The Alderman gave his wife an amused glance. ‘A great deal of peach-coloured satin, but none of it about her throat and shoulders. I swear, wife, I could see the very nipples on her breasts, she wore her bodice so low, without so much as a piece of gauze to cover them.’
Mistress Brent gave a shriek, looking scandalised. ‘Did you see her with the King? Are they as intimate as folk say?’
‘She came aboard with him, his arm about her waist, and he kissed her a good many times, in full view of the people, in such a loose fashion that I fair blushed to see it.’ Alderman Brent shook his head. ‘Ah, I pity his poor Queen.’
‘Was she of the party too?’
‘No, she was not with the King, which I thought just as well, considering his fondness for his mistress.’
On Cornelia’s nineteenth birthday, she awoke to find the city covered by a pearly mist. The sun rose late, and the river gently lapped along its banks, veiled in opalescent white, through which the hoarse cries of the watermen sounded, like the noise of gulls wintering along the southern side.
Her father gave her a new cloak of black satin, lined with scarlet taffety. She hugged him excitedly and could not wait to try it with the new gown her mother had made her, also of satin, but in a bewitching sea-green which deepened the colour of her hazel eyes.
Nan had made her a pair of stockings and an embroidered bag to hold her handkerchiefs. When Cornelia, delighted with the delicate work, kissed her, Nan flushed and pushed her away, growling, then hobbled off to vent her pleasure in the kitchen by scolding the maids into tantrums.
To please her mother, Cornelia had asked John Peppercorn to join their party, but had cunningly included another girl, Mary Archer, a city fishmonger’s daughter whose father was well known to be a wealthy man, with a chest of monies deposited with the Lombards for safe keeping. Cornelia knew that Mary, a short, plain girl, admired John Peppercorn and could be relied upon to monopolise his company, leaving her free to sit with Andrew.
Mistress Brent, perfectly well aware of this, looked sardonically at her husband when he commented upon the fact that Cornelia had included a rival in her party. ‘You never see anything until it is pushed under your very nose, husband,’ she said cryptically, making him stare in bewilderment.
Cornelia was delighted by Andrew’s response when she joined the party in her new sea-green satin. The burnished glow of her hair against the slender white shoulders made her an appealing picture.
Andrew stiffened. A dark flush came up under his pale skin. Then he looked away, frowning.
The play her father had chosen for her was a respectable historical drama, performed at the Duke’s playhouse, the subject being King Henry the Fifth. She loved the theatre, although she was rarely permitted to attend, for fear of catching some contagion.
The rabble in the pit shouted and sucked oranges, spitting the pips with gusto. Men walked about, staring insolently at every pretty woman, or mocking the older ones. When the people did not like a scene they jeered and threw orange peel or rotten fruit at the actors. When they were interested, however, they leaned forward, a silence settling on the whole house, and one could hear them breathing, feel the intentness of their attention. It was exciting, Cornelia thought, to be part of an audience at such moments. She whispered as much to Andrew, who smiled.
‘It is cathartic,’ he murmured, and laughed at her blank look.
‘It cleanses the soul,’ he explained. ‘It is always an uplifting experience to be part of an emotional expression, such as a crowd.’
Cornelia gazed at him in admiring bewilderment. She remembered that he had talked like this much more while he was at Cambridge, and just after graduating, but that in recent years he had spoken less of theory and more of practice. He had studied philosophy with much interest, she knew, and often regretted having little time to pursue that discipline. Then she smiled secretly. How strange that so wise and clever a man should be so foolish in little things like eating proper meals. He needed a wife.
Looking back towards the stage, she felt herself being observed, with insolent familiarity, by a tall gentleman who sat to one side of the stage.
Angrily, she returned his stare.
He was a courtier, she could see that. Black curls lay heavily upon his shoulders. He wore magnificent black silk, the foaming lace around his throat enriched by a diamond pin which, even at this distance, she could see to be of extraordinary lucidity and brilliance. His face was long and fine-boned, his nose aquiline, his mouth lazily ironic.
