Darling Jasmine (26 page)

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Authors: Bertrice Small

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“Very well, my lord, I will do as you ask me, but I still think if it were up to me, I should send him away empty-handed,” the queen replied. “I do not trust your marquis at all. He is too eager to place the blame for Richard Stokes's death on Jasmine and James Leslie.” The queen arose from her chair. “He is too anxious for revenge, and I do believe that he thinks he can still get his hands on our grandson.”
“Nah, nah, Annie,” the king said. “He's a sensitive lad, is our Piers, but I am certain his heart is good. He is just disappointed over losing Jasmine Lindley.”
“He is and has always been too good-hearted,” the queen told George Villiers later that evening. “I had thought that St. Denis would be dismissed and sent home by now. How was he able to worm his way back into the king's favor again, Steenie?”
“While I was on His Majesty's business in the matter of the Puritan pastor,” George Villiers told the queen. “I think the king feels guilty over the matter of Lady Lindley. He knows it was a mistake to even to have suggested St. Denis court her, and now he is eager to make it up to him that the marquis not think badly of him. St. Denis was so adamant about Glenkirk's possible involvement in Lord Stokes's death, that the king dictated a message to James Leslie and his bride asking them to remain in England until the matter was resolved. Then the marquis took the king's message, and personally had it dispatched to Queen's Malvern. I'm certain it was just the wedding gift the bride and groom were expecting,” Villiers concluded.
“Wretched creature!” the queen said, irritated. “I can only imagine what Jemmie and Jasmine must have thought when they received such a message. Well, I hope the matter will be settled before the autumn, when they intend to leave for Scotland.”
“When is their wedding?” Villiers asked.
Queen Anne thought a moment, and then she said, “Why, I do believe it is tomorrow, Steenie. Tomorrow is the fifteenth day of June, isn't it, my dear boy?”
“It is,” he agreed.
“Then it is tomorrow. Ohh, I hope they will be happy, Steenie! Jasmine has had enough sorrow in her life for any woman. I just want her to be happy. Our Hal would want it too, may God assoil his sweet soul.”
“Amen,” said George Villiers, who had not known Prince Henry, except by reputation. “And may Lady Lindley and Lord Leslie have a long and happy life together!”
“Amen to that, Steenie,” the queen replied.
“A long and happy life, my dears,” said Robin Southwood, the earl of Lynmouth, as he raised his goblet to his niece and James Leslie.
She was a wife once again, Jasmine thought, smiling happily as she accepted the toast and good wishes from her family. Standing before the Anglican priest saying her wedding vows for the third time, with a third husband, Jasmine prayed that this marriage would not end in disaster as her previous two had. She was struggling very hard with herself to believe what Jemmie and her grandmother said. That the deaths of Jamal Khan and Rowan Lindley had been mischance, and nothing more. Were they right? She had certainly been happy with both of her previous husbands. Now she was being given a third opportunity. Was three the charm for her? Jasmine Leslie prayed it would be so.
“You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen,” the earl of Glenkirk whispered in her ear.
“I have certainly had enough practice,” she teased him with a radiant smile.
They exited the small chapel at Queen's Malvern. Once again, as at her wedding to Rowan Lindley, the four carved oak benches had not been enough to hold all the family, and they had stood about the room and spilled out into the hall. Her wedding to Rowan had been at dawn, and the rising sun had come through the stained-glass windows, casting shadows of color on the marble altar with its Irish lace cloth; reflecting off the gold crucifix and the tall candlesticks. Today, however, the wedding had been celebrated at noon, and outside of the house a soft rain was falling. Some remarked on it, hoping it did not portend any misfortune, but Jasmine laughed away their concerns. Her first two marriages had been held on perfectly beautiful days, and each had ended in violent death. A gray day was the least of her concerns.
