The Earl's London Bride

by Lauren Royal

  “Od’s fish! What an idea. No, I asked you here for quite another reason altogether. Later, when all this”—he gestured impatiently—“rigmarole is dispensed with, we’ll discuss it.”

  Amy smiled to herself. Colin had told her that Charles was notoriously intolerant of court ceremony, considering it a waste of time. He much preferred to be out among his people, and made it a point to be available to them casually as often as possible, in public places such as parks.

  Their exchange left Amy curious, but at least reassured as to Colin’s relationship with the king. It didn’t sound as though Charles were perturbed with him in any way. With another curtsy and a quick bow, Amy and Colin relinquished their positions to the next in line.

  Colin drew her into the crowd. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

  “I expect I survived.” Amy turned in a slow circle, taking in the splendor of her surroundings. The Presence Chamber was lit by hundreds of candles in wall sconces and liveried yeomen holding flaming torches. Dressed in every color of the rainbow, lords and ladies shimmered in the blazing light. “Look at everyone! Sequins, fur, pearls, gems, ribbon, braid, embroidery…on men and women alike!”

  “You can tell which are the ladies, though. They’re the ones fanning themselves with those absurd painted creations.”

  Amy laughed. “You surely cannot judge gender by who is wearing the gems.” Ornaments of every description glittered from necks, wrists, waists, fingers, and ears. Seeing it all, Amy’s fists tightened against her ever-present longing for a jeweler’s bench.

  One tall, pale lady emerged from the throng to tap Colin on the arm with her folded fan. He started and turned to her, wondering briefly why he was surprised to see her there. Thankful that Amy was engrossed in watching the extravaganza, he pulled the girl a few feet away.

  “Priscilla.”

  “Greystone,” she said coolly. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence at court? I was under the impression you abhorred this type of gathering.”

  “I was summoned by Charles,” he said smoothly, refusing to rise to her bait. “Did you receive my letter of apology? I regret—”

  “Well, I do not,” she interrupted. “Buckhurst is courting me now—though I’ve yet to decide whether I want him.”

  As though she were the one who did the deciding, Colin thought. Her father would never accept Lord Buckhurst.

  A handsome rogue, and popular—Priscilla doubtless basked in reflected celebrity—Buckhurst was one of the “Wits” or “Merry Gang,” as they were called. These high-spirited gentlemen enlivened society with their sardonic and often vulgar poetry, plays, and literature. They were tolerated at court because Charles found them amusing, but they wielded no power. Buckhurst was most certainly not what Lord Hobbs was looking for in a son-in-law.

  “I wish you every happiness with him,” he told her.

  She smiled smugly.

  Amy glanced around, having finally noticed that Colin was no longer by her side. She recognized Priscilla with a jolt of surprise, and was even more surprised to find herself not worried or jealous in the least. Seeing them together, she was quite sure Colin didn’t love Priscilla and never had.

  She glided up to where they faced each other, and with a warm smile, Colin moved aside to include her.

  “Lady Priscilla, may I present my wife, Amethyst—”

  “Amethyst,” Priscilla repeated under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to remember something. “Amethyst.” Suddenly, her gray eyes snapped open wide. “You!” she exclaimed.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Lady Priscilla.”

  Colin’s brow furrowed in a frown of puzzlement. “You’re…acquainted with each other?”

  Priscilla didn’t answer. Her beautiful mouth was slack with disbelief.

  “We met once, at Madame Beaumont’s,” Amy explained, clutching Colin’s arm in a silent statement of possession. “Before we were wed.”

  Priscilla finally found her voice. “I don’t believe this,” she spat.

  Colin laid a hand over Amy’s where it rested on his arm. “You don’t believe what, Priscilla?”

  “I don’t believe you broke our betrothal to wed her,” she burst out as though Amy weren’t there.

  She had a nasty habit of doing that, Amy thought.

  “Why, she’s not—” Priscilla sputtered, “she’s only—she’s—”

  “My wife,” Colin supplied. “And a countess. The Countess of Greystone. A smallish estate, with a charming medieval castle. You’ll remember it, I’m sure?”

