“My lord! You must not spoil me!”
“Sweetheart, I’ve not even begun to, but I shall. Until Twelfth Night.” She hadn’t time to reply before he nodded and, turning, left the room without another word.
Geoffrey Southwood strode down to the river bank and hailed a waterman to take him the short distance back to the palace. “Whitehall,” he said, climbing into the little boat and seating himself.
“Aye, me lord,” the waterman said as he pushed off into the stream. “I’m going to enjoy de Grenville’s barge very much,” the Earl said softly to himself. Then he grew somber. It was no longer a game. To his surprise, his heart had become deeply involved. He had not been entirely truthful in letting Skye believe that the Queen had kept him at Hampton Court. There had been several occasions over the past few weeks when he might have returned home. But he had chosen not to because he had wanted time to think.
She had been so very vulnerable that November night, and he could have taken her easily. She was young. She had known a great love. Widowed two years, she was now obviously ready for a man. His bet with de Grenville might have been won then and there. But she had trembled faintly in his arms, and somehow he couldn’t dishonor her. Geoffrey was amazed at himself, for he had never been soft, or overly concerned with the feelings of others.
When he had returned to his house that night he had found a plump little maid bringing wood to his bedchamber. His green eyes narrowed speculatively for desire rode him fiercely. He slid an arm about her little waist, and she giggled.
“What’s your name, lass?”
“Poll, m’lud.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen, St. Thomas’s Day past, m’lud.”
“Are you willing?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Are you a virgin?”
“Nay, sir,” she said as she shed her blouse, revealing breasts generous for one so young. Her skirts and petticoats rapidly followed, and she was naked.
There were no preliminaries. He loosened his codpiece and, pulling her to the bed, pushed her down and fell on her. He pumped into her methodically until she cried her pleasure. The ache in his manhood was finally soothed. Rolling off her, he lay quietly for a moment and then rose from the bed. Drawing a gold piece from his purse, he gave it to her. “Run along now, Poll.” The girl gathered up her garments and, giving him a saucy smile, ran from the bedroom.
He sighed now with the memory. He had been physically appeased, but by no means satisfied. It was Skye he had wanted. There was an innocence about her, though she had been married, widowed, and was a mother. That innocence made him want to love Skye, not betray her.
There was no doubt about it, the Earl of Lynmouth was feeling the pangs of real love for the first time in his life.
Robert Small was not thrilled by the invitation to the masque. “Dammit, Skye, I’m no gallant to be escorting you.”
“Now, Robbie, stop grumbling. Geoffrey suggested it himself, though I warned him you’d fuss. The Queen will be there, and he has promised to present us.”
His weathered face softened a little. “Well, I’d like to meet Young Bess, I would. What must I wear?”
“Nothing overly ornate. I promise. I have decided to go as ‘Night.’ Your costume will match mine. I’ll have them done, so you need go only for one or two fittings with the tailor.”
“Very well, poppet. I can’t let you go alone else those elegant Court popinjays overwhelm you.”
She kept her word, and on the night of the masque Robert Small found himself dressed quite simply though very elegantly indeed in a black velvet doublet sewn with tiny silver brilliants, and edged in silver lace at the neck and sleeves. The short round black breeches were lined in stiff horsehair to puff them out. He wore black silk stockings and thick-soled black leather shoes with silver rosettes. His short cape was also of black velvet, lined in cloth of silver and trimmed in sable.
Skye presented him with a beautiful golden sword, its handle sprinkled with small sapphires, rubies, and diamonds. To her vast amusement he swaggered before the receiving-room pier glass, a little smile playing across his lips.
“Do you think you might crow?” she teased.
He reddened. “Ah, give over, Skye. But damned if I don’t look as good as any dandy.”
“You do. I only wish Dame Cecily could see you.”
“Thank God she can’t! I’d never hear the end of it. She’s always trying to rig me out for some party or other, but I’ve avoided her so far. Now don’t you tell on me.”
Skye laughed. “All right, Robbie I’ll keep this a secret.”
He sighed, turned from the mirror, then eyed her critically. “Isn’t your neckline a bit low?”
