“We are of one mind.” Sandhurst smiled, then raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Twilight approaches. Why don’t we return to my conveniently cozy home and explore this matter in greater depth?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
April 4-6, 1533
Andrew and Micheline ate a light supper that night, then adjourned to the second-floor library. A pile of letters and accounts due waited on Sandhurst’s desk, so he sat down to review them while Micheline happily perused the bookshelves.
“What a wonderful collection!” she exclaimed.
He glanced up and smiled absently. “I’m glad you think so. The library at Sandhurst Manor is much more extensive, and perhaps I shouldn’t allow you access to it.”
She whirled around in alarm. “Why not?”
“There’s always the possibility that you might bury yourself in books and forget about your husband.”
There was a gleam in his brown eyes that made her blush. “You are wrong, my lord. That possibility does not exist if you are to be the husband in question.”
“I do believe I am, unless the prospect of becoming Rupert’s relative has given you second thoughts.” Sandhurst spoke absently as he sorted through a stack of long-neglected business.
“Oh, no, I can tolerate Rupert,” Micheline was replying. “I’m sure I’ll deal perfectly well with your family. I must say, though, that it is difficult to comprehend that you and Rupert were sired by the same man!”
He broke the seal on a letter and smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Deciding to venture forth a bit further on the subject of Rupert, Micheline said, “Actually I feel rather sorry for him. He seems to mean well, and although I understand why he irritates you, I can’t help thinking that—”
“Sweeting, at any other time I would love to chat with you, but right now I really must see to all this correspondence that’s accumulated over the past two months.”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”
Sandhurst didn’t seem to hear. Micheline watched him for a while, enjoying the sight of his serious, candlelit expression. Shadows played over his cheekbones and the firm line of his jaw. From time to time he would run his fingers through his ruffled hair or touch the swan’s feather to his mouth before making an entry in his ledger.
The books! she reminded herself at last, and turned around to confront them. A bright fire blazed in the white stone fireplace nearby, and there were beeswax candles in sconces on every vertical beam between the library shelves, affording Micheline enough light to read the titles.
There were books on every subject: philosophy, languages, proverbs, geography, medicine, chemistry, botany, and history. In addition, Micheline discovered volumes of poetry, songs, memoirs, drama, and even romance. Many she had already read and knew that English translations had been made, yet Andrew kept the original versions.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she exclaimed after an hour had passed, “but I am so curious! Have you read all of these?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. Most of those books are duplicates of my favorites from the library at Sandhurst Manor,” he answered without looking up.
Micheline was impressed. Her thoughts skipped back to the night they’d spent at Queen Eleanor’s cottage, when she had been amazed to learn that the man she believed to be lowborn had been to school. Now it turned out that Sandhurst had not only attended Oxford but was apparently self-taught as well. They both had curious minds, and that was an important trait to have in common.
Another hour passed. Micheline settled down in a chair by the fire and looked through the large pile of books she’d chosen, trying to decide which to read first. A fifteenth-century romance by Olivier de la Marche, titled Chevalier Delibere, piqued her interest. Leafing through the French text, she came upon an engraving that showed the chevalier outside a castle. The ramparts were lined with women, while on the ground a sad-faced young man held the reins of the knight’s horse. Beneath the miniature a caption read: “How the Actor lost his way, and arrived in front of the Palace of Love, into which Desire bade him enter, while Remembrance held him back.”
Micheline smiled. Less than a fortnight ago she had been faced with the same dilemma as the Chevalier Delibere. Thank God she had made the right choice!
Pleasantly drowsy, she closed her eyes for a moment, only to open them a half hour later when Sandhurst knelt next to her chair and leaned forward to kiss the pulse at the base of her neck.
Micheline’s heart leaped. “I—I must have dozed off!”
He gave her an irresistible smile. “You are beautiful when you sleep. Vulnerable… soft…” His agile fingers caressed the line of her cheek, then her neck. “Warm… and fragrant.”
“You must be finished with your work!” she managed to tease as his mouth strayed downward toward her breasts.
“For tonight.”
Andrew’s warm, practiced lips were sending currents of fire through her body. She yearned to bury her face in his hair, to touch him, to surrender completely, but that morning she had made a decision that she was determined to carry out.
“I’m awfully tired, Andrew. It’s been a long, exciting day, and—”
“You’re ready for bed,” he supplied. “So am I. More than ready.”
He helped Micheline up, looking slightly surprised when she brought the book from her lap along with them. Holding hands, they circled the library, extinguishing the candles, then emerged into the corridor. When Sandhurst stopped in front of a door down the hall from her own, Micheline feigned surprise.
“This is not my bedchamber!”
“I thought you might like to see where Lady Sandhurst will sleep,” he told her softly.
“With Lord Sandhurst?”
Andrew chuckled and opened the door. “That is the general idea, fondling.”
Micheline beheld a chamber even more spacious and splendid than hers. Beautiful arched windows nearly covered the south wall which overlooked the Thames, with a grouping of chairs in front of them. The walls were paneled in golden oak, broken only by a brick and stone fireplace. Tapestry rugs covered the floors, and there were magnificently carved dressers and chests, but the focal point of the room was a huge bed hung with dove-gray draperies hand-embroidered in blue. The covers were carefully folded back to reveal plump, inviting pillows and a down-filled tick. Micheline’s eyes strayed to the table beside the bed, which held a candle, a small vase of crocuses, a decanter of wine, and two Venetian glass goblets.