Seeing that she resented his stare, he bowed slightly in her direction, a lace handkerchief held loosely between white fingers. A slow mocking smile touched the corners of the thin mouth, and as she icily regarded him a flash of memory struck her, and she sat up, stiffening, the playhouse seeming to spin about her.
He wore no mask tonight, but she was suddenly certain that this was the arrogant stranger who had kissed her on that windy night. That thin mouth, the strong jawline, the black curls, all were hatefully familiar to her, but it was the glitter in the pale grey, mocking eyes which made her shiver with uncontrollable fear.
CHAPTER FIVE
Somehow, Cornelia made herself look icily away, betraying only by a flicker of the lids, a sharp indrawn breath, that she had recognised him.
He could not come near her while she was with her family. She clenched her hands in her lap. There was not the remotest chance of meeting him, and if she did not look his way again, he might forget her.
Andrew passed her an orange which he had peeled for her. ‘Here,’ he murmured.
‘Thank you.’
She carefully parted a segment and ate it, watching Andrew peel his own, his long fingers deft. As always when she was with him, peace gradually flowed over her, and she felt strong enough to meet once more the stranger’s challenging glance.
She looked, very casually, in his direction, and her eyes collided, with a violent impact, with the cold grey gaze. Her peace shattered, she hurriedly looked away again, pulses throbbing.
Why did this man disturb her so much?
Andrew glanced at her. ‘What is it?’ he asked, noticing her flushed cheeks and hurried breathing. He looked round the playhouse. ‘Is someone staring at you? One of the idle gallants?’
It was common enough for some young gentleman on the town to stare down innocent girls at the theatre.
She laughed in a flurried fashion. ‘No, no. It is hot in here. So many people. But this orange is cooling on the tongue.’
She ate the last segment and wiped her fingers. The sharp, exotic tang of the fruit lingered on her skin. There was an interval now. Musicians appeared and played for the chattering audience. Andrew talked about the play, praising Betterton’s performance, criticising the language of the writer.
Cornelia found it hard to attend to him. She desperately wished to look over to where the black-haired man sat, but dared do nothing of the kind for fear of finding him still watching her. Her nervousness communicated itself to Andrew, who again studied her with clinical coolness.
‘You really do not look yourself,’ he said. ‘Have you a fever?’
There was a disturbance further along the row.
She looked over her shoulder and saw, to her horror, that her father was talking to the black-haired stranger. While she watched in frozen disbelief Alderman Brent presented his companion to her mother. She heard him say, ‘This is Sir Rendel Woodham, my dear, who sits in the Commons for Stelling. I met him at Greenwich the other day.’ His smile grew arch. ‘Sir Rendel was in attendance upon the King, you know.’
Her mother slowly held out her hand. On her face Cornelia saw, mirrored, her own confusion. Her mother, too, then had recognised him.
Cornelia waited for her to accuse him, but Mistress Brent, rallying, had forced a bright smile and was complacently allowing their attacker to kiss her hand.
‘And this is my daughter,’ said Alderman Brent proudly, gesturing to Cornelia to rise and greet the man.
At the touch of his mouth on her skin she felt a dizzy sensation. Involuntarily, she snatched her hand away, pushing it into her skirt, as though to obliterate the print of his touch.
He smiled, flickering one thin brow upward. Standing so close, only he could see the burning hatred of her eyes, the shudder which ran over her.
Then her father spoke to him again, very eager to please, mentioning that it was her birthday. She took the opportunity to sink back upon the bench. Dropping her glove, she pretended to search vainly for it, hoping to hide her hot cheeks from his view.
Loathesome, loathesome man, she thought.
Andrew, watching her in puzzled surprise, bent and picked up her glove, handing it to her. She looked up at him, hazel eyes wide and desolate, but repressed the instinctive movement of her own hand to cling to his. She could dimly hear her father pressing Sir Rendel to sup with them after the play, and strained to hear the reply.
