This Towering Passion

by Valerie Sherwood

  Gilbert could afford these luxuries of temper. His parents had recently died, and he had come into a considerable inheritance. With more money than he had ever had before in his life, Gilbert had promptly hied him to London, that hub of iniquity for which his dissolute soul had hungered for years. He had arrived but last week, had busied himself with setting up a gentleman’s establishment and hiring servants and ordering new clothes. This was the first time he had attended the theatre, and he had come in hopes of seeing the King so that he could later brag he was an intimate and back up what he said with a knowledgeable description of the monarch. But in that he had been disappointed, for the King had favored the cockfights instead of the play on that particular night.

  It had been a mind-searing shock to Gilbert to see Lenore Frankford, seemingly more beautiful than ever and with a poise that even he did not remember, swish out upon the stage wearing Lady Castlemaine’s cast-off green satin ballgown.

  He had sat thunderstruck as she met his gaze and went rigid with shock. For a moment he had thought she would faint and had leaned forward tensely, but she had recovered herself and the play had gone on.

  How wonderful she had looked with her flame-bright hair glowing beneath the myriad candles. Like a graceful flower she had swayed and turned as if blown about by the wind, while Gilbert’s hard caramel eyes, hot with memory, had roved over her supple body. Her breasts were just as he remembered them, her waist as narrow. She still had that flaunting walk that drew men’s eyes, that challenging smile. He remembered vividly what it had been like to hold her in his arms, to possess her. His heart thudded in his chest with his hot rememberings. He turned his head sharply as two seats away Lord Wilsingame leaned forward and muttered, “Damned vicious beauty! If I had my way. I’d have—” Gilbert did not hear what Lord Wilsingame would have done if he’d had his way, but he saw the vein standing out in Wilsingame’s forehead, the way his jaw worked; he could guess what Wilsingame would have done if he’d had his way! Gilbert knew Wilsingame but slightly, having met him at a gaming hall the night before, but he admired him enormously as a self-proclaimed court favorite—new to London, Gilbert had no way of knowing that Wilsingame was but one of a small army of hangers-on, eagerly finding any means to seek the King’s favor.

  About him in the pit, Gilbert could see London’s wild young rakes lounging about on bulrush-covered benches; their eyes were filled with naked desire as they viewed the beautiful woman in green satin onstage, and more than one licked his lips. Gilbert turned thoughtfully to look at Lenore again. So she had made it to London, this woman he had meant to bend and humble—and enjoy . . . and now she was flaunting herself on the London stage!

  She had escaped him, but not before she had marked him. His brows drew together in a malicious line. He would enjoy her yet, by God!

  After the performance, he had shouldered his way through the milling crowd into the tiring rooms, but was told Lenore had already left. On the street outside he had searched for her, but she was nowhere to be found. He had felt a brief sense of panic—had she escaped him again?

  But common sense had asserted itself. Lenore was a royal player; as such she was shackled to the London stage—as much a part of the theatre as the curtains or the green baize-covered floor. At the theatre he would find her, for like the other players she must rehearse!

  Now with his hot blood somewhat cooled but with his hands still tingling at the memory of her flesh beneath his kneading fingers, he strolled through the crowd seething about during morning rehearsal at the Red Bull in Vere Street where Killigrew’s company gave their performances. He was an elegant figure, faultlessly garbed in violet taffety (his clothing was the reason Lord Wilsingame had noticed him, believing him fresh from the country and wealthy enough that he could borrow money from him if he ran short of cash) and he tapped a tall beribboned cane as he walked. Onstage a new play was being rehearsed, but as Lenore would not appear until the second act, she was sitting on a low stool across the room, studying her lines. She looked up to see Gilbert brush by an aspiring singer, wailing earnestly off-key, saw him wend his way past an eager young girl clad in doublet and trunk hose wavering along with a book on her head. Gilbert almost collided with her, and she dodged to avoid him, dropping the book with a groan. Ainsley, who was coaching her, gave Gilbert an irritable look and retrieved the book; he set it back upon the girl’s head and urged her to walk gracefully, gracefully, make her hips sway!

  Lenore sat, hypnotized, watching Gilbert approach with all the self-assurance of a Duke or a Prince. Every inch a fop, she thought contemptuously—lord, how she hated him! And to think that in Oxford for a time she had actually considered him attractive! Then Gilbert had passed Ainsley and stood before her, his handsome, scarred face lit by a smile of triumph.

