance. Not even God can give me strength to stop a second time.” He started to move away.
That is not part of the plan. I grabbed his hand. “Wait! W-what will they say? All of them.” I gestured toward the door. “The gossiping beasts Buckingham, Castlemaine, Bennet, and all the rest. They’ll say that we—”
He shrugged. “I’ll tell them you demurred.”
“Then, if my reputation is safe will you … stay a while longer?”
He groaned. “I have not the strength.”
I bit my lip. “I was thinking that … someday perhaps you wouldn’t have to stop. If you meant what you said before, about me making you better, then—”
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