‘I shall be honoured,’ the drawling voice said, and her heart sank. She did not look round. She knew only too well that he was looking at her. She could feel his eyes as though they branded her.
How dared he deliberately seek her out like this? He was almost daring her to accuse him, indifferent to exposure, so sure of himself, in his arrogance, that he outfaced such danger as there was of her mother openly recognising him.
Why was her mother pretending not to know him? Cornelia could hear her talking politely, laughing at some remark he made. Of course, she thought, her mother doubtless thought it safer to forget the whole incident. Her father wanted to find a patron at Court. Sir Rendel was, apparently, a friend of the King.
It would be embarrassing and dangerous to accuse him of riotous behaviour. He was an important man, a Member of the House of Commons, and plainly very wealthy. Such men were afforded more freedoms than a common man.
It is scandalous, she thought furiously, but she knew that she herself dared say nothing. She must smile and pretend compliance too, or fall into disgrace with her father.
Lenient though the Alderman was, he would be very angry with a daughter who wrecked his chance of increasing his wealth and standing in the community.
They returned to the Alderman’s house in Sir Rendel’s coach, finding several of her father’s friends awaiting them for supper at the house, and all supped together, in the dining-room, on a vast side of beef and other special dishes sent up by Poll, the cook, who had taken great pains to please, on this special day.
Sir Rendel ate little, yet seemed very well pleased with the company, and Cornelia had to admit that his manners were better than she had expected, although he did look a little sardonic at times, listening to Master Arkwright talk of his latest project for making a fortune. .
Jabez Arkwright was a little younger than her father, thin as a lath and rapid in his speech. He constantly devised new methods of making money, yet rarely seemed to benefit by them, and was, although much liked, regarded as a little eccentric. His wife, a short, plump woman of thirty or so, teased him cheerfully out of his more lunatic schemes, and, when he was engaged upon some whim, was known to run his grocer’s business competently for him. It was generally thought to be all her doing that he was not already ruined.
When they rose up from table, Sir Rendel suggested that they dance a little, having discovered that Master Arkwright played very prettily upon the guitar.
The Alderman looked embarrassed, pointing out that there was mighty little room, but Sir Rendel swept away all argument, and was so insistent and smiling that very soon the maids had removed all furniture from the parlour, leaving room for three couples to stand up.
John Peppercorn took Mary’s hand. ‘The coranto?’ he asked Master Arkwright.
‘Dance with your wife, Master Arkwright,’ recommended Mistress Brent. ‘I will strive to play upon the lute for you.’
‘These modern dances are too fast,’ said Mistress Arkwright, laughing. ‘My legs will not keep up with the jigging and prancing. We danced most solemnly in my young day. Now it is all tumble-rumble like lads in a hayloft.’
One of the maids came in to say that Andrew was asked for at the door, and, sighing, the doctor stood up and made his farewells.
Cornelia ran after him with his gloves, which he had left on a chair, and he smiled. ‘I am glad to have a private word with you,’ he said at once. ‘I have not given you your present.’
Pulling out a small parcel, wrapped in green cloth, he pushed it quickly into her hands.
When he had gone, she stood in the hall, opening her gift. It was a book of which he had often spoken, a copy of the poems of John Milton, and she looked through the pages with delight.
A movement at the door made her turn. Sir Rendel was standing there, watching her with narrowed eyes.
She wrapped the book once more and called a maid to take it up to her chamber.
When she entered the parlour again, Sir Rendel bowed, offering his hand for a dance. The music tinkled out. Her father was watching attentively. Suppressing a desire to slap his face, she curtsied and accepted the offer.
‘If,’ murmured Sir Rendel as they energetically danced, ‘I had known it was your birthday, then I too should have brought a gift.’ He smiled at her look. ‘What did the solemn doctor give you? Some household almanac?’
‘The poems of John Milton,’ she said, from between her teeth.
