Amethyst (49 page)

For two seconds, at least.

"AND WHEN HARRY
kisses me…" Lydia shuddered expressively. "Oh, I cannot think how to put it."

"Ooh, la, la?" Madame Beaumont suggested, putting the finishing touches on Amy's face.

Lydia laughed. "Ooh, la, la, exactly!"

"Ooh, la, la?" Amy echoed distractedly.

Madame Beaumont helped her to stand. "You're a million miles away, my lady."

"What? Oh…yes, I'm afraid you're right." Sighing, Amy set down the amethyst necklace she'd brought from Greystone. The deep violet pear-shape gems glistened on the dark wood of the dressing table, beckoning her to hold them again. She flexed her hands and forced a smile. "I was daydreaming about wax and knives."

"
Pourquoi?
"

"Lady Greystone used to be a jeweler," Lydia explained, hiding a smile of her own.

"Oh, I see."

Madame looked as though she didn't see at all, but she didn't seem shocked or disapproving, either. Amy gave the older woman's hand a quick squeeze. "I cannot thank you enough for coming." Having received her frantic messengered note yesterday, Madame had been waiting at the London town house this morning, gown in hand. "You saved my life."

"Surely you exaggerate." Amusement twitched on the seamstress's lips as she drew off Amy's dressing gown and laid a gentle palm on her abdomen.

Amy jumped a bit, then relaxed. Of late, she'd noticed everyone thought they had a right to touch her, as though her body had become pubic property since she'd swelled with the child.

Madame slipped a lacy new chemise over Amy's head, and Lydia held out the gown. "
I
never exaggerate." The blond maid giggled. "Lud, my Harry is so virile."

"Pray tell, Lydia, where did you find this
amour
?" Madame set the curling iron to heat in the glowing embers of the fire. "This paragon of masculinity?"

Amy grinned. "In our stables. Colin recently hired him to relieve Benchley of some duties. Your dream man, is he, Lydia?"

"Hmm," Lydia murmured noncommittally. Hiding her face, she made herself busy adjusting the gown over the bulge of Amy's stomach. "In my bedroom, yes, but…all is not perfect with Harry."

The seamstress pushed Amy into a chair and set to work on her hair. "Have you talked to your
amour
about your problems?"

Lydia puttered around the room, sighing as she folded Amy's dressing gown. "I've tried. I suppose I should try again."

"I wish you luck." Amy frowned into the dressing table mirror. "Men don't care to discuss our problems. They always think they know what's best."

Madame's eyes met her reflection; her hands plaited faster.

"It's true," Amy muttered defensively. "When I talked to Papa about my marriage, he disregarded my feelings entirely."

"Not all men are like that." Madame's fingers caught and pulled at her hair. "Not my François."

"Surely not the earl?" Lydia's face appeared beside Madame's in the mirror, puzzled. "You confide in him, don't you? He loves you so."

Did he really? Amy bit her lip. It was pointless to confide in Colin, anyway; he'd made it clear before they wed that a countess would never run a shop. And he'd become more and more closed and distracted over the months.

The other women were still staring at her. "Oh, I suppose you're right," she said. "It's just one of my silly notions."

"She's breeding," Madame said knowingly.

"That doesn't make me a nimwit," Amy huffed.

Lydia nodded, ignoring her outburst. "I've seen five different ladies through five different pregnancies. They're all this way."

"Hmmph." Looking down to her crossed arms, Amy glimpsed her cleavage exposed in the purple dress's plunging neckline. "God in heaven," she whispered, her hands fluttering up to cover her bare chest.

Madame's laugh tinkled through the room. "You'll be the most modest lady at court, just you wait and see."

With luck, the brazen display would draw attention away from her unfashionable high waistline. But Amy felt daring and embarrassed at the same time. She hoped Madame was right.

"Voilà."
Madame tied the last ribbon in Amy's hair.

While Amy watched in the dressing table's looking glass, Lydia clasped the amethyst necklace around her throat. Aching to make something like it again, Amy's fingers moved to touch the twenty-carat gem that dangled between her breasts. She gazed at its flashing brilliance in the mirror.

"Milady?" Lydia held out the matching earrings. "Shall I put these on for you?"

"Heavens, no." Amy took a deep breath and blew it out, then fastened the earrings on her lobes. Shaking her head to set them swinging from their clustered diamond tops, she smiled.

"That's more like it." Lydia slipped a simple amethyst and diamond bracelet onto Amy's left wrist, where it would complement her heart-shaped amethyst wedding ring. The maid stood back and grinned. "Cuds bobs, if you don't look the perfect lady. I'll just go tell the lord you're ready to leave."

"Come, see if your Lydia wasn't telling the bare truth." Taking her hand, Madame helped Amy rise from the chair and led her to the pier glass.

The rich purple silk gown shimmered as Amy approached the mirror, beaming at her reflection. The seamstress had worked her magic yet again. A gold tissue overskirt looped up, held on each side with golden bows, while matching gold bows marched down her full sleeves. The purple underskirt sparkled with hundreds of golden stars.

A low whistle of appreciation came from behind her. She turned to see Colin leaning against the doorjamb, his gaze fastened to her deep, scooped neckline. She melted a little at the sight of him, even after six months of marriage.

He was devastatingly male. Would she ever get used to it? She thought not. Not in six months, or six years, or sixty years, even.

"You'll be the most beautiful woman at Whitehall," he said softly.

"And you, the most beautiful man."

