by Judith James
“She’s not nice, and yes, my dear, I am.”
“She looks like an angel, though. Is no one here what they seem?”
“Well, we’re certainly not, are we?” He sat up straighter, warming to the topic. “Look down there, to the pillar to the left. That’s the dour Sir Jeremy Felcher. A Puritan on a first name basis with the angels. He’d cast the lot of us into perdition if he could. He reminds me a little of my father, yet his was a cavalier, a charming, ruthless man, who died of apoplexy while laughing at a dirty joke. Sir Jeremy never misses Sunday service, and Sunday night he repents in private with his breeches about his ankles while a housemaid whips his arse.”
“Your father was a religious man?”
“My father was a hypocrite.”
“And what of your mother? You never speak of her,” she said, changing the subject.
“That’s right, mouse, I never do.”
An awkward silence continued for several moments, and Catherine returned her gaze to the f loor below. The elegant man who’d saved her from the attentions of the king was smiling up in her direction. “Who’s that man, Jamie?” she asked, nudging him with an elbow, “and why is he always smiling at me?”
“That’s Monsieur Barrillon, Marquis de Branges, the French ambassador and one of Louis’ spies, up to his usual mischief. He smiles because the king wants you, you’re a Catholic with ties to France, and he has a penchant for beautiful, witty women. He wonders what use you might be as he whispers sweet nothings into His Majesty’s ear.”
“What kind of sweet nothings?”
“He reminds him of his friends in France, urges him to stand strong in the Catholic faith, and reassures him of the divine rights of kings. He also counsels him to hide the excesses of the dragonnades. One would hardly know that eighty thousand Huguenots have sought refuge here from the persecutions in France. The English persecute Catholic Ireland and steal her lands, France persecutes her Protestants and steals theirs, and on it goes.”
“My people kill each other over women and cows.”
His bark of laughter caused heads to turn on the dance f loor below. “Are you as weary of this place as I am, Cat Drummond?”
“I am indeed, Jamie Sinclair.”
“Then might I escort you home?”
Twenty
It was so dim in the carriage Jamie could hardly see her. He didn’t need to. She reached out to touch him from across a crowded room. Something molten smoldered between them, just waiting for an opening to burst into f lame. Sometimes, when he watched his king undressing her with his eyes, he feared it was a conf lagration that might consume him. The thought that James coveted what was his made him white with rage. Perhaps I’m more like my father than I care to think.
During their daylight rambles, the need to maintain a disguise put a damper on it, and in the evenings, he kept a safe distance, distracting himself with intrigue and light f lirtations, but day by day, his attraction grew until he didn’t know what he wanted anymore, except that he wanted her. Well… why not? The twisted logic that had stopped him before seemed less important every day. If he were careful to keep things light between them, careful not to hurt her or leave her with child, what harm was there in being lovers that hadn’t already been done? His lips curled in anticipation. Perhaps it was time he taught his wife something new.
***
Catherine lay on her bed reading the same line over and over, not yet ready to sleep. There’d been something different about Jamie tonight. He’d seemed almost possessive, tracking her down and inviting her to share his refuge. He’d paid her more public attention than he had in months, claiming her as a man might claim his mistress. Claiming me in front of the king! How unexpectedly gallant! Now if only he would stop claiming dances and kisses from every female who batted her eyes at him.
She could hardly complain, though. He f lirted and shared dances with many women, but his thoughts and opinions and his secret world he shared only with her. She tried to imagine the reaction of Lady Beaton or Mrs. Russell if he climbed through their window as Alverez the gypsy, Vagabond Tom, or Toothless Sam the beggar. She folded her hands behind her head, laying on her back with a wide grin, imagining their horrified screams.
“You find something amusing, wife?” He was leaning against the doorjamb, head cocked to one side, his arms folded across his chest.
“I was just… never mind. What are you doing here? We’re still going to Newmarket for the races tomorrow, aren’t we?”
“Perhaps I’ve come to seduce you.”
“Can it wait until I’ve finished this chapter?”