  Lenore rose warily, noting the cane in Gilbert’s hand. Gilbert saw the look on her face and waved his gloved hand with a lazy gesture that billowed his delicate point lace cuffs. “There is no need for alarm, Lenore.”

  “I know there is not—for I’m a royal player now, and under the King’s protection!” But she moved a step away from him.

  Ainsley noticed her backing away and turned from his young protégé with the book on her head. Frowning slightly, strolled toward them.

  “Send yon graybeard away,” said Gilbert in a low voice, indicating the approaching Ainsley. “I am not here to exact vengeance.”

  “No, nor will you! For I’ve a royal pardon!”

  “Send him away,” said Gilbert, his eyes threatening. “For we’ve much to talk about, you and I.”

  “We’ve naught to say to one another! Ainsley—” With deliberate grace, Gilbert stepped between them with his back to Ainsley. He leaned upon, his beribboned cane, hovering above her as if to overwhelm her with his masculinity. “Can it be ye’ve forgotten the night ye spent in my arms?” Gilbert’s brows lifted mockingly. “But ye were hot for me then!”

  Lenore paled and her hands balled into fists. “You raped me! And I marked your face for it—as you deserved!”

  Gilbert shrugged. “I am magnanimous. I choose to forget that.” Gilbert turned and waved Ainsley away with a disdainful flourish of lace cuffs. “You may go, sir. This is a private conversation.” He turned back to Lenore as Ainsley hesitated, frowning. This would not be the first dandy Ainsley and others had had to eject from rehearsals; he placed his hand upon his sword.

  “I will even allow you to make amends,” Gilbert was saying expansively. “In bed, where amends should be made.” He paused and smiled; Lenore did not like the look of that smile. She remembered it only too well. “If you do not come,” he added softly; there was a threat behind the words, “you will have cause to regret it, I promise you.”

  Cause to regret it indeed! The blood flowed back to Lenore’s pale cheeks in a hot surge. She drew herself up to her full height and looked at Gilbert with scorn. “Powerful you might have been in Oxford, Gilbert, playing both sides and able to blackmail poor women who feared for their lovers! But here even good Master Ainsley yonder”— she nodded toward Ainsley, who had now drawn his sword from its scabbard and was testing the edge with his fingers for sharpness while he studied Gilbert—“can mock you! As can I! For we’re the King’s players and sworn in, and not subject to arrest by any but the Lord Chamberlain himself!”

  Gilbert gave her a lazy look from those caramel eyes. The face that had once been blindingly handsome now had a long weal down one cheek where she had burned him, and another mark, a deep pit in the other cheek. She could not know he had acquired that second scar when Geoffrey had hurled him from the window of his lodgings in Oxford.

  “Did ye know I am paying my addresses to the Lord Chamberlain’s daughter?” he drawled. It was untrue, but it was a thrust calculated to inspire terror.

  Lenore’s face grew a shade paler. She leaned forward.

  “I care not if you are courting a princess of the blood!” she blazed. “If you so much as lay a finger upon me, Gilbert, I swear I wi
ll bring the matter before the King himself! And then we will hear again your explanation of why you did not fight for him at Worcester!”

  If Gilbert was discomfited by this counter-thrust, he did not show it. None of his aplomb left him. “But I am your best friend, Lenore,” he sneered in a voice that carried clearly to Ainsley. “Am I not always kind to my cast-off doxies?”

  For a moment the world went red before Lenore, and she struck out savagely at his face, but Gilbert had been expecting the blow and dodged easily.

  Ainsley, who had leaped forward at Lenore’s sudden assault on this faultlessly garbed gentleman with the scarred face, was halted by Gilbert’s words. Cast-off doxie? Who was he to come between a man and his doxie, cast-off or otherwise? He pressed the point of his sword into the floor and leaned upon the hilt.

  “You have a nasty temper, Lenore,” chided Gilbert. “Already you have been seen to assault me—by yon rough fellow there.” He indicated Ainsley with a jerk of his head and swept Lenore a handsome bow. His voice rose mockingly. “I'll bid you good day, mistress. And I do regret that you cannot share my bed tonight, but I find myself otherwise engaged. Perhaps another time?” He turned arrogantly on his heel and was gone, weaving swiftly among groups of players toward the theatre entrance.