Colin laughed. He was dressed, predictably, in the same black velvet suit he'd worn for their wedding, identical down to her cameo pinned in the lavish lace of his cravat. His crisp, dark hair was loose and fell in waves to his shoulders.

Amy felt a lump of emotion swell in her throat. She was so lucky to have him. Their marriage was beyond wonderful, and she had no cause to dwell on melancholy thoughts, especially on a day like today.

She moved to him and looped her arms around his neck, threading her fingers in the hair at his nape. She heard Madame bustling about, putting away cosmetics, but the sounds seemed to fade as Colin brought his lips to hers.

He kissed her gently, and she tried to pull him closer, but he tugged away and grinned.

"Later, love. We wouldn't want to spoil Madame Beaumont's accomplished artwork."

Amy's face flamed, and she stole a glance at Madame. But the seamstress was studiously looking elsewhere.

"Shall we?" Colin curled an arm around her waist and drew her from the room.

Was she really on her way to Whitehall Palace, to be presented to England's king and queen? She, Amy Goldsmith, merchant's daughter?

It didn't seem possible.

"Why so quiet, love?" Colin interrupted her thoughts. "You're not worried about tonight, are you?"

"A little, maybe. But…"

Her chest ached with the need to tell someone, and she shot him an appraising glance. But then she heard the old words again,
You cannot have everything
, and God help her, she couldn't tell if it were her father's voice or Colin's.

"It's nothing."

"But what?" The fingers of one hand drummed against his thigh.

"Heavens, Colin." Forcing a smile, she pulled him toward the front door before he could question her further. "You know how moody breeding women are!"

AMY TREMBLED AS SHE
stood in line outside the Presence Chamber, a mixture of anticipation and sheer terror shuddering through her. Colin clasped her hand tighter and looked down at her sympathetically. "They're only people, love," he whispered.

Oh, but what magnificent people they were! Before her stood a lady in a satin gown of deep magenta studded with pearls, with an ermine-trimmed train so long that Amy was forced to stand ten feet behind her. She turned to peek at a lady wearing a splendid gown of rich turquoise with a silver lace overlay, then spun back and clapped a hand to her open mouth. Why, the woman's bosom was all but falling out of her low neckline, and the tops of her nipples were showing!

Beside her, Colin chuckled. He raised her hand and pressed his warm lips to the back in a soft kiss.

Amy looked up at him, offering a shaky smile. She was surrounded by men in long, elaborate crimped periwigs. Their satin and velvet clothing dripped with ribbons and lace in such profusion as to rival the ladies. Their fingers were bedecked with garish gemstones, their necks adorned with ropes of huge, costly pearls. Still, she was certain that Colin was the most stunning male specimen within twenty miles of Whitehall.

They advanced slowly, until suddenly it was their turn to be announced. The usher puffed out his chest and took a deep breath. "The Earl of Greystone. The Countess of Greystone."

As they entered the Presence Chamber, the throng of spectators in the gallery above leaned forward en masse. Heads turned to ogle the new arrivals. Amy heard a distinct murmur from the lords and ladies lining the walkway.

Gliding down the endless aisle on Colin's arm, she stared straight ahead. "What are they all saying?" she asked low, trying to keep her lips from moving.

With an easy smile, Colin inclined his head toward hers. "They're saying, 'Ah…the rumors are true. Lord Greystone jilted Lady Priscilla for an uncommon beauty.'"

"Shh!" Amy blushed and giggled. "They're all looking at us."

"Of course they are. See those ladies talking behind their fans? They're saying, 'Such a shame the earl's no longer available. But at least his gorgeous lady is taken and therefore out of the competition.'"

Amy almost tripped. "I was never
in
the competition," she chided. "I was only a merchant's daughter."

"Tsk. They're deluding themselves, anyway. You may be out of the competition for marriage, but at Charles's court, it's assumed one is always available for an
affaire d'amour
. It's taken for granted that wives are as unfaithful as husbands; the men here demand fidelity only from their mistresses."

"Not all the men, I'm hoping." She looked up at Colin with a sparkle in her eye.

He raised one brow devilishly. "Oh, there might be one or two holdouts."

In spite of her anxiety, Amy grinned, but the smile faded as her attention was drawn ahead, to where Their Majesties sat awaiting her.

Their thrones were set side-by-side on a raised platform, framed with a swagged canopy of crimson velvet bedecked in silver and gold. But it wasn't the magnificence of the setting that awed Amy.

It was the king himself.

The most compelling figure she'd ever seen, His Majesty sat tall on his throne, dwarfing his queen, his long legs sprawled carelessly before him. Though he'd already reached the advanced age of thirty-seven, his long, shiny black hair held nary a hint of gray. His face was lean, with a thin, curly black mustache over a generous, sensual mouth.

The prospect of actually meeting him was terrifying.

The magenta-garbed lady rose and moved out of the way, swishing her fur-edged train behind her. When Charles looked up, his heavy-lidded black eyes settled on Amy. A small smile twitched at his lips, and Amy's heart clenched in her chest.

Colin drew her forward. He walked with the sure steps of a man greeting an old friend, while Amy's feet hesitated along the carpeted approach. When they reached the dias and Colin knelt down, Amy tore her gaze from King Charles and dipped into a deep curtsy.

She looked back up into the large, liquid brown eyes of Queen Catharine of Braganza.

Queen Catharine's olive-tinted features were pleasant rather than pretty. Tiny and dark, with a long nose and high forehead, she looked very, very foreign. She smiled at Amy, revealing small teeth that protruded slightly.