*
Micheline enjoyed the next day’s ride, over countryside that was different from what she was used to. They passed through valleys that were already beginning to turn green. Farms and villages were set amid willow-hung canals, while wooded hills curved gently in the distance. Micheline wished that Jeremy would disappear and that she and Andrew could pause for a leisurely meal under one of the romantic-looking willow trees.
Instead, they ate quickly at a village tavern, then continued the long ride to Calais. Dusk was upon them when their destination appeared on the horizon, its towers and battlements seeming to rise straight out of the sea. The walls were broken by Lanterngate, the broad archway that led into a town Micheline found quite charming. The crowded, winding streets were lined with wooden houses with crow-step gables and pleasant gardens. They passed Our Lady Church, with its tall, graceful spire, and the cobbled marketplace, which boasted wares brought in on the ships, then stopped before the swinging sign of the Cross Keys tavern. Andrew dismounted, then helped Micheline down from her horse. She savored the sensation of his hands about her waist.
“Well,” he said, “the worst is over. We’ll sail at first light, and you can relax the rest of the way to London.”
Relaxing wasn’t exactly what Micheline longed to do, but there seemed little to be gained by arguing. Later that night she looked out the window of her solitary chamber, observing the shadowy ships that crowded the wharves along the foreshore. Moonlight played over their various shapes as they swayed in the glittering blue-black ocean, their pennants streaming in the wind.
Which one would carry her to England? And what waited for her there?
Micheline slept alone again, dreaming fitfully of Andrew, until her door opened in what seemed to be darkness and his voice urged her gently, “Dawn is breaking, Michelle, and we must sail with the tide.”
An hour later she found herself on a trim, tastefully appointed yacht called the Stargazer. The waves were rather choppy under the lavender-gray sky, but the wind was with them. Once the sails were set, Andrew joined Micheline on deck. His normal good temper was returning now that they’d left France behind and England lay just a few hours away.
“Wherever did you get this magnificent craft?” queried Micheline.
Culpepper, in the act of tying off a line, shot a look at his friend.
“That’s not important,” Sandhurst said in a tone that was light and firm at once. “What is important is that we have a comfortable means of travel across the Channel. Do you know, I surprise myself, but I’ll own that I’m happy to be returning to England!”
“Are you happy that I’m with you?” she asked, eager by now for some reassurance.
“Yes, of course I am.” Seeing Micheline shiver in the sea air, he put an arm around her and held her close, then sought what seemed to be a safer topic. “I nearly forgot to tell you—St. Briac is going to send all of your clothes and other possessions on to London.”
Micheline was surprised. She’d nearly forgotten the abundance of gowns, jewels, and accessories she’d accumulated in anticipation of her marriage to the Marquess of Sandhurst.
“That’s nice, I suppose… though it’s a relief to know I won’t really need all of that once we’re married. I truly will prefer a simpler life.”
“I am contrite that I haven’t even provided you with a maid.”
“But, I don’t miss that in the least! Playfair is acting as chaperon, isn’t he? And after we’re married, I’d much rather have you all to myself. Servants only get in the way. Why would I want a maid when I’ll have a husband to brush my hair and unfasten my gowns?” Her expression was sensually radiant.
Sandhurst shut his eyes for a moment, wishing he didn’t have to think at all. “Why don’t you go below? There’s food and wine in the cabin, and you’ll find a few books as well.”
Although she would have preferred to stay with him, something in his eyes made her obey. When he took on that remote look, it worried her. Most perplexing was the fact that she couldn’t explain to herself why he was keeping himself so distant. The possibility existed that he didn’t really want to marry her, that she’d forced his hand with her blatant words and actions in his bed at the Jouberts’. That thought was enough to make her grateful for the distraction of books waiting below.
Rough seas lengthened the crossing, and it was dark when the yacht anchored at Dover. Sandhurst had decided that a hot supper at a small inn called the Hand-in-Hand would do them ail good, but afterward he intended to sail the remainder of the way up the Thames to London. As much as a part of him dreaded returning to his real life and telling Micheline the truth, he was eager to end his charade.