  Lenore swung on Ainsley, who was looking after Gilbert, round-eyed. His expression said plainly: what, Mistress Chastity pleading to bed a cavalier? She must be his cast-off doxie indeed! “You saw that, Ainsley,” cried Lenore. “He is a liar and worse. If he harms me, you must be my witness!”

  “I saw no intent to harm you,” Ainsley said dryly, sheathing his sword. “Indeed, I saw you strike out at him. But what provoked you, I could not say, for he had a smile on his face the whole time.”

  Lenore gave Ainsley a bitter look. Like so many others, he had lately fallen under the spell of Nell Gwyn, and Nell Gwyn was certainly not one of her friends. But ... in honesty, what had there been to see? Gilbert had been clever and had made her appear in the wrong. He had always been clever.

  Shaken with bitter memories, she turned away; the second act had begun, and soon she must march on stage and sneak her lines.

  Gilbert left the theatre with a deep frown etched on his scarred face. He nodded his caramel curls absently to a passing lady in scarlet silk he thought he recognized—and then turned and gave her a swift, ingratiating smile, for he had recognized the King’s new doxie, Nell Gwyn. A pretty piece, he thought, with her riotous chestnut hair and saucy face. But not so beautiful as Lenore with her deep expressive violet eyes and challenging smile. Lenore, who made him go hot and cold, who made his blood race in his veins. His jaw tightened. He would bring Lenore to heel. And punish her. Exquisitely.

  But first he would humble her.

  Deep in thought, Gilbert strolled along the Thames, with the salt breeze blowing stiff in his face. He paused, leaned on his beribboned cane, and watched the white-sailed merchantmen bringing “sea coal” from Newcastle, wine from Bordeaux and Cadiz, spices and rich carpets from the Levant, and salt from Scotland. About him roared and jingled a great city, filled with gaming houses and brothels, palaces and corruption. He filled his lungs with the lusty air of London—ah, this was home to him! Lucky Wilsingame, to have been able to reside here almost since the Restoration of the King! The night before last over a game of dice, Lord Wilsingame had regaled him with tales of the wild parties he held at his house on London Bridge. He had bandied names about, of famous bawds and courtesans, and behind his hand he had even muttered spicy tidbits about nights spent with Nell Gwyn.

  Nell Gwyn! Suddenly Gilbert struck his thigh and laughed aloud, for the perfect way to humble Lenore had come to him.

  So loud was his laughter that several seabirds perched nearby took wing and flew away, calling raucously. His mirth and the jaunty swinging of his cane as he left attracted the attention of several dirty little urchins from the docks who, seeing such a jolly gentleman, ran up and begged him for a penny. Contemptuously Gilbert struck at them with his cane, and they retreated, muttering. From a distance one picked up a rock and hurled it at the fine gentleman in violet taffety just turning the corner away from them.

  Gilbert might have given chase, but he had a more urgent mission, one which set his blood to singing. He was headed for a tavern Wilsingame had warned him away from as being frequented by scenekeepers and lackeys from the theatre—especially did he wish to meet those who worked in the Great Wardrobe. There was malice in Gilbert’s face as he swung through the tavern door and looked about him, for he had no doubt his plan would work.

  Mistress Lenore, he promised himself grimly, would soon be removed from the King’s protection, and would be impelled into his.

  CHAPTER 28

  Though the King had recently been patronizing cockfights and bear-baiting, confining his playgoing almost exclusively to Davenant’s company of players, who held their performances in the remodeled Lisle’s Tennis Courts in Lincoln’s Inn Fields—and naturally the Court trailed him—Lenore’s own star had been rising of late and she had once again landed a “breeches part” in a new play. The play had been written by Killigrew himself, and it was whispered that the King was sure to attend, for Nell Gwyn was in it.

  Up to now, vivacious Nell had been able to keep Lenore out of plays in which she appeared, but she had had a falling out with Killigrew over her dialogue—she wanted it lengthened—so this time Killigrew had ignored her demands and cast Lenore in the “breeches part.” The part was indeed a juicy one, and Lenore’s eyes had widened in surprise and delight at the glamorous costume the woman had been stitching her into. She turned about before the mirror in the tiring room studying it. It was almost as showy as the costume Nell had worn at Whitehall, of white and yellow satin, with amber silk trunk hose that clung to her lovely legs.

