“No, Robbie, it isn’t,” she said softly, “it’s the height of fashion. Now let me have the mirror, if you can tear yourself away.” He sniffed in mock offense and she stuck her tongue out at him.
“I’ll see the coach is ready, Mistress Peacock,” he said, striding grandly from the room.
Skye stood quietly gazing at her image. Her black velvet dress was magnificent, and she knew she should eclipse every woman at the masque. The low, square neckline was unrelieved by any lace at all, but offered a very daring show of white breasts instead. The sleeves, full to just below the elbow, were slashed to show silver lace inserts. The silver lace was repeated at her wrists. The black velvet bell-shaped skirt parted to reveal a black brocade underskirt which had moons, stars, planets, and comets embroidered on it in silver, pearls, and diamonds. Her black silk stockings with their silver lace rosette garters were sewn with tiny diamond brilliants, as were her narrow, pointed, high-heeled black silk shoes.
Her hair, parted in the center, was arranged in a soft chignon at the nape of her neck. This new French fashion would also set her apart from the other women at the masque. They would still be wearing their hair puffed out at each side. Her pearl-and-diamond hair ornaments were shaped like stars and tiny crescent moons.
Her necklace was a magnificently opulent display of blue-white diamonds. There was a matching bracelet. And in her ears were pear-shaped diamonds that fell from baroque pearls. On the fingers of her left hand she wore rings set with a great flashing round diamond, a heart-shaped ruby, and a sapphire. On her right hand was a large, irregularly shaped baroque pearl, and a square-cut emerald.
Her eyes were highlighted with just a touch of blue kohl, but her cheeks were pink with excitement and needed no artifice. Her perfume had been made this past summer from the damask roses at Wren Court, and sent up to London by Dame Cecily at Christmas.Her mirror told her she was perfection, and for the first time in months Skye felt completely confident despite the fact that tonight, when she arrived at the Earl’s house, she would be entering a new and alien world.
“Ready, lass?”
She whirled around and, picking up her silver mask, said brightly, “I’m ready, Robbie.” He carefully draped a sable-lined and-trimmed long cape about her shoulders, and descending the stairs together they walked swiftly from the house to the coach. “How silly,” remarked Skye, “when I live so nearby to have to take my coach.”
“You could hardly walk. That wouldn’t make a grand entrance at all, now would it? The beautiful, mysterious, Señora Goya del Fuentes should make a good first impression. I can guarantee that within the next half-hour every noble popinjay at Court will be falling over himself to meet you.”
“Oh, Robbie,” she laughed, “you sound like a suspicious father.”
The coach quickly reached the gates of Lynmouth House and drove up the drive to the brightly lit palace. Arriving at the front door Skye became aware, for the first time, of the grandeur of the building. The dark-red brick palace stood four stories high, towering over the river and its own beautiful, carefully designed gardens. Built early in the reign of Henry VIII, it had all the sprawling, boisterous magnificence of the monarch himself. It was considered a perfect example of Tudor architecture. Footmen in the azure and gold colors of the Southwood family ran to open the carriage door and help the occupants out. Skye took Robbie’s arm and entered the big marble foyer where a footman hurried forward to take Skye’s cloak. Several women guests were standing nearby and as her gown was revealed, they gasped. The corners of her mouth twitched, but she feigned indifference. Slipping her hand through Robbie’s arm again, they began to ascend the wide staircase.
“Well done, lass,” he murmured softly, and she winked mischievously at him. They gained the landing and stood in the wide arch to the ballroom, waiting until the majordomo asked, “Names, please?”
“Sir Robert Small, and Señora Goya del Fuentes.”
Skye’s dark feathery eyebrows shot up.SirRobert, indeed. Once again, Robbie had managed to surprise her.
“Sir Robert Small, and Señora Goya del Fuentes,” called out the majordomo, and suddenly the room became quiet and they faced a sea of upturned faces. Slowly, the two black-clad figures descendedthe three wide steps. Geoffrey Southwood, resplendent in white and gold, came forward to take Skye’s hands and kiss them. She felt a delicious tingle race through her.
“Damme, madam, you outshine every woman here! Good evening, Sir Robert, I see you decided to use your title tonight.”
“I would do honor to your revels, m’lord. I thank you for including me.”
“May I steal Skye from you, sir?”
“But of course, m’lord. I see de Grenville across the room, and I’ve been wanting to talk to him.” Robbie bowed and walked away from them, his carriage erect and proud.
“The dancing won’t begin until the Queen arrives,” he said. “Walk with me now, and I’ll show you some of my house.”
“But your guests—”
“—are far too busy eating, drinking, and gossiping to notice my absence. Besides, if another man stares at you, I’m apt to find myself involved in a duel. Come, madam. I want you to myself.” And allowing her no further protest, he led her from the ballroom and through a small door. “The picture gallery,” he announced, “complete with a full complement of Southwood portraits.”
“I would have expected them to hang at your seat in Devon,” she remarked.
“They do when I’m there. These family paintings have traveled between London and Devon as often as I have. An eccentricity of mine.” For a moment they walked in silence, and then they stopped. He said simply, “Skye.” And there was such longing in his voice that she thrilled.
Looking shyly up at him, she wondered at the intense passion in his lime-green eyes. Her palms flattened against his broad chest as though she would hold him off. “Say nothing, my darling,” he commanded her, and brushed her lips with his.
“Geoffrey!” she whispered frantically.
His mouth moved gently over her face, down the side of her neck, across the tops of her breasts. He buried his face in the deep scented valley and felt her heart jumping erratically beneath his mouth. “Let me love you, Skye. Dear God, how I ache for wanting you, sweetheart.” They stood together like that, the black figure and the gold-and-white one, not moving.
There was a discreet scratching at the door, and Southwood instantly stepped back. “Enter!”
The door swung open, “My lord, the Queen’s barge has been sighted but a few minutes from here,” announced the footman.
“Very good.” The footman discreetly withdrew. “I must go to welcome Her Majesty. I’ll take you back to Robbie, my darling, and we’ll talk again later.”
