Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2) (13 page)

“Indeed it was, sir. Lord and Lady Newport, might I introduce the Right Reverend Edward Durham. You have him to thank for your happiness.”

“Oh, Charles, you didn’t! You couldn’t have!” Hope’s face drained of all color as the depths of his perfidy sank in. She had thought the marriage ceremony part of an elaborate pageant and nothing more. Charles’ surprise contribution to the elaborate entertainment she had arranged. But in one cruel moment her fairytale came crashing to the ground and her dreams of an independent life, just within her grasp, were crushed.

Trust me,
he’d kept saying.
Trust me
. And then he had tricked her into marrying some hungry fortune-hunter, new-come to court. A judgmental Puritan soldier who had looked at her with thinly veiled distaste from the moment they had met.

“All of you! Leave us. Now. That means you too, Barbara.” Charles took Hope by the arm and too stunned to resist, she followed him to the far side of the glade where curious listeners couldn’t hear their words, only her angry voice and his soothing one.

Robert watched it all, his face grim. The king had hurt and humiliated her by bringing his senior mistress. This he understood. But the chit’s outraged scorn at his own attempt to help her left him mightily offended and was a very poor sign for what was to come. Clearly the change from monarch to newly minted earl was so far beneath her she felt no need for courtesy.
Imagine what she’ll think when she sees my country home.
How have I come to marry such a venal creature? How have I fallen so low?
All his sympathy was gone.

He stood amongst the spectators, ordered to leave his bride and wait like a servant as the king and his courtesan put on a show.
He rebuffs her in public with his high-born whore, at the same time showing the world that she is his and not mine. And she abets him in it.
He was tempted to leave her, the king, and his titles behind. It seemed a travesty to allow this shallow grasping creature to walk Cressly’s halls
. She may reside there as a guest but I’ll be damned if she’ll ever be its mistress
. He stopped a passing jack-in-the-green and reached for another drink. “’Tis my wedding day,” he quipped with a sardonic smile. He downed it in one swallow, plucked another from the tray before the man could leave, and settled in to watch the show.

On the other side of the meadow, Hope tried to put her feelings into words. Charles had broken a bond that to her was sacred, and he’d blithely stolen her free will. She would never return to his arms again but she was determined to speak her piece. “How could you do this, Charles? What in God’s name have I ever done to you but be a faithful companion and friend? I would rather return to the stage than let you turn me into that dull slave called wife.”

“It is for your own protection, sweetheart. A husband will—”

“A husband will what? Mind me? Rule me? Protect me from rich, entitled, dishonest, faithless, heartless, deceiving, oversexed men?” She hurled each word like a stone.

He had the grace to redden slightly. “Hope, I—”

“How much did you pay him to take me off of your hands? Is that what you were doing with him in your study? Discussing me as if I were a fine joint of meat? And neither of you had the decency or courtesy to tell me? Neither of you even asked? What right have either of you to decide my fate without consulting me?” The last was said on a plaintive note. She was perilously close to tears.

The king avoided conflict as assiduously as his courtiers and women seemed to seek it, though Hope had never been a problem before. He was becoming uncomfortable and vaguely annoyed. “I am your king, Hope. I am also your lover. And as you yourself keep pointing out, my bride is on her way. Is it not my responsibility to see you cared for?”

“By passing the responsibility on to someone else? Someone a stranger to you as well as to me? Had you even met him before this night?”

“No,” he said defensively. “But I had very good reports from those who know him well. And frankly my dear, I thought you’d prefer a younger handsome man and it was deuced hard to find one who was both a gentleman and willing. “

“Of course it was. I am your whore. I want responsibility for my own life, Charles. I’ve told you before I have money saved. By giving me to this man you let him take it. You give him control over me and everything I own.”

“He would not dare abuse that which I value.”

She snorted, anger and disgust drying her tears. “That which you value? By bringing your creature you’ve shown how much you value me to everyone here this night.”

“You know I don’t tolerate jealousy, Hope.”

“And I don’t tolerate being sold as if I were a slave. I will not go with him. Nor shall I burden you. I will return to the stage and—”

“You will not! Neither the King’s Theater nor that of my brother will accept you as a player if I tell them no.”