  Priscilla stared at him for a moment, her eyes so cold that Amy half-expected Colin’s arm to turn to ice under her fingers. Then Priscilla lifted her perfect chin, turned, and walked away.

  She hadn’t taken more than three ladylike steps when Amy and Colin convulsed in laughter. Amy was sure Priscilla could hear them, but she didn’t care.

  “I do believe she’ll be asking Buckhurst to send for the carriage forthwith,” Colin said with more than a little satisfaction. “She’s certain to have a headache this evening.”

  “Is she, now?”

  “Based on my experience, I’d wager on it. And this time, I find myself perversely pleased to be the cause of it.” He took her hand. “Come, the dancing is about to begin.”

  The musicians were tuning up at one end of the chamber, and the presentations were complete. King Charles stepped down from the dais and gave the signal for the music to start.

  He danced the first dance with Catharine, as was only proper. It was a courante, slow and grave, a pantomimic dance suggesting courtship.

  Amy watched in awe, unable to believe she was in this place, at this time, watching the King of England dance with his queen. He moved with a rare grace for so large a man and cut a dashing figure indeed. In fact, he was put together in quite a pleasing fashion and, being a man who enjoyed and excelled at all types of sports, hadn’t an ounce of spare fat on his well-formed frame.

  The next tune was an English country dance, a few simple steps executed by many couples in a double line. Colin pulled Amy into the queue, and there she was—dancing at Whitehall Palace. Amethyst Goldsmith, merchant’s daughter. Incredible.

  When the ladies’ line passed the men’s, she could feel Charles’s gaze on her.

  Following the country dance was a branle, a group dance featuring pendulum-like movements combined with much running, gliding, and skipping. It was a bit too energetic for Amy in her present condition, so Colin led her off to the side.

  “Greystone!” The voice was light and self-assured, and Amy turned to see its owner. The lady’s deep blue eyes were set in a classical face framed by auburn curls.

  “My Lady Castlemaine.” Pleasure at meeting her was evident on Colin’s expressive features. “Amy, this is Barbara, the Countess of Castlemaine. Barbara, my wife, Amethyst.”

  So this was the king’s longtime mistress! “I’m glad of your acquaintance,” Amy said with a little bow, perfectly mimicking the behavior of the lords and ladies around her.

  Colin watched Barbara look Amy up and down, nod her approval, then lean forward for the obligatory casual kiss. “I’m glad of your acquaintance, also,” she returned with, to her credit, as much warmth as she allotted to any female.

  Colin smiled to himself. A natural predator, Barbara’s charms were mainly reserved for men.

  “Where is your rival tonight, Barbara?” He took advantage of his excessive height to give the chamber a sweeping glance.

  “My rival?” Barbara’s tone bordered on offended, as though she thought it absurd that anyone could rival the celebrated Countess of Castlemaine. But she wore a broad smile on her face, attesting to her good humor.

  “Frances. La Belle Stewart.”

  “Frances? Have you not heard? My word, Greystone, whyever do you hide yourself away in the countryside like that? You miss all the fun.”

  “Heard what? Is she ill?”

  “Only in the head. The ninny up and mar
ried Richmond in April—eloped, they did. Charles is livid. He won’t stand to see her, at court or anywhere else.”

  “But why?” Colin asked dryly. “Certainly so inconsequential a matter as marriage wouldn’t affect his pursuit of her.” At the same time, he put an arm around Amy’s shoulders to draw her near.

  “If it were anyone else, you’d be right.” Barbara looked from Colin to Amy and back. “Almost anyone else,” she amended pointedly.

  Colin’s lips quirked in a half-smile. “But not Frances?”

  “Not Frances. She’s behaved with nauseating correctness—to the extent of returning all the jewels Charles had given her. Can you imagine?”

  Of all people, Colin reflected, Barbara would have a hard time imagining that. “Perhaps she simply values a wedding ring over the benefits of being a royal mistress,” he suggested.