“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable inside? This corridor is rather drafty,” Sandhurst murmured.
Micheline swallowed and summoned her resolve. “I’ll be happy to go inside, and happy to spend days on end with you in that wonderful bed… when I am Lady Sandhurst.” Reaching for his hand, which was warm and strong, she looked up at him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said to me two nights ago at the auberge, and I’ve decided you were right. Our next act of love will be on our wedding night.”
“But when I said that, it was because you didn’t know yet who I was. I felt dishonest enough as it was, without—”
“The fact remains that you were right, Andrew,” she said steadfastly.
“I’m a fool!” He closed his eyes as if he were in pain and muttered, “One day I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut.”
“Don’t pout!” Micheline scolded fondly. “You’re a strong man; you can wait a few weeks.”
Remembering the tempestuous nature of their lovemaking, Sandhurst groaned. “Yes, I am a man… which is precisely the problem!”
“Will you walk me to my door and kiss me good night?” she coaxed.
“Oh, I see! You plan to torture me during this enforced celibacy.”
Micheline laughed and led him down the corridor. Outside her door she turned and reached up to twine her arms around his neck. It was torture for her, too, when he caught her up against his hard body and their mouths came together. The pressure of his lips, the taste and sensation of
his tongue fencing with hers, and the evidence of his arousal, plainly felt even through the layers of her gown and petticoat, combined to make her tremble in his embrace. They kissed for what seemed an eternity until Micheline’s strength and reason ebbed, replaced by a throbbing hunger for Sandhurst.
Finally his lips moved to burn her throat, then her ear, and he was whispering, “This is ridiculous. I promise to forgive you if you’ve changed your mind.”
Micheline very nearly yielded, but somehow managed to cling to her position and murmur, “You’ll thank me in our marriage bed.”
With a heavy sigh Andrew released her and took a step backward. “Perhaps—if I live that long.”
*
Two mornings later Micheline rose early to prepare for their journey to Hampton Court. She was filled with excitement and also a measure of trepidation. King Henry, Anne Boleyn, and the English court were unknown quantities. What if they disliked her because she was French, or because of something she might say amiss? Andrew might contend that he wished little contact with the royal court, but the fact remained that he was an marquess and would someday be a duke—and, God willing, she would be his wife, with English titles of her own.
Little Mary, her maid, made up in enthusiasm what she lacked in skill. The girl prepared a lavishly scented bath and washed Micheline’s hair so thoroughly that she had to be told, gently, that it was clean enough. Helping her mistress dress, Mary’s exuberant compliments were morale-boosting, for she rhapsodized endlessly about the utter perfection of every color, ribbon, and jewel that Micheline had chosen.
The decisions had been difficult. Finally, the night before, she had brought Sandhurst in to elicit his opinion, and had been vastly relieved when he confirmed her own first choice. The gown Micheline donned now for her first introduction to the English king was made of soft spring-green velvet, parted in front to show a petticoat of pale yellow silk. The sleeves were puffed and slashed to reveal more yellow silk, and tied at intervals with gold and yellow ribbons. The square-cut bodice accentuated the high curves of her breasts and was embroidered with golden thread and set with emeralds, while a delicate girdle of filigreed gold rode just above her hips.
Mary helped to dress Micheline’s gleaming hair, parting it in the center and smoothing it into a golden crispinette sprinkled with emeralds. In contrast to the other colors were her iris-blue eyes, which seemed more vivid than ever in her state of excitement.
She had just added two thin gold necklaces and turned to assess her reflection in the mirror, when there was a knock at the door.
“It’s nearly time to leave,” Micheline said nervously “That must be Andrew.”
Mary opened the door to admit Lord Sandhurst, then made a speedy exit when he silently inclined his head. Across the room Micheline stood in a ray of sunlight, looking utterly lovely and charmingly skittish all at once.
“I am terrified!” she announced.
Sandhurst went to her and lightly caressed her flushed cheeks with the back of his hand. “Don’t be silly. You look dazzling, and I am convinced you’ll be a huge success. My only worry is that the king will fall madly in love with you and decide he would rather wed you than Anne!”
“I fear I would have to refuse him,” she replied primly, smiling at the thought of such a scenario. “And then, to keep our heads, you and I would have to run away and live secretly, as commoners. We could take the name of Selkirk!”
“You would rather be Mistress Selkirk than the queen of England?”
“Even the idea of a choice is laughable, my lord,” Micheline answered, “for no queen on earth has you.”
She gave him one of her radiant smiles, which seemed to outshine the sun, and his heart swelled with love. “How fortunate I am,” he whispered.
“Once again, we are of one mind.”
Andrew kissed her tenderly, marveling at the rich emotions that flowed between their bodies.
“I brought you a gift,” he murmured at length. “Be a good girl and turn around.”