  This morning was the dress rehearsal for the new play, and Lenore, finally free of the tirewoman, hurried forward on cue. Onstage she could see Nell Gwyn (who must have dressed for her part at home, because Lenore had not seen her in the tiring room), dressed as a shepherdess and waving a tall beribboned shepherd crook. Looking the saucy wench she was in her blue and white gown with its huge full skirt and bodice cut so low her round breasts seemed about to bounce out, Nell shook her chestnut curls and simpered roguishly in the direction of the royal box which Charles would occupy during the performance.

  Everyone knew she was sleeping with the King.

  Lady Castlemaine was absent from the city for a short time, and in her absence Nell was enjoying Whitehall— everyone wondered what would happen when spirited Lady Castlemaine returned.

  Personally, Lenore hoped Lady Castlemaine turned Nell out. She strode onstage and spoke her opening line. “Ho there, varlet! What do you with yon maid?”

  Nell, who had been absent from all the rehearsals, sending word insolently to Killigrew that she “already knew her lines,” obviously had not known Lenore was to have a part in the play, for she turned sharply as she heard Lenore’s voice and her hazel gaze swept over her would-be rival.

  Nell did not like what she saw. Lenore was a sumptuous figure in tight amber silk trunk hose that clung like her own skin and displayed her lovely legs clear to the hips. The white and yellow satin jerkin did little to conceal Lenore’s beautifully shaped outthrust bust, and her yellow satin sleeves were slashed and graceful. She wore shoes with high yellow heels (she had starved for a week to buy them) that gave her the advantage of height over the shorter Nell, and she had chosen to wear her own hair instead of a wig; it cascaded down around her slender shoulders in riotous red-gold splendor.

  She was too beautiful, Nell saw that at once—such a woman would surely arrest the gaze of the King. Nell, who hoped to supplant Lady Castlemaine and become first woman in King Charles’s heart, was not pleased. She had been stumbling over her lines, for all she’d said she knew them. Now she abandoned her dialogue altogether and advanced on Lenore.

  “Take off that costume and return it to the Great Ward
robe,” she cried angrily. “ ’Twas given by the Earl of Marford and promised to me for the play we do next week.”

  Lenore stopped where she was, rested her hands on her satin hips, and gave her rival a scornful look. “I’ll not,” she said. “Next week you may wear it and welcome, but for this performance the tirewoman gave it to me. She’s been spending all morning altering it to fit me.”

  “Off, I say!” cried Nell, who’d not been getting much sleep, what with having such an amorous and athletic lover as King Charles. Her nerves were on edge, and her strident voice showed it.

  “No!” Ignoring Nell’s interruption, Lenore turned to continue her part. She waved a graceful slashed-sleeved arm. “Unhand the maiden—”

  But she never finished her lines. With the fury of the street girl she was, hot-tempered Nell was upon her. She plummeted into Lenore from behind, ripping at Lenore’s satin doublet, grasping Lenore’s long hair and jerking her head backward. Lenore, who was taller than Nell and had a longer reach, stumbled forward gasping at the suddenness of this unexpected assault from the rear but recovered nicely, spinning around and striking Nell away from her. Nell struck out at Lenore with her shepherd’s crook as she reeled backward into Blakelock’s arms, propelled by the force of Lenore’s blow. She was spitting curses and street language, and from all about the company ran to watch as Nell struck Blakelock’s restraining arm away from her, knocked over a turkey-work chair and some tin candlesticks, and came at Lenore once again.

  Lenore was ready for her this time. As Nell plunged at her, she sidestepped, but reached out to grasp a handful of delicate frilly bodice. She gave it a jerk, ripping away a long ruffle. Nell shrieked with fury as she saw her bodice was torn and suddenly darted under Lenore’s guard, seized her around the waist, and by the very momentum of her charge, knocked Lenore off her feet. They went down together in a flailing heap of yellow silk legs and voluminous pale blue shepherdess skirts. Around them the tirewomen screamed, the actresses cried at them to desist and shouted for Killigrew, and the actors laughed and offered bets as to which would win—for though Lenore was taller, Nell was sturdy, and opinion was that they were evenly matched.