  “Hmmph!” Only Barbara could snort so regally. “As though she couldn’t have both!” Barbara’s voice dropped suddenly. “Do you want to know the real reason Frances has never graced the king’s bed?” She motioned them closer, and the three huddled together as she revealed conspiratorially, “She doesn’t like it. She was reluctant before she was married, and now that she is, she finds it unpleasant. So much for the Duke of Richmond’s prowess!”

  Amy’s eyes widened in disbelief as this tidbit was revealed, and Barbara burst into laughter. “From the look on your bride’s face, Greystone, I would wager you share none of Richmond’s shortcomings!”

  Try as he might, Colin couldn’t help but laugh at Barbara’s vulgarity, and after taking a moment to digest Barbara’s meaning, a red-cheeked Amy joined in.

  “Ah, Colin.” Barbara’s blue eyes danced with mischief. “I see you finally found someone with a sense of humor.”

  Amy cocked her head, and a slightly bewildered look overcame her features.

  “It’s old history, my dear,” Barbara explained with a wave of her elegant hand. “But let me be the first to welcome you to court. So refreshing to have a new face in the crowd. We’re all so blasted bored of one another!”

  Colin was inordinately pleased. It was the most ringing endorsement he’d ever heard Barbara give another lady, and it boded well indeed for Amy’s acceptance into society.

  Just then a courtier came up to curry favor with Barbara, and with a roll of her eyes, she departed.

  Amy turned to Colin. “I didn’t know you were friends with Lady Castlemaine.”

  “As Barbara said, love, it’s a small circle. Everyone knows everyone else.”

  “But you seem to know her especially well,” Amy pointed out, her voice tinged with an unmistakable touch of jealousy.

  “Is that what you’re thinking?” It warmed his heart to find Amy so covetous of his person. “Me? With Barbara Palmer?” He shuddered expressively. “Why, she’s five years older than I am!”

  Amy laughed. “That’s not so great a difference! How long have you known her?”

  “We knew each other in exile, and she was all of fifteen when she took up with Lord Chesterfield. She went straight from him to Charles—with some overlap, I suspect, since her oldest daughter, although recognized by His Majesty, bears a striking resemblance to Chesterfield.” Colin’s voice took on a melodramatic tone. “So, you see, I never got my chance with her.” He sighed theatrically.

  “Oh, my,” Amy said. “What shocking scandals are to be discovered by attending court!”

  “Enjoying yourself, my dear?”

  The voice was resonant and impressive—it was King Charles, talking to her. She turned and gazed up at him in disbelief. As tall as Colin, or perhaps an inch higher, he was even more extraordinary standing beside her than he had been upon his throne. She grinned and nodded, the only reply she was capable of at the moment.

  “Amy is a bit overwhelmed, I’m afraid,” Colin answered for her.

  “I am not,” she retorted, finding her voice again. “I’m having a splendid time, Your Majesty.”

  Charles smiled down at her, his even white teeth flashing beneath his black mustache. “We’re so pleased to have you here, Lady Greystone. A new face, and such a lovely one at that.”

  Amy colored—becomingly, she hoped. However, to her great consternation, she seemed to have lost her ready wit. “Thank you, sire” was all she could manage.

  “The next dance is a minuet. Might you know it?”

  She remembered Robert scoffing at her dancing lessons. The elegant minuet was staid enough even for a pregnant cow. “Oh, yes. It’s one of my favorites.”

  Colin discreetly elbowed her in the ribs. Before coming to court, he’d explained that ladies were supposed to ask the king to dance, not vice versa, and she had duly noted the information. But she hadn’t expected to make use of it.

  Was His Majesty hinting that he wished to dance the minuet with her?

  She looked up at Colin, and he nodded circumspectly.

  “Would—would you care to dance the minuet with me, Your Majesty?” she stammered out.

  King Charles proved a superb dancer. As he gazed into her eyes, Amy realized with a start that although his looks were far from the classic English standard, he was the most blatantly sensual man she’d ever met. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised he’d already sired eight acknowledged royal bastards, plus, most assumed, an undetermined number of unacknowledged children as well.