Although Micheline would have preferred to go on kissing him, she obeyed. In the mirror she saw his tanned fingers clasp a beautiful necklace of diamonds and emeralds around the base of her throat.
“But it’s magnificent!” she protested, thinking that she didn’t deserve anything so grand and costly.
“It was my mother’s. As the future Duchess of Aylesbury, all of her jewelry will be yours, Michelle.”
“I shouldn’t wear this until we are married!”
“These edicts of yours about what cannot happen until we are married are becoming tedious,” Sandhurst said dryly. “This particular necklace was left in my care, and I am making it a betrothal gift to you.”
Hesitantly Micheline raised her slim fingers and touched first the gems, which were cool against her throat, and then Andrew’s hands, which were warm.
“Thank you.”
He smiled. “Let’s away. The barge is waiting, and the hour advances.”
When Sandhurst crossed the room to open the door for her, Micheline suddenly exclaimed, “How handsome you look! It was very selfish of me not to have noticed immediately!”
Never before, when he was pretending to be Andrew Selkirk, had she seen him so elegantly garbed, and still he looked absolutely masculine. Sandhurst wore a close-fitting doublet of rich blue velvet sparingly embroidered with golden thread and set with cut diamonds and rubies. The doublet’s neck was fashionably high so that the pleats of his white fraise nearly grazed his jaw. White silk puffed through the light slashings on both sleeves and breeches, and below his left knee Sandhurst wore a gold garter set with a ruby, sapphire, and diamond.
He still disdained other jewelry except for the simple sapphire ring, and Micheline was not surprised to see that he wore no feathered cap. His hair, agleam in the sunlight, was brushed casually back from his handsome face.
“I didn’t want you to think that I owned no fine clothing.” Andrew replied, “but I confess that I prefer the sort of things I wore at Fontainebleau.”
Reaching the doorway, Micheline ran a possessive hand over his chest. “You will be the most splendid man at Hampton Court, and I shall be the envy of every female who lays eyes on you.”
“Good Lord!” He laughed fondly. “Next you’ll be fighting a duel over me!”
“I would certainly do so if it were necessary,” she replied, walking ahead of him into the corridor. Then Micheline glanced back and added brightly, “And I would win!”
*
The journey by barge up the Thames was as close to paradise as Micheline had ever come. Although accompanied by Mary and Finchley, Sandhurst’s valet, and two watermen, the two lovers were in a world of their own. They lounged on cushioned seats, talking softly, drinking wine, kissing, and sharing a delicious meal packed for them by Sabine, the cook. The banks of the Thames were a light bright green now, and budding leaves covered the tree branches where larks, finches, and robins sang tributes to spring. Meanwhile, swans, mallard ducks, and dabchicks followed the barge to feed on the bits of bread Micheline scattered across the water.
Eventually Andrew broke the spell by murmuring into her ear, “There it is.”
Micheline sat up straight. Ahead of them, sculpted gardens spread across the right riverbank, leading to low walls, more gardens with trees, and a sprawling mixture of towers, ramparts, and buildings of red brick and white stone. Pinnacles and chimneys topped the palace, rising skyward.
Suddenly her palms were damp. “Must we?”
“I fear so.” Sandhurst nodded. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. What have you to fear if I am by your side?”
“Quite true!” After fending for herself for so long, it was difficult for Micheline to remember that she was not alone anymore. “You won’t leave me?”
“You know full well that it is my ardent wish to remain with you constantly—day and night!”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, bidding her to laugh and relax. With Andrew next to her it was easy to pr
etend that what lay ahead was just an amusing adventure.
*
It wasn’t Hampton Court that intimidated Micheline so much as the strangers who waited for her there. She was used to grandeur in excess, and this palace, though certainly splendid, did not outshine Fontainebleau. In fact, as she walked with Sandhurst up the pathway from the river, he told her that it was common knowledge that King Henry had begun to expand and improve his residences only to compete with François.
Richly garbed courtiers and ladies strolled about the grounds, many of them coming over to greet Lord Sandhurst and meet his future bride. Micheline saw not only curiosity but disdain in their eyes and knew the latter sprang from the fact that she was French. When the noblemen spoke to Andrew as if she were an idiot who could not understand, it delighted her to reply for herself in flawless English.
Learning that the king had just finished his meal and had not emerged from the palace, Sandhurst headed there first.
“Do you want to see your chamber? Perhaps you’d like to rest for a while.” Even as he said this, he sensed her reply.
“Chamber? Are we staying overnight?”
“Michelle, we must. It would be rude to leave so abruptly, and in any case, the journey back would take four hours at night.”
Her heart sank. Sighing, she accompanied him through two brick-paved courtyards that were surrounded by buildings. Entering a third, with a fountain in the center, Sandhurst turned into a doorway, then led Micheline up a flight of stairs. At the top they encountered a servant.
“The Marquess of Sandhurst to see the king. Is he available?”
A few minutes later, after passing through several other presence chambers en route, they were ushered into Henry VIII’s audience chamber. All the rooms were magnificent, boasting fabulous tapestries, Eastern carpets, ornate ceilings, and damask-upholstered furniture. Micheline had been impressed, but when the king appeared, it seemed that all the palace riches paled in comparison to his person.
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