After supper they cast off under a bright full moon and charted a northeasterly course along the coastline toward the North Foreland, at which point they could turn west and sail directly for London. Micheline remained on deck for a time, wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak that she’d found in the cabin. It smelled tantalizingly of Andrew, and she wondered, not for the first time, how he had come by this yacht.
“You must be awfully cold,” he remarked, glancing up from his charts.
“Only a bit.” In truth, she felt better than she had since they’d left Paris. Andrew seemed more relaxed, and though everything that lay ahead was unknown, Micheline felt as if she were being borne into the future on the hands of fate. It seemed that whatever happened would be for the best.
He had crossed the deck and extended a masculine hand which traced the line of her cheek. “We won’t be in London until daybreak, fondling. The bunk in the main cabin is quite comfortable. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
The sight of his handsome, moon-silvered face squeezed her heart with emotion. “I’ll go on one condition.”
“Name it.” Sandhurst’s smile flashed in the dark.
“Will you come with me and kiss me good night? I’ve been so lonely at bedtime….”
“All right, if you’ll promise not to test my powers of endurance.”
“I promise!”
Happily she led the way below. In the cabin Andrew leaned against the bulkhead and tried not to look as Micheline stripped off her clothing swiftly, then climbed into the snug bunk, still wearing her chemise.
“What a good girl you are!” he chuckled.
“Tuck me in.” She smiled.
“It’s time you learned the way we say things in England, my darling.”
“Pray instruct me.” Micheline was fairly beaming.
He bent over her, his eyes mesmerizingly warm as he tightened the covers around her slim body. “You see, I’m tucking you up.”
“I shall try to remember.”
Sandhurst smiled in a way that melted her heart. He stroked her hair, which resembled dark cognac spilled over the pillow. “It won’t matter what you say, Michelle. Everyone will love you… just as I do.”
“Don’t forget my goodnight kiss.”
He cupped her face in his golden-brown hands and bent toward her. She felt pleasantly dizzy when his parted lips gently touched her own, slowly savoring each taste and sensation for a long minute. She wanted to twine her arms about his neck and longed to feel the length of his body against hers, but remembered her promise.
Finally Sandhurst lifted his head and sighed. “I’d better go above before Jeremy crashes the Stargazer into Ramsgate.”
Nodding bravely, Micheline whispered, “Bon nuit, mon cher.”
He rose and walked away, but paused near the bulkhead to look back at her. “Good night, Michelle. Tomorrow will be an eventful day. Sleep well and remember… I love you.”
*
The sky had barely begun to lighten when Micheline awoke, filled with excitement. Having found a stoppered jug of fresh water, a basin, and a cube of castile soap, she washed and then donned clean undergarments and a gown of azure figured velvet, its low square bodice trimmed with pearls and gold lace. A simple pearl necklace and pearl earrings were added, plus a delicate gold chain with a sa
pphire that rested near her breasts. After she combed her long curls and tucked them into a golden crispinette, Micheline ventured from her cabin.
It was so quiet except for the sound of the river, and she had no idea where Andrew was, or where and whether he had slept during the night.
She found him on deck, looking rested and fresh. He wore a handsome doublet of tawny camlet that she had not seen before, and his hair was tousled in the breeze.
“Michelle! You’re up early.” Sandhurst’s eyes were warm with delighted surprise as he adjusted a line, then crossed the deck to take her in his arms. “How beautiful you are.”
Her only response was an incandescent smile. Sandhurst stared down at her, amazed by the magical glow that spread from her body to his, before bending to kiss her, wonderingly at first, and then more passionately, until Micheline’s slim arms rounded his shoulders and her fingers tangled in his hair, pressing him closer still.
“Ah-hem!” Jeremy had to clear his throat repeatedly, in various noisy ways, before the couple seemed to notice him.
At length Sandhurst raised his head and arched a brow. “What is it—Playfair?”
The other man glared at him. “The Tower’s in sight. I thought you might like to know!”
When Andrew released her, Micheline looked around curiously. A pale pink mist hovered over the Thames, but still she was able to make out the branching masts of vessels ahead on the river, and a forest of bare spires that rose above the endless maze of gabled rooftops.