The wedding feast, originally scheduled for the lawns, had now been set up in the hall, and the busy servants were dashing back and forth with food and drink. Skye had spared no expense with this celebration. Because it was summer, all her children had come to see their niece married to the earl of Glenkirk. Even Ewan O'Flaherty and his wife, Gwynneth Southwood, had arrived from Ireland. The Master of Ballyhennessey was fifty-nine, a large, ruddy-featured man with iron gray hair. He was a plain Irish country squire and happy to be so. His brother, Murrough, age fifty-eight, was virtually retired from the sea now; and content to remain in Devon, supervising the comings and goings of the O'Malley-Small trading fleet. His wife, Joan Southwood, was glad to have her husband home after all his years at sea; yet despite his comings and goings, Murrough had managed to sire three sons and three daughters on his adoring wife.
Willow, the countess of Alcester, and her husband, James Edwards, had arrived several days earlier with four of their eight children, three in-laws, and several grandchildren. Only their youngest son, William, was yet unmarried, but then he was only twenty. Of all Willow's children, it was William whose looks betrayed his Spanish ancestry. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Willow's father. Just looking at him took Skye back decades in time to when she had been the adored wife of the man known as Khalid el Bey, the Great Whoremaster of Algiers, who was in actuality a renegade Spaniard. Willow, of course, had never been told her father's more colorful history, and believed him to be nothing more than a merchant, who was estranged from his family. Watching her prim and oh-so-proper English daughter attempting to manage everything and fussing at everyone, Skye wickedly considered that one day before she died she must tell Willow of Khalid el Bey. That would certainly take her down a peg or two.
And following the fifty-five-year-old Willow was Robin Southwood, the earl of Lynmouth, now fifty-two, and his still beautiful wife, Angel. Then came Deirdre Burke, age forty-seven, and her husband, Lord Blackthorne; and her brother, Padraic, Lord Burke, forty-six; and his wife, Valentina; and of course, lastly, Velvet de Marisco, the countess of BrocCairn, at forty-two, the youngest of Skye's children, with her husband, Alexander Gordon, the earl of BrocCairn. They had brought with them Jasmine's five half brothers, who ranged in age from twenty-two to fifteen. Sybilla, Jasmine's stepsister, the countess of Kempe, and her husband, Tom Ashburne, had also come to the wedding, along with Jasmine's great-uncle Conn, Lord Bliss, and his wife Aidan. And, of course, Jasmine's devoted servants, Adali, Toramalli, and Rohana, were in attendance.
Willow had fretted privately to her siblings that holding the marriage feast in the hall would bring back unhappy memories for Skye. It would be the first time the family had gathered together since Adam de Marisco's unexpected death five and a half months ago. “She is old, and this could hurt her,” Willow said, genuinely concerned for their mother.
“She has planned everything herself, sister,” Deirdre ventured, gently. “She wants it this way. She cannot avoid the hall forever because Papa died there, can she, Willow?”
Willow opened her mouth to issue a scathing retort, but her brother, Robert Southwood, spoke first.
“Willow,” he said mischievously, yet seriously, “you have never been as young as our mother is, even today.”
“As usual, Robin, you speak in riddles,” replied Willow.
“You were born an old woman, Willow,” he told her bluntly. “Mama will
never
be old but in years. Her heart is young. It always has been, and it always will be. She will not live in the past as so many of her generation do. Adam, God assoil his generous soul, is dead, and gone from us. But Mama is alive, and will continue to live until the day God calls her home to him. I know you mean well, but do not bleat at her about the wedding feast in the hall. Where else can it be held in such weather?”
“Well, I don't know why such an ado is being made anyway,” Willow grumbled. “After all, it is Jasmine's third marriage, and we are a house in mourning for our father.”
“The
fuss
is being made,” said James Edwards, Willow's husband, in a rare show of irritation, “because Adam would have wanted it that way, and my lady Skye knows it. Now, cease your carping, my dear. You grow tiresome to the ear. I shall walk in the gardens now, madame, and you shall accompany me.”
“But it is raining!”
Willow protested.
“Misting is more like it,” the earl of Alcester corrected his wife. “It will do your complexion good, madame. Come along,” and he took her firmly by the arm, almost shoving her from the room where they had all congregated just prior to the wedding service. “We'll be back before the service begins, my dear.” And, of course, they were, Willow chastened.