“Why do you hurt me this way? You didn’t have to do this. You didn’t have to bring her. You didn’t have to take my future away. You betray me in every way imaginable. You may be a king but what I gave you was worth far more than anything you ever gave me, Charles Stuart. I gave you my friendship. I gave you my loyalty. I gave you my trust!”

“Then trust me now, Hope. Things are not as you paint them. You must believe that I know what is best for you. I have made you a lady. A countess. The same rank as Barbara. I promise she is no more pleased this night than you. Once I’ve settled things between her and my wife I will call you back to court as a married lady and—”

“You are banishing me from court?”

“I am sending you to the country for a brief stay. You will be gone by morning. When you return you shall be welcomed at Whitehall as a lady and I shall introduce you to my wi—”

Too angry to hear his words, she did the unthinkable. She turned her back on him and walked away.

Barefoot and bedraggled she wandered though her guests, shivering with cold, her toes wet with dew. Even though it was dark, streaks of light played on the horizon. Gone by morning? What of her clothing, her jewels, her shoes?

A tall footman approached. She watched him with wary eyes. He stopped by her elbow and nodded to the a gravel path that wound into the woods. “My lady…your carriage arrives.”

“Yes, of course. Charles has thought of everything.” The man who was her husband, who’d seemed cold and forbidding until he had smiled, now looked impatient and cruel.
You were a part of it, too. You both conspired without a thought to my wishes. Well, you traded for a title by marrying a whore and you’ll get just what you deserve. I hate you both.
She gave him a cold smile as she took his arm and let him help her into the plush interior of one of the royal coaches. She sat down, rigid with anger, and looked straight ahead.

Charles stood just outside the window, Lady Castlemaine by his side. He turned to his poet. “Here now, William,” he said with forced joviality. “ Have you any words of wit to speed the Lord and Lady of May on their way?”

William looked at the too familiar tableau. Charles and two mistresses. Tears and humiliation. Courtiers gawking with salacious appetite. “No, Your Majesty. I’m afraid nothing amusing springs to mind.

The king sighed and waved his arm. “Drive on, coachman!”

The coach lumbered forward, its bells jingling merrily as Hope embarked with a stranger, leaving her beloved house on Pall Mall, all of her friends, and all her dreams behind.

William stood next to the king, watching the coach disappear. “That was unnecessarily cruel, Charlie. You’ve changed more than I’d allowed.”

“Sometimes one must be cruel to be kind, Will.”

“Lizzy and I will be leaving tomorrow.”

“You will not. You will remember I am your king and you will stay for my wedding. Do not mistake my patience with you as endless. Besides…haven’t I given Elizabeth what she wanted? Her captain keeps his lands. She should be pleased.”

~

Elizabeth’s captain was far from pleased. The girl sat but two feet away from him and she was clearly upset. Jealous courtesan or haughty jade, she was his responsibility at the moment and she was folded tight in a corner, her eyes glistening with tears. He didn’t know a damned thing about keeping a woman. He’d never had one of his own before. Camp followers and friendly tavern wenches on a cold night, yes. Perhaps a widow now and then. One kissed and cuddled them and left some coin or a gift and then one was on one’s way. They didn’t
cry!

This one was his wife now. The prospect was daunting
.
It would surely be better for them both if they got along, but it seemed so damned complicated. The only thing certain, was that he’d yet to do a single thing right. All his efforts had been met with coldness and disdain. Even the mighty Charles Stuart seemed hard put to keep her happy—though in fairness, be she barmaid or great lady, most any fool knew better than to favor another woman over the one he was with.
What in God’s name had the man been thinking?