  Charles possessed many talents, not the least of which was an uncanny ability to put his companions at ease. By the time he returned Amy to Colin, she was laughing along with him as though they’d been the best of friends for years.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with him, too?” Colin teased. Turning her so they were both facing Charles, he wrapped his arms around her from behind. “You won’t be the first, and you certainly won’t be the last,” he warned.

  Bright color flooded Amy’s cheeks, for he spoke a partial truth: She was halfway in love with King Charles already, and there was nothing for it. His charm was too powerful to resist, and the prospect of a friendship with the King of England, albeit platonic, was too exciting to pass up.

  Charles laughed in response. “Don’t worry on that account, Greystone. Your prowess with a sword is legendary, and something tells me you wouldn’t wear a cuckold’s horns gracefully.”

  Colin dropped a kiss on the top of Amy’s head. “Neither,” he said pointedly, “would Lady Castlemaine.”

  Charles threw back his head, and a rumble of laughter poured forth. “You’re quite right about that. And I’ve no wish to be skewered by either of you!”

  Though no one would dare challenge the king for any slight either real or imagined, they shared a laugh at the absurd scenario. Then the king sobered, took Colin by the arm, and pulled him aside. “Will you come into my laboratory with me? I’ve something important to show you.”

  “Of course. Amy?”

  “I’ll be fine, Colin.” In fact, the Duke of Buckingham was already making his way toward her.

  It seemed Barbara was right. The courtiers were dying for a diversion, and having danced with Charles, Amy’s popularity was a fait accompli.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  HANDS BEHIND his back, the king paced determinedly through the Long Gallery, a dozen of his beloved spaniels yapping at his and Colin’s heels.

  “I need to beg a favor from you, Greystone.”

  “Anything, Charles. You know you need only to ask. What is it?”

  His Majesty eyed the busy passage. “Wait till we’re in the laboratory; it’s the only chamber in all of Whitehall where I’m afforded privacy.” Frowning, he paused on the threshold to the Royal Bedchamber. “Od’s fish, how did they get here before me?”

  With a sigh, he shouldered his way through the cluster of courtiers who gathered there day and night, competing shamelessly to do him the smallest personal favors.

  “Would you like your slippers, sire?”

  “A warming brick for your bed?”

  “A cup of chocolate?”


  “No. No, thank you. No.” Charles beckoned Colin after him, the spaniels darting in their wake. “Quick, into the laboratory before someone offers to hold my chamber pot for me.”

  Colin laughed as they shut the door behind them, the clamoring courtiers and barking dogs safely on the other side. “And why not? I hear tell the French court obliges Louis so.”

  “Louis the Fourteenth I’m not,” Charles said dryly.

  After the confusion of the public areas, the laboratory seemed eerily quiet. Colin’s gaze swept over the profusion of paraphernalia. “Ford would have the time of his life in here,” he said, making a mental note to secure him an invitation.

  King Charles only nodded distractedly. The ill-synchronized chiming of his clock collection accentuated the expectant silence. Colin leaned back against a counter, nearly knocking over a telescope in the process. As he whirled to right it, Charles drew a deep breath.

  “I’m certain you’ve heard about our embarrassment at the hands of the Dutch.”

  “I’ve been out in the country, not out of the country,” Colin replied in an attempt at wry humor.

  The king seemed so very serious.

  Just two days earlier, the Dutch War had escalated, with disastrous results. Aided by a lack of defense funding and interest from the English government, the Dutch had cruised right up the River Thames, burned three of the largest vessels of the Royal Navy, and sailed back out to sea with the pride of the English fleet, the flagship the Royal Charles, towed behind them as a prize. It was, so far, the most humiliating moment of Charles’s reign.

  Yesterday, Charles and his brother James had been on the scene, supervising the sinking of ships in the Thames and its creeks to block a second attack. But it had been too little, too late.

  Nobody commented upon Charles’s hard work in defense of the Thames. To the contrary, the talk in London was about how he’d spent the night of the catastrophe dining with his son Monmouth, in the company of his mistress Castlemaine, where they all passed a merry evening hunting a moth around the chamber. He was suffering mightily for his exaggerated reputation of pursuing pleasure over responsibility. The Dutch War had to come to a conclusion, and soon.