The French Mistress (41 page)

 

 

T
here will be those who say that I had at last landed where I’d always wished most to be, in the king’s bed with him happily beside me. These same folk will likewise shake their heads, and say sadly what a sinful world this must be for such a thing to come to pass in such a shameful manner, and with them I would, alas, concur. But there will also be those who heartily agree with whichever gentleman called me a French whore, and others who will denounce me as a cunning spy, and still more who will believe I was employed by His Holiness the Bishop of Rome himself to steal away the king’s Anglican soul.

None was true. As I lay beside Charles in the best bed at Euston Hall, I was neither a whore, a spy, nor a missionary, nor even the village bride I’d so recently pretended to be. In truth I was but one thing, and that was a woman, a shy, uncertain woman of twenty-two years who desperately wanted to trust the man she loved.

Now I will grant that innocence is relative, and mine was worn and tattered indeed if compared to that imagined village bride. How could it be otherwise, considering all the wanton wickedness I’d seen at both royal Courts? But though I’d tenaciously preserved my maidenhead, I had also passed the last year dallying with the king, permitting him more and more familiar caresses and heated liberties until this moment had become inevitable, just as even the smallest river must in time join with the mighty sea.

“At last, Louise,” he said softly, shifting to French to put me more at my ease, “here we are.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered. I was trembling both from fear and excitement, and with great daring I reached for him first, sliding my hand along his arm to his shoulder. “Here I am, and here you are.”

“And here, my sweet, are you.” He leaned down to kiss me, shoving aside the insubstantial shift so he could freely explore my charms. “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

I shook my head against the pillow, breathless with longing after that single kiss. “How could I ever be cold with you, sir?”

He laughed, and eased his hand between my legs to stroke me there. I gasped, not from surprise, but delight, and shamelessly parted my legs farther to allow him more.

“Not cold at all,” he said, pleased to find me already so ripe and welcoming. “I’d venture you found that foolishness more to your taste than you’d thought. Displaying yourself like that, knowing that every man in the room wanted to claim you as his own.”

“But only you will, sir.” It shocked me that he’d believe I’d been aroused by that humiliating false ceremony and not, as was the truth, simply by him. Yet such must have been the case with him, for when I reached to caress him in turn, I discovered his royal staff already standing tall as any truncheon.

That, it seemed, was all the encouragement he’d needed. Without another word, he moved to climb atop me, kissing me with a raw hunger that I answered as best I could. He was a large man, and I wasn’t prepared for his weight upon me, or how forcibly strong he’d suddenly become. He pushed my thighs apart more wide and moved between them, his movements now spare and direct and driven entirely by his desire. Thus fairly poised for my ruin, I closed my eyes with dread. He stroked me again, easing me open, and I sighed with the sweetness of his touch. Then too soon that pleasing touch was replaced by his infinitely more demanding cock, and instead of pleasure, I felt as if I’d be torn asunder. I whimpered sadly, tugging against the sheets and striving to pull myself clear, but he was well past the time for retreat. With a few quick thrusts, he was buried deep within me, and the prize I’d withheld for so long was his.

“Open your eyes, Louise,” he ordered. He was breathing as hard as a man who’d run a race uphill, his voice a rough rasp. “Don’t hide yourself away. Look at me.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered, forcing myself to obey. His face over mine was contorted as if in pain, and I feared I’d somehow wounded him as he had me. “Oh, sir, forgive me if I’ve—”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Slowly he began to withdraw, only to plunge back in again with redoubled force. “Dear God, but your cunny’s tight.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered, feeling the first tears slide down my cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

“Damnation, Louise, don’t cry,” he said gruffly. “It will be better, I promise you.”

I did not see how that would be possible. Lady Arlington had sworn I’d not be disappointed, but disappointed I was, and painfully so. I felt ravaged and stretched beyond measure, without any pleasure left at all. Where was the joy of love that every poet promised? Where was the rapture that other ladies praised as they whispered behind their fans?

Then to my great surprise, he took me by the waist and rolled onto his back, bringing me with him. It was clumsily done, to be sure, yet somehow we remained joined. I was now astride him, my knees splayed wide on either side of his chest and my smock crumpled around my waist and stained with the crimson remnants of my tattered maidenhead. His rampant cock was now buried even deeper within me, yet the discomfort was mysteriously lessened.

“Now ride me,” he ordered, breathing hard, his hands sliding along the inside of my thighs. “Go on. Ride until you find your pleasure.”

I looked down at him uncertainly, my palms braced upon his chest and my tangled hair falling around us like another curtain. None of my well-learned graces were of use to me now. He reached up and hooked his fingers into the front of the smock, tearing the fine linen so that my breasts tumbled free.

“Go on, my pretty wanton,” he ordered, fondling my breasts. “I’ll not have it said I can’t bring a virgin to spending.”

With great care, I raised myself on my knees and along his cock, then slid back downward. It was not unpleasurable. I tried it again, and he groaned beneath me, rocking up to meet me in a most delicious fashion.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, catching me by the hips to guide me to his rhythm as if we were again partners in a dance. “Ride me hard, lass, and do not stop.”

That made sense to me, and now that I’d begun, I understood what was required of me. I thought of how I’d watched him ride so hard to win the race earlier that day, and how curious, yet exciting, it was to consider how now I was riding him in return. Before long I’d found confidence in my efforts, and as Charles had promised, pleasure soon replaced my first pain. I rode him and he drove me, the pair of us sweating and thrashing and crying out like two possessed, until at last I felt my cunny convulse with delight, and give up its maiden tribute to his plundering cock. I collapsed upon him, weary and sated, with his arm around my back.