Now the family came together in the hall of Queen's Malvern to celebrate the marriage that had just taken place. The tables groaned with the bounty of Skye's hospitality. There was a whole side of beef that had been roasted over an open spit; platters of lamb chops; capons in plum sauce, and ducks in orange sauce; a huge country ham; crusty pies of game birds and others of rabbit; whole river trouts on beds of cress; two barrels of oysters in seawater; jellied eel; bowls of new peas; and bowls of tiny carrots in cream sauce; along with dishes of braised lettuces from the kitchen gardens; a wheel of hard cheddar and one of Normandy Brie; stone crocks of sweet butter; and round cottage loaves of freshly baked bread. There was wine, and ale, and cider to drink. And lastly strawberries, clotted cream, and small sugar wafers, which were served with a very sweet marsala wine, an old tradition to wish the bride and groom good fortune.
A number of toasts were drunk to James and Jasmine Leslie, some of them warm and loving; some of them wickedly ribald. Jasmine grew more sentimental with each goblet of wine she consumed. She remembered her wedding to Jamal Khan. She had been decked out in scarlet and gold, in garments covered in diamonds and rubies, as befitted a royal Mughal princess. She had just been thirteen. When she had married Rowan Lindley, the marquis of Westleigh, she had worn the wedding gown both her mother and her grandmother had worn. It had been apple green silk with gold embroidery. She had been sixteen and a half.
Now she was almost twenty-five, and had taken a third husband. Her bridal gown was heavy cream silk brocade. The low square bodice was embroidered with swirls of tiny seed pearls over which was draped a creamy delicate lace collar. The V of underskirt showing was striped with narrow bands of cloth of silver. The skirt was bell-shaped and had a narrow waist. The gown's sleeves were divided by narrow silver ribbons and slashed to show cloth of silver. The cuffs were bands of soft lace. Beneath the ankle-length gown Jasmine wore a beribboned chemise, several layers of silk and lawn petticoats, and silk stockings embroidered with tiny gold bumblebees. Her shoes of creamy brocade were decorated with pearls; and her dark hair, in its chignon, was adorned with pearl-encrusted silk roses, and narrow silver ribbons.
“Are you dreaming?” her husband murmured in her ear. “If you are, I hope it is of me, darling Jasmine.” James Leslie took Jasmine's hand in his, turning it over and kissing the palm with passionate lips. It was the happiest day of his life. He well remembered the first time he had met her. He had come to Queen's Malvern with the king, and it was thought that the widowed earl of Glenkirk might make a suitable husband for Sybilla Gordon, Jasmine's stepsister, who fancied herself in love with him. He had been introduced to Jasmine, however, and had fallen in love with her immediately. That had been ten years ago. Now he brought her hand to his lips, nibbling at her fingers. “How much longer must we be polite?” he whispered to her.
“There is to be dancing,” she replied softly.
“Oh?”
“And some sort of entertainment, I believe,” she told him.
“Could we not provide our own entertainment?” he suggested.
“Jemmie!”
she half scolded him. “This wedding means so much to Grandmama. You must learn patience, my lord. It is not as if we have not tasted of sensual delights before.” She made an attempt to regain possession of her hand, but he would not release it.
Instead he sucked wickedly on each of her fingers, and, when he had finished, he drew her hand beneath the table with its linen cloth, and pressed it against his groin. “As you can see, madame, I am very hungry. I will wager your grandmother would understand my sentiments.”
He was hard as a rock, and Jasmine struggled to keep the blush from her cheeks, yet she could not move her hand away. For a moment she stroked him, squirming slightly in her chair as thoughts of their previous encounters rose up in her head, and then she shuddered with a small release of passion.
“My lord!”
she pleaded softly.
He laughed low. “You are as hot for me as I am for you, my darling Jasmine. Very well then. We shall dance and watch the little entertainments your grandmama has provided for us; but when they are all over, madame, I shall take you to bed and drive from your head all thoughts of anyone, or anything but me!” He then relinquished the slender hand he had held captive.

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