London! They had arrived!
The closer they came, the more boats Micheline saw. The Thames was crowded, even at this hour, with vessels of every description.
“The city has such narrow streets that people would rather travel by water,” Sandhurst explained.
“Look!” she exclaimed in delight, pointing at a trio of swans that passed the Stargazer in single file.
“You’ll get used to them,” he said, smiling, “and don’t touch. They’re fond of biting.”
They sailed past the Tower, where the river ran through the bars of the Traitor’s Gate, and soon approached London Bridge, with its twenty piers and nineteen arches. There they dropped anchor, amid the larger trading ships, and before long Micheline found herself on a barge, being rowed through the rapids under the bridge in progress upriver.
Sandhurst sat quietly beside her, his eyes hooded as he exchanged occasional glances with Jeremy, who constantly raised his brows this way and that and made all sorts of contortions with his mouth. His friend pretended to ignore him, and Micheline began to wonder if the poor manservant might have some kind of nervous disorder.
The barge drew up alongside a water gate that led to a splendid mansion of rose brick. Micheline was too awestruck by all she had seen to be surprised. This was obviously not Andrew’s home, but only a means of reaching it, she reasoned. He handed her over to the first dry step while Jeremy dutifully paid the waterman.
Sandhurst was intending to sit with Micheline in the garden and tell her all, but his plan was spoiled by the appearance of one of his servants, who rushed down the steps to greet them as they came through the gate.
“Welcome home, my lord!” the boy cried enthusiastically. “We weren’t sure if you’d ever come back!”
“Hello, Bartholomew,” Sandhurst muttered, wincing when he heard the lad shout “Sir Jeremy” behind them.
Micheline’s expression was confused. “Why does he call you ‘my lord’ and Playfair ‘Sir Jeremy’?” The sight of his averted face sent a chill down her spine. “Andrew?”
“As it happens, I was just about to explain all that to you, Michelle.” He led her over to a stone bench on the far side of the well-tended garden. The green shoots of daffodils and hyacinths were already poking up amid white, pink, and violet crocuses.
“Please, do!” Micheline exclaimed. “I have never been so puzzled! Whose house is this, and why are we here?”
Andrew stared out at the river, yet barely saw the fast-moving boats or the borough of Southwark on the south bank of the Thames. He sighed heavily, then turned to meet Micheline’s urgent gaze.
“This house belongs to me, fondling, as does the Stargazer. Will you still love me if I tell you that I am not poor, but rich?”
“You know full well that I would love you in any condition, but I do not understand! How—”
“Wait. There’s more. It seems that I have other revelations to share.” He paused to let her absorb his words. “You should brace yourself.”
She took a deep breath. “Continue.”
“My name is not Selkirk, either, though it was my mother’s name before she married. I don’t make my living as a painter.”
Micheline’s head was spinning, and for a moment all she could think of was her discovery in December that Bernard had been a stranger all through their marriage, smiling and professing his love even as he deceived her.
“Sweet Michelle, it’s time you knew the truth. I am Andrew Weston, Marquess of Sandhurst.”
Chapter Twenty-One
London, England
April 4, 1533
“You’re teasing me… aren’t you?” Micheline whispered after a long moment of silence.
“You know I would not jest about something like this.” Sandhurst took both her hands in his and found them cold as ice. “I know it’s a shock, but I think that once you adjust to the idea, you’ll find it quite agreeable.”
“Agreeable?” she repeated weakly. “Should I rejoice that you have lied to me since the moment we met? Did everyone know? Were you all laughing at me behind my back?”
Closing his eyes for an instant, he sighed. “No one has laughed at you, fondling, and no one at Fontainebleau knew my true identity except Jeremy. I gather that St. Briac found out toward the end, but—”
“This must be a bad dream!” Micheline exclaimed suddenly, pulling her hands free. “A few minutes ago I was so happy! I felt as if I were coming home, that London was embracing me, because I was with you and this was the place where we would make our life together. Now I learn that I don’t know you at all! You’re a stranger who has deceived me!”