His eyes sparked and he moved over to sit on the bed, tipping up the corner of her book. “The Amours of Philander and Silvia, by Mistress Behn? Tsk tsk! Shouldn’t you be reading a more edifying tome? Newton’s Principia Mathematica, or Mrs. Woolley’s The Gentlewoman’s Companion, perhaps? Do you know that when asked her views on female education, she complained that most in this depraved age think a woman learned and wife enough if she can distinguish her husband’s bed from another’s?”
“How interesting. Can any of your lady-friends do so?”
He stretched out on his side, his head resting on his bent arm, and tugged lightly at the loose curls that tumbled down her back. “I’m far more interested in what you can do. How can you be accounted a learned lady if you’ve never shared a husband’s bed?”
“I have. Have you forgotten? Why yes, of course you have.” She twisted her head and pulled away, freeing her hair.
“Then let’s create new memories,” he teased. “Ones we’ll both remember.” His smile was seductive, his voice barely a whisper. “Finish your chapter, Catherine, and then I’ll teach you things you’ll never forget.”
She lowered her book, looking at him through narrowed eyes. “It was a jest.”
“We are married, love.” He fingered the filmy cloth where her chemise gathered at her elbow, “and I’m beginning to think it decidedly unfair that I should suffer all of the duties and reap none of the pleasures.” The king might chase you girl. But you’re mine.
She shivered and pulled her arm away, remembering what a disaster his last visit to her bed had been. They hadn’t talked for days. “Stop it, Jamie! I don’t know what’s got into you tonight but I don’t appreciate being an object for your amusement. Nor do I accept being anyone’s second, or third—or is it fourth?—choice. Go to one of your mistresses if you’ve the need to scratch an itch.”
“I resent the implication, madam. I’ve been a faithful husband ever since we first made our bargain.”
“Have you really?” How very unexpected! Her heart thudded with excitement.
“Indeed I have. I don’t believe I’ve ever forgone the pleasures of the f lesh for so long, but you bade me be discreet, and I’m ever mindful of your words.” He’d returned to tugging at her ribbons.
“Hah! You probably had the pox and were waiting on a cure.” She swallowed, breathless, as he drew the tip of his finger along the soft skin of the inside of her forearm, watching mesmerized as he drew it back and forth, wrist to elbow, elbow to wrist.
“I don’t know why your opinion of me should be so poor,” he coaxed. “You told me I might not bed you and I didn’t. You asked me to forgo my pleasures and I did. I should think my efforts to please you merit a kiss. What’s the harm?”
He plucked the book from her nerveless fingers and edged closer, pulling himself up and leaning against her as he nuzzled her neck. His voice was compelling and warm. “You’re an honest girl, Catherine. You like it when I kiss you. I can tell. We’re attracted to one another, we’re married, and the deed’s already been done. There’s nothing to lose by it now. Why not enjoy one another while we can? You asked me to kiss you not so long ago.”
He won’t stop this time, and it will change everything. She closed her eyes and slowed her breath, tempted and afraid.
“Kiss me, Cat,” he said in a husky whisper, as his fingertips skimmed the outer curve
of her breast through her chemise. “You know you want to.”
His knuckles grazed her cheekbone and then he cupped her chin, guiding her mouth to his, silencing her murmured protest with a lazy, teasing kiss. She turned into his arms with an incoherent cry. He eased her down onto the mattress, deepening the kiss, one hand entwined in a mass of curls as the other tugged at the clasps of her gown. He growled as he tasted her lips, enjoying the feel of her in his arms as she squirmed beneath him. Christ! It had been far too long, but well worth the wait. He was going to enjoy this. They both would.
The first clasp gave way and her breasts, freed from their bondage, spilled into his palm. He moaned low in his throat, gathering one and then the other in his hand, squeezing and tugging their rigid tips between the base of his fingers as he plundered her mouth, his tongue thrusting and prodding, urging her to open to him.