Her quiet tears disturbed him. He preferred it when she was angry. Or better yet when she was happy. A vision of her dancing barefoot through the grass made the corner of his lips turn up slightly. He knew how to make a woman smile, though not in ways he intended to practice with her. Nevertheless, he was an intelligent fellow. Resourceful. Cool under fire. A leader of men. Surely he could find a way to stop a jealous chit’s tears. He decided to try and manage her again. He leaned forward and reached out a hand to pat her shoulder. “There now, lass. There’s no need to cry. That redheaded long-legged shrew is built like a garden rake, and she’s nowhere near as pretty as you. I promise you, His Majesty will be regretting it soon.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “I am not crying! Now take...your...hand... off… me.” She bit out each word. “
Don’t
speak to me. Don’t touch me. You haven’t the right!”

His good intentions evaporated. He was not at all accustomed to being spoken to in that tone. He was not going to live with hostility, condescension and grand airs, nor be spoken to like an impertinent servant. He sat back in his seat, his eyes blazing and his mouth set in a hard line. “But I
do
have the right. You would do well to show me some respect.” His words were clipped and cold.

“Why?” She sat up straight. “Why should I? You think yourself better than me? You think me little better than a whore? I saw how you looked at me when you first walked into my house. Spare me any pious sermons. What kind of man are
you
? You take another man’s leavings, ready to give her back as soon as you’re told to. You sold yourself as surely as I ever did. And your prize is a title and a woman who belongs to somebody else.”

“You and your royal lover are both mistaken there.” Though his voice was soft, there was something about it that reminded her she was at the mercy of a stranger. “We may both be whores. I’ll not deny it. I sell my sword and you sell your body. You and what comes with you were paid for with what little is left of my honor. But whether Charles willed it or not, and whether you agree, I bought you, and now I own you. By law, you belong to me.”

“That’s unfortunate for us both. People have been telling me that all my life. I don’t like being owned. You’ll find I make a very poor slave.”

“That’s not what I meant! You are an impossible woman. No wonder the…. Pah! I should have asked for a dukedom and a palace to put up with you.”

She turned her head away to look listlessly out the window. She was barefoot still, and her cheeks were stained with tears. The necklace of flowers rose and fell with her breath and violets and buttercups sprouted here and there in her hair. She looked so forlorn that despite himself, he was moved.

~

Hope closed her eyes, shutting him out, though she’d learned long ago it wouldn’t change a thing. Her heart was near to breaking. Deceived. Betrayed. Sold. Humiliated.
Again
. Anger warred with hurt and she didn’t know one from the other.
How dare he? Hypocrite, liar, beast!
As she fought back bitter tears she wasn’t sure if she meant Charles, or this arrogant brute of a husband.

Hope studied the long-legged gentleman sprawled across the opposite seat. His large frame seemed cramped even in the spacious confines of the royal coach.
He takes up too much space.
They had traveled all through the day yesterday, stopping just before nightfall at an inn a few hours short of their destination. The captain had secured her a room and promptly disappeared. She didn’t know where he slept. From the smell of him, probably in the tavern. Come to that, he had been half-shot even as he deceived her with his trickster vows. Perhaps he had needed to drown his delicate scruples to complete the ceremony, or maybe Charles had married her to a drunkard. Either way he was a duplicitous rogue.

She resisted the urge to kick him. If he woke she might have to speak to him. Not a word had passed between them since they left St. James Park. Not even this morning, when he’d tossed her a worn pair of shoes to cover her bare feet.

This dissipated Captain Nichols bore little resemblance to the stiff and formal soldier who’d glowered his disapproval in her reception hall. The revels and rigors of the past two nights had left him disheveled. His lids looked bruised and heavy, his rugged jaw bristled with stubble and his hair hung loose about his shoulders. The elegant black coat with its silver trimming hung open, exposing the lines and muscles of his collarbone and the strong column of his neck. Her eyes were drawn to the hollow where they met and her heart beat a little faster. No knight of old now. He looked tarnished and disreputable, though every bit as dangerous.

She still couldn’t believe that Charles had simply handed her over to this mercenary stranger—a man who
was
a mercenary, no less—trusting that she would be safe with only his words to protect her.

It was also somewhat disconcerting that despite her anger and resentment, his face and form still held the same fascination for her that they had at Pall Mall.
It is a perfectly normal and entirely manageable reaction to a ruggedly
handsome man. The kind one seldom sees at court. A novelty. And novelty fades fast.