“Of course you know me!” Sandhurst protested. “The only difference is my surname. Michelle, I love you. Isn’t that what counts?”
Tears glistened in her beautiful eyes. “How can I believe you? How can I believe anything you say, ever again?”
He raked a hand through his hair in desperation. “This isn’t the place to discuss all of this, and there’s a great deal that must be said. Let’s go inside. You can see your rooms and freshen up, then we’ll sit down and I’ll try to explain how all this came about.” Sandhurst gave her an engagingly hopeful smile, but Micheline dropped her eyes.
“D’accord,” she sighed. “I don’t seem to have any choice, do I?”
They walked side by side up the neat gravel pathways that led from the garden to a handsome arched doorway. Sandhurst was alarmed by Micheline’s demeanor, for she stayed far away from him and would not even look in his direction.
Inside the great hall, with its carved paneling and beamed ceiling, an old woman and man waited to greet their master. The affection that shone in their eyes bolstered Andrew’s spirits.
“Michelle, I’d like you to meet Throgmorton, my head steward, and Mistress Goodwyn, who runs Weston House for me.” Smiling at the two servants, he explained, “This is Madame Micheline Tevoulere. She will be staying with us.” He wanted to introduce her as his future wife, but couldn’t be certain himself if that was still the case.
Mistress Goodwyn, a small, white-haired, rosy-cheeked woman, came forward first to embrace Andrew. Since she had been lady’s maid to the Duchess of Aylesbury in her youth and had watched this boy come into the world, it was impossible for her to keep a respectful distance.
“Welcome home, my lord!” She gave him a smacking kiss on his cheek. “I’ve been worried about you!”
“I appreciate that, Nan. As you can see, I am quite well.” He tu
rned then to clasp Throgmorton’s outstretched hand. The old man, who had been a page in the last duke’s household, was stooped now and nearly bald, but his mind was as sharp as ever.
“We’ve missed you, my lord,” he intoned, then allowed a warm smile to stretch over his wrinkled face. “It’s good to see you home safe.”
The two head servants exchanged greetings with their guest, who had been watching the previous scene with interest.
“Madame Tevoulere will need a lady’s maid, Nan,” Sandhurst remarked. “I was thinking of Mary. She seems a sweet girl.”
“That’s true, my lord, but she’s had no training as a lady’s maid—”
“I don’t mind,” Micheline interjected in her perfect, lightly accented English. “I’m not used to having my very own maid, either, so we can learn together.”
Mistress Goodwyn pursed her lips. “I’ll tell the girl, then. She’ll be over the moon, I’ll warrant!”
“Would you show Madame Tevoulere to the rose room?”
Then he looked to Throgmorton. “Bartholomew’s outside. Why don’t you ask him to take her belongings upstairs.”
“Aye, my lord.” They both nodded.
Micheline followed the old woman up a broad wooden staircase with splendidly carved newel posts, handrails, and balustrade. It was quite unlike the curving stone staircases in France.
“What a magnificent house!” Micheline said to fill the silence.
“Oh, Weston House isn’t much compared to Sandhurst Manor, or Aylesbury Castle for that matter, but it’s much cozier. Lord Sandhurst bought it himself, you know, with his own earnings from the horses he breeds in Gloucestershire.” Reaching the top step, Mistress Goodwyn turned back to look at the young Frenchwoman. “I’ve served the aristocracy all my life, madame, and Lord Sandhurst is the finest nobleman I’ve ever known.”
“It would seem that he is fortunate to have you.”
“Lord Andrew’s a love. Even as a child he was a love. And so handsome! If only the duke weren’t so mean-spirited… and if the duchess hadn’t died, Lord Sandhurst would be a happy man today, just as he was happy as a child.” Mistress Goodwyn led Micheline down the corridor, still talking. “That’s not to say that he’s unhappy, but these troubles with his father have cast a shadow over his life. I’ve always said that all Lord Andrew needs is the true love of a good woman, but he’s slow to trust.” She opened a paneled door and stepped aside so that Micheline could enter first.
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