Caught up in sensations and feelings so new she had little defense, Catherine could do nothing but follow as he led her in a new dance. She shifted as he moved her, and pressed where he pulled her, her body pliant, eager, and warm, but all the while, a part of her brain was shouting in alarm. He’s placing me with all the others. Soon I’ll be just one more. Even as she thought it, he captured her hand, guiding it to the bulge that strained against his breeches and holding it there, thrusting his hips and groaning in a mixture of pleasure, frustration, and pain.
“Feel what you do to me, hellcat,” he whispered, his voice rough with passion. “I’m at your mercy. I’m at your service. I’m going to show you things that—”
“Jamie, that’s enough!” She pulled her hand away and pushed at his shoulders, shoving him back.
“Bloody hell, woman! What is wrong with you? One moment you want it and the next you don’t. Perhaps you’ll see fit to inform me, once you know your own mind,” he snapped.
“I could say the same of you,” she retorted, on the verge of tears. “I’m not as experienced in these things as you are, Jamie.”
“I should hope not!”
“I’m not comfortable playing these games. I don’t understand the rules. I can’t separate my feelings the way you do.”
That pulled him up short. He took a breath and calmed himself, moving to perch on the edge of the bed, caught in the distinctly uncomfortable throes of thwarted lust. It wasn’t like him to have such strong reactions, to be so… emotional. He was always patient in his affairs, taking the rare rejection with easy grace. It was not as if a lover was hard to come by, but she had him acting like a child who’d been robbed of his candy. It was most unsettling. The chit refused me! Jamie Sinclair! She’s been begging for it for months and now she prattles on about her feelings!
She was right, of course. She didn’t know the rules, didn’t understand them, and they must be clearly understood to avoid any unpleasantness down the road. It would be bad enough to make a mess of such things with a mistress; it would be completely unsupportable with one’s wife. He should be grateful to her, really, for having had the sense to stop.
“Now you’re angry with me and you’ll avoid me and we won’t talk for days.”
“I’m not angry with you, Catherine,” he said with a dry laugh, “though certain parts of my body remain… indignant. I think it best for both of us if I went to my room now. I apologize for any misunderstanding.”
For all his efforts at cool nonchalance, he was trembling like a schoolboy with his first strumpet. That’s what came from doing without, but what was a man to do? He’d lost interest in the women who used to amuse him the day Catherine arrived. He was a sensual man, not a lustful one, and he’d drained that cup to its dregs. Catherine was fresh, unique, a challenge, and other women seemed coarse and vulgar in comparison. When his only choices were cheap wine or a pale imitation, a connoisseur did without.
He stopped at the door and turned, favoring her with a tired smile. “First you try to seduce me and I refuse. Now I try and seduce you, and you refuse. We are a contrary couple, are we not?” He turned and left without waiting for an answer, calling back over his shoulder, “We’ll talk in the morning if you like.”
But of course, they didn’t.
Catherine didn’t know what to think over the next few days. He’d claimed not to be angry, but he appeared remote and distracted and their daytime jaunts had ceased. As an early fall turned leaves to shades of gold and the summer blooms were dying, it seemed their friendship was dying, too. She felt his absence keenly and told herself that a friendship so f limsy he’d toss it aside out of pique had been no true friendship at all. Yet he didn’t deliberately avoid her as he’d done in the past, and though he paid her scant attention, the women she’d suspected of being his lovers he paid none at all.
That he’d been faithful since her arrival still surprised and shocked her. The unexpected courtesy and the memory of his kisses led to wild imaginings that left her feeling weak in the knees. Perhaps it was something else that left him looking harried and grim. All she could do was watch, wait, and wonder.
In October, a letter came from Jerrod, taking her completely by surprise. She’d hoped, by corresponding through third parties, to keep her business to herself. Jerrod acknowledged her success with trade matters and harangued her about her failure to conclude her business and return home. You might at least have said you missed me, you crusty old scoundrel.
She realized, with a start of surprise, that she’d been in London for close to a year and she’d been so caught up in her adventures she’d yet to do a single thing about a divorce. Where had the time gone? Jamie was well ensconced at court, their bargain had been kept, and it was well past time to see the thing done.