He raised a sarcastic eyebrow. ‘Good God. That prating verse-maker? The doctor is out of tune with the times, it seems. I thought he had a long, puritanical face.’
‘He,’ she hissed, ‘is what you only pretend to be—a gentleman.’
He laughed softly, whirling her around so that her feet left the ground.
‘Ah,’ he murmured, grinning at her. ‘So we come to it. You have been silently radiating contempt for the past two hours. I wondered when you would spit out your thoughts, my pretty shrew. Am I to be denounced for a lecherous rogue? A roaring gallant out upon the town for wild amusement? Come, you will burst if you do not open the floodgates of your thoughts.’
She felt her mother watching her too, anxiously frowning, and forced a bright, false smile for her sake.
‘Oh, it would give me pleasure to tell you what I think of you, Sir Rendel,’ she whispered while she smiled. ‘But I think you already know that my father would be at least embarrassed, at worst endangered, if I were to voice my accusations. So I must regretfully keep my silence.’
‘How very practical,’ he observed. ‘One meets so few of your sex who can control their tongues. Have you ever met my Lady Castlemaine? No, of course you have not. She has a tongue like Greek Fire. She scorches the earth wherever she walks. The King fears her more than he fears death. My admiration of you is boundless.’
‘I do not want your admiration,’ she snapped.
He smiled oddly, gazing down at her with a queer flicker in his eyes. ‘No, I know you do not. I suspect it is that which I find so attractive. It is always more exciting to pursue game which is in full flight. Easy prey can be boring.’
She shivered. The thread of ruthless strength in his drawling voice alarmed her.
They danced in silence for a while. The room seemed very hot. Cornelia longed to stop dancing, to escape from him and cool her flushed cheeks.
‘Have you known the good doctor long?’ he asked suddenly, catching her off guard.
Her eyes flashed, revealingly, to his face, and the colour deepened in her face.
‘All my life,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly. She hated to hear him talk of Andrew. She wanted to scream aloud that he had no right to turn his probing eyes upon her feelings, but she could only wait anxiously for his next remark.
‘Your father praised him assiduously. If his description is only half true, the doctor is another Hippocrates.’
‘He works himself to the point of
exhaustion,’ she flared, her voice shaking with rage. ‘He is always gentle, generous, unsparing of himself. Do not dare to sneer at him—you are not worthy to mention his name.’
His mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘I crave your pardon,’ he drawled icily. ‘I had not realised you were in love with the fellow.’
She tugged free and broke away from him, saying hurriedly to her mother, ‘I am so weary. I must go to bed. It is so hot in here and I have had too much excitement. Good night.’
The other guests called their good nights, smiling round at her, and she walked quickly to the door.
But Sir Rendel was there before her, opening it, bowing sardonically.
Coldly, she swept past him without a word.
Damn his mocking eyes!
CHAPTER SIX
Her mother came to her chamber later, when the guests had gone, to talk to her privately. Cornelia was pretending sleep behind her drawn curtains, but Mistress Brent shook her shoulder, so she yawned and slowly opened her eyes.
‘I must be quick, child. Your father will wonder what I am doing, disturbing you at this hour, but I had to speak with you. It was the same man who accosted us in the street that night, was it not? I was sure you too had recognised him. What did he say to make you so flurried?’ She wrung her hands. ‘I do not like this intimacy between him and your father. Yet if we say anything we may make a bad situation worse.’
‘It is a mad world when attackers get to dance with those they have attacked,’ Cornelia agreed, wearily. ‘Oh, Mother, I would dearly love to see that man punished for his insolence.’
Cornelia laughed involuntarily at the thought, then saw that she had hurt her mother, and quickly touched her hand. ‘Father has too much common sense,’ she assured her.
‘And you, child?’ asked her mother, anxiously watching her. ‘He paid you marked attention. You will not let him turn your head, will you?’
Cornelia’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘No, Mother,’ she said. ‘I will not let him turn my head.’
The Wildest Rake: a stunning, scandalous Restoration romance Page 4