She averted her face from his gaze, closing her eyes for a moment and tried to wish it all away. If only she merely dreamt! What would Lord Dorchester, the court's most notorious libertine, want with her? Allisandra, by contrast to his experience of life, might just as well have been a cloistered nun. The King had kept her sheltered. How could this be happening to her?
A glance at her captor confirmed that he still watched her. She did not relish it, and she took a wrap, earlier discarded in favor of trying to escape, and put it around her cloak, enclosing herself in it tightly. As though he understood her thoughts, her wish to escape his gaze, Dorchester extinguished the interior lamp, leaving the carriage in almost pitch darkness. There were outdoor lamps for the coachman, but the glow was swallowed up by the dark night, and Allisandra tried to compose her thoughts while taking refuge in the dark as if it were a palpable thing and could offer protection from him. If only!
She needed to gather her wits, to make sense of what could be afoot. Dorchester. His name alone filled her with dread.
“You realize the King will hear of this,” she said, hoping to sound ominous. From the shrouded figure sitting across from her, she heard, “I do.”
“I daresay it will be the Tower for you—or worse.”
He made no reply.
As she sat there in the silence that ensued, thinking she was achieving a calmness of sorts, a fresh wave of panic began to creep up her body, for she could think of no explanation for what was occurring; Growing stiff with fright she wondered if she was going to be like the ladies who swooned from such things. She hoped not.
“May I speak?”
His sudden words made her jump, but they were welcome. Perhaps he would explain himself. Explain the duchess’ actions, too. She must learn Elizabeth’s reasons for putting her into the power of such a shameless rake as Dorchester. Without answering him, she heard movement and suddenly he was there beside her, which gave credence to all her worst fears.
“Do not touch me!” she cried, throwing herself as near to the wall opposite as possible. She pulled her cape around her again, as tightly as she could.
After a brief silence he said, in a low tone that could only be called kind, “Do not be afraid. You needn't fear me.” When she made no answer, he added, “I shan't lay a finger upon you without your leave.”
“Then you shan't lay a finger upon me!” His words were unexpected reassurance, however, and she turned her head to get a curious glimpse of him. She could see, with the window behind him, that he was looking at her, but in the darkness it was impossible to make out his face. They had met previously at court, of course, and seen each other on occasion at Whitehall since the King had brought her out nearly a year ago.
Everyone agreed that Lord Dorchester had a beautiful countenance, with large, dark eyes, a manly nose and mouth, smooth complexion, and long, thick dark curly locks such as were fashionable at the time. In addition, he possessed a sharp wit and wrote poems that made ladies blush but kept men— including the King—well amused.
He was considered dangerous on account of those good looks for many women found him irresistible, and he took full advantage of it. Allisandra had marked what was commonly called, his 'angelic' face, only to her mind she found it indelibly stamped by the habitual cynicism and general look of debauchery that characterized him. Aside from a few reluctant glances at the fine figure he cut, she therefore had paid absolutely no attention to him other than a polite nod of greeting when it was called for. And his behaviour to her had been no different, for they each recognized in the other a great unsuitability.
It occurred to her now, in fact, that she had at least once been the brunt of one of his jokes, when he had referred to her in some verses as the “ice princess.” “Ice” because she was notoriously cold to the warmest applications for her hand (yet this was simply because she had not been approached by a suitor who met with both her and the King's approval. And she needed His Majesty's approval, being his ward.)
The “princess” was merely a reference to her protected status at court which again was on account of being a ward of the monarch's. In the poem, Dorchester had also referenced her beauty, calling it “great”--but what did that matter, when he saw fit to ridicule behaviour on her part which was merely proper?
The man was a libertine, an irreverent wit. Lady Allisandra was a devotee, virginal, and neither a coquette nor whore, the sort of women Lord Dorchester was usually drawn to. What could he want with her? Indeed, how could this be the selfsame man? Why would the duchess have put Allisandra into his power? A man known for his illicit liaisons! Suddenly, she had a thought.
“Are you really Lord Dorchester?” she asked.
“I am.”
“
John Wilton
, Lord Dorchester?”
A pause.
A sigh.
“I am.”
She stared at the shape of his head—he wore the customary large, feathered hat of the cavalier, and below it she could just imagine the dark locks hanging on either side of his “angelic” face. That face—hiding the heart of a devil! She struggled to contain her distress.
“I assure you, you are safe in my hands,” he said firmly, as if aware of the general direction of her thoughts. “I mean you no harm.” His voice was deep but light, and yet somehow grave.
“Though I have the reputation of being an innocent;” she said, “I prithee, do not think me ignorant as well.”
I am acquainted with what you are famous for
, she added, but only in her thoughts. Safe in his hands! Had any lady of her acquaintance ever been safe with Lord Dorchester? Hardly.
After a momentary silence, he returned, “I think of you as many things, but 'ignorant' is not one of them.” Minutes of silence passed. His last words troubled her, for why should such a man think of her at all? She was cold, and tired and hungry, and on top of all that, she could not relax for one second. Not while she was being abducted by this scoundrel! Taking her —where?
She peeked in his direction and immediately the head turned towards her.
“Yes? Don't be afraid. You may ask me anything.”
“Where are you taking me?”
He answered slowly, “Huxton Hall.”
She let out a breath of shock. Her heart sank.
“Do not be alarmed,” he added. “You'll be safe and well taken care of.”