She went to the library and took pen to paper with a sigh. She wrote her solicitor, instructing him to investigate the options available for ending her marriage, indicating that money was no obstacle and her husband would not object. Halfway through she stopped, tapping her fingers, lost in thought. It was growing harder to remember why she’d ever wanted a divorce. The sight of Jamie quickened her pulse, the rest of her quickened to his touch, and she’d been freer in this marriage than she’d ever been without. When they were friends, there was no one’s company she preferred.
I want him. I want to keep him. I’m going to make him mine. She wasn’t sure in which exact moment she made that decision, but once she had, it seemed as natural to her as breathing. Refusing him her bed might have been a mistake, particularly if she didn’t want him sharing someone else’s, but at least now, she knew she had his interest, and besides, it was nothing that couldn’t be undone.
He likes me. I know he does. He trusts me, too. He’s capable of being faithful. Perhaps he can be friend… and lover, too. And maybe, if she let him teach her, he’d find she had something to teach him as well. Perhaps it was time to talk about their marriage, rather than their divorce. A broad smile lit her face. Now if only she could find him. She rose to go to dinner, leaving the letter unfinished and forgotten, lying on the desk.
Twenty-One
Jamie slipped into the stables dressed as a farrier and came out the other side as Lord Carlyle. Exhausted, he made his way to the library and poured himself a drink. Rumors were f lying through back corridors that the royal couple would soon be making an announcement. In the past week, he’d been courted and pursued by people in high places and low. He’d met in taverns and coffee house with operatives from France and Ireland, as well as Harry, who was back again from Holland. He’d also been courted by the French ambassador, the Earl of Marlborough, and a cabal of Protestant lords. Bloody hell! In the past few weeks, I’ve had more suitors than a Paris-trained whore. He also hadn’t forgotten Caroline Ware.
Everyone wanted to talk with him and find out what he knew. It was more than a little ironic that rumbles of rebellion, upheaval, plots, and treason should do more to make him popular than all of Catherine’s efforts, but that was the way of it. Jamie Sinclair was a capable and pragmatic man. In times of trouble, such men were always prized.
There was no sign of Catherine. She was probably at some court function. Things hung on a delicate balance; one wrong move could be disastrous and he couldn’t afford any distractions, but he couldn’t seem to get her out of his mind. It still rankled that she’d played him for a fool, parading in tight breeches, begging for kisses, f launting herself before the king, and then sitting prettily with her bare foot in his lap. He hadn’t thought her the sort to play games, hot one moment and cool the next. Once the current round of deal making and espionage was over and things had settled down, he’d really take a mistress. An actress from the theatre. Some one easy and pretty who knew what she wanted and knew her way around a man.
He threw back the drink and poured another, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers on the desk. It was only then he noticed the letter. A note from Catherine? He’d have her hide if she’d taken to the streets of London at this hour on her own. She was no fool, though. Surely she knew better. He picked up the letter and began to read, and it all became clear. He’d been ambivalent about their divorce, but obviously she wasn’t. She was a wealthy woman tied to an impecunious, barely respectable man with a questionable lineage, and he’d been an even bigger fool than he’d thought.
Twenty-Two
Catherine stood in the glittering banquet hall, hoping for a glimpse of Jamie, but his continued absence from home or court wasn’t the only thing catching her attention. The court was buzzing with gossip about Lady Ware. It seemed a letter she’d been writing to a friend had disappeared from her desk and then appeared as if by magic amongst the king’s own correspondence. No one knew how it happened, but a copy was circulating the court, and everyone knew what it said.
It seemed she’d been entertaining His Majesty of late. Her missive bragged that he pined for her and was a slave to her every command. It complained that though his nose was as long as Charles Stuart’s had been, his prick was but half his brother’s size, and complained that the moniker Dismal Jimmy applied to his performance in bed. Needless to say, His Majesty wasn’t amused. The lady’s husband, obsequious and contrite, had banished her to the country before the mortified king banished them both from court. It was a delicious scandal and Whitehall rang with excited gossip as everyone delighted in trying to guess the author of the lady’s misfortune.