“Are you on an errand for the King? Has he sent you for me?” This did not seem likely, and yet, it would be the only satisfactory answer she could think of. Again he responded slowly.
“No.”
She made a muffled exclamation of some sort, and thought frantically of what she might do to help herself in this dire situation. Huxton Hall was an ancient property that had passed to the Earl of Dorchester with the title. It somewhat calmed her, for men did not take women to the family seat for supposed purposes of indiscretion. But she would be even more firmly within his power once there, and she assuredly did not want that to happen.
“I need to stop.” It occurred to her that if they stopped at a road-house or inn, she might be able to solicit help.
“We're only just off,” he said, lightly.
“
You
are only just off,” she answered. “I have been in this coach longer than you.”
“Very well.” He immediately struck the wall forcefully with one well-shaped, booted leg, which she could see perfectly in outline while he moved.
“What, here, on the road?” she asked. “I need to stop at an Inn.” The carriage slowed to a halt, and there was silence.
“Do you—or do you not—have personal needs to attend to?” There was nothing particularly ominous in his tone, but Allisandra felt a fresh wave of alarm.
“I do.”
At her words, he felt beneath the seat as though searching for something. Finding it, he pulled out a chamber pot, which he proceeded to place gingerly upon the seat beside her. She looked at him, aghast.
“I shall wait outside the door,” he said, and rose. “I will give you five minutes, and if you need longer, you may tell me.”
She was about to let him know in no uncertain terms that she would never make use of that—that chamber pot in a coach, when she silenced herself. He was outside the carriage and it was a sudden relief. She heard the thud of his boots as they hit the road, and then the murmuring between Dorchester and his postilions, who had jumped off their perch from the back of the coach.
Without having planned it at all, Allisandra slid sideways in her seat and silently pressed down the handle of the door opposite to where the men were. It opened with a light 'click,' and she hesitated, listening. Still hearing the murmurs of speech, she slipped silently out and into the dark night.
The voices were louder out here, and she crept to the end of the coach and peeked behind it. Good! No one in sight. Gathering her ample skirts in her hands, she began to carefully pick her way along her side of the rutted road. Her plan was to get a good minute's distance away quietly, at which time she would make an all-out run for it. They hadn't been driving for that long, and with luck and God's providence—she could make it back to Langley within an hour.
Picking her way around rocks and ruts from the wheels of coaches in the road—little were her small heeled shoes intended for such things--she turned to peek back, once. She could see the man and his two servants on one side of the carriage, and then, dizzy with the hope of freedom, began to move in earnest. She had never had much call for running aside from playing with a royal niece or two, but she put her heart into it, now.
“The laidy, melord!”
She heard the cry with a sinking heart, but tried to move faster than before. There was no more need to be quiet, and Allisandra hoisted her skirts and cape to her knees—no, it wasn't enough, higher, still, and--
ran.
(Three Weeks Earlier)
Lady Allisandra had scarcely left court since she had come to her own apartments at Whitehall as a protected ward of the King. So when the message came that she was to pack off for Langley, she was surprised, but not displeased. Without even seeing His Majesty, and with barely time to kiss the hand of the Queen, she was hurried off by footmen. Her maids were stopped at the entrance to the grand coach that awaited, much to Lady Allisandra's astonishment, but the explanation was that the duchess had already appointed maids for the girl, and there was no time to petition the King to change plans.
His Majesty had chosen a trusted minister, one Lord Weldon by name, to accompany her to Langley. Any other man and Allisandra would have refused to go. But, since Weldon was old enough to be her grandfather and greatly trusted by His Majesty, she thought it best not to insult him—or the King—by being squeamish. She was smarting from the slight of not having her own maids with her and not in the best of moods, therefore, when they set out.
Lord Weldon added to her discomfort by looking her over rather blatantly as he sat across from her in the coach. She pulled her cape around her as they set off. It was a large, grand coach and four, much larger than was necessary for such a trip, but as it belonged to Lord Weldon, and saved the King the trouble of sending an equipage of his own, it would do.
“It was gracious of His Majesty to grant me the privilege of delivering you to Her Grace.” Lady Allisandra nodded—just enough to be polite--and looked back to the scenery outside. ‘Gracious’ was not the word she would choose to characterize his choice of escort, but it was not her place to question the monarch.
“One would think the King was actually displeased with his favorite ward,” he added, to her annoyance. It was a remark intended to cause a response in her, but my lady steadfastly refused to rise to it, and continued studying the passing landscape.
“I daresay it must displease you to be en route to Langley? The duchess is well nigh old enough to be your mother, and her family seat is not known for, shall we say, amusements? Particularly as you are so accustomed to the diversions at court.”
Allisandra was goaded, and she snapped, “I happen to find in Her Grace one of my dearest and best of friends. I assure you,” she added, “nothing could please me more at this time than Langley.”
He eyed her steadily, his mouth set in a perpetual frown that seemed deeper at the moment than it had earlier. The sound of the team of horses pounding the road was the only one for some time.
Lady Allisandra was relieved when they stopped at a posting house for a meal. Not knowing how long a distance they had yet to go, she ate the food slowly to postpone her time in the carriage with his lordship. Too soon, however, he came up to her.
“Unless you wish to stop for the evening, we must leave now. There's a long stretch of lonely road ahead, and I daresay you'd prefer not to be set upon by highwaymen in the dark.”