“That was well done,” he said, grinning proudly as he pulled a pillow beneath his head.

I laughed happily. “It was,” I said. “I understand at last why this commerce is so much enjoyed.”

“ ‘ Commerce’?” he scoffed. “What nonsense is that? We’re hardly a pair of Cornhill merchants bickering at the Exchange.”

“It’s what we did, sir,” I said, laughing still. “That’s what it’s called at His Christian Majesty’s Court, between Louis and his mistresses. Commerce.”

“Commerce.” Now he laughed, too, bumping me up and down as I lay across him. “My cousin is more daft than ever I suspected. Here in England, we’re more plainspoken. We call it fucking.”

I didn’t laugh at that, but only smiled wistfully. I do not believe he noticed, which was well enough by me. Of course I’d heard that word before (many times this very night), and even employed it myself on occasion. I’d also come to understand its various shadings as a vulgar, common word, a word that a king might use, but also a Cheapside whore. My English was still not so wide as I could wish, but I knew another word that I’d have much preferred Charles had chosen to describe our actions that night. A simple word, yes, but to my sorrow, he never once did use it.

That word was “love.”

 

 

I stayed at Euston Hall for the remainder of October, until the fall race meetings ended with the month. The weather was balmy and fair, the way the best autumn weather can be, and I felt as if our days that month were as golden as the trees around us.

Though Charles nominally kept his own lodgings in Newmarket, he spent most of his time in my company, and we’d soon evolved a satisfying schedule to our days. I would come with Lady Arlington or one of the other ladies in her coach to the racecourse to watch the afternoon program. Charles was always quick to find me, for even if he were not racing himself, he still would usually be on horseback, roaming among the crowd or riding back and forth between the start and finish. He treated Newmarket like another, smaller kingdom in a way that was quite charming to see, overseeing the welfare of every last nag and jockey, no matter how humble.

Often I would leave the coach and walk with Charles as he surveyed his racing domain. Other days I’d sit with the king in what was called his chair, a small private pavilion of fluttering striped cloth situated above the course, where we would watch the training gallops and drink canary. Unlike most gentlemen, he’d no fear of showing his affections before others, and thus, wherever we were, he lavished me with a thousand little endearments and kisses to match.

In the evenings he would always come to Euston Hall, which continued full to brimming over with guests. We would keep to the company through supper, but soon after, we’d repair upstairs to the same bedchamber we’d used that first night, now reserved for us alone. There he introduced me to every aspect of amorous amusement and satisfaction, as is often the way between a gentleman of experience and a novice lady. He proved to be a generous, inventive lover, as eager to learn what pleased me as to teach me what pleased him, and it gave him special delight to see me blossom and become more accomplished under his tutelage. Here in the country, he’d seemed altogether happier, merrier, even younger, the stern lines around his mouth softening and his smile without reserve. I liked to think I’d much to do with it.

But what pleased me the most was having his company to myself. Despite so many other courtiers visiting the county for the meetings, Charles and I were able to keep to ourselves as much as we wished. I’d no competition for his attention from ministers, ambassadors, or Parliament as I did in London, nor from any other of the beautiful women preening and pouting for his attention, like Lady Castlemaine, Mrs. Gwyn, and even the queen. For that month, I was his only lady, and I basked in the glory of his devotion, certain that this was only the beginning of a long and wondrous friendship.

On the last afternoon of our stay, Charles spent the whole day at Euston. We borrowed mounts from the Arlingtons’ stables and rode out through the hall’s parks and lands. The afternoon was cool and gray with the leaves gone from the trees and the first hint of coming frost in the air, a fitting day for farewells. In preparation for the winter, the gardeners had closed down the pipes to the park’s fountains and wrapped the lead statues in dry leaves and rough cloth against the coming frosts. Now instead of cheery cupids clutching fat, spewing dolphins, we saw only dreary lumpen figures standing guard over the still ponds, like shrouded mourners for summer past.

We stopped by one of these ponds to water our horses, and Charles helped me down so I might stretch my legs as well. I wore a witty black beaver hat much like Charles’s, and my scarlet riding habit, cut close to my body with flaring skirts, and laced with gold, offered the only cheery spot of color in the somber landscape.

“Summer’s truly done now, sir,” I said sadly, gazing over the empty fields. We were just within sight of the red brick hall, the famous twin domes on the north and south wings seeming to sit on the bare tree-tops like giant goose eggs in nests. “I wish we’d come out riding more often while we were here.”

“So do I,” he said, slipping his arm familiarly around my waist as we began to walk along the edge of the pond, leading our horses. “You ride well for a lady.”

“Ha, that’s weak praise from an old centaur like you,” I scoffed, poking him lightly in the arm. “Well for a
lady
.”

“I intended nothing weak about it,” he said with mock indignation. “But to please you, I’ll change it. You ride well.”

I curtsied and grinned. “Thank you, sir. I learned from my father, who rode like the wind. I had to learn to keep up, or be left behind.”

“You never speak of your father,” he said, surprised. “Did he die when you were young?”

“Oh, no, sir, he lives still.” I hadn’t seen my family for several years now. I’d never told them my reasons for coming to England; they’d been disappointed enough in me without that. I could scarce imagine my proud father’s reaction if he’d known the truth. “Guillaume de Penancoet, Comte de Keroualle, Seigneur de Kerboronné and de la Villeneuve. He lives with my mother and younger sister, in our old château near Brest.”

“Mirabile dictu,”
he said. “And here I’ve never thought of you as having a family.”

“I didn’t hatch from an egg, sir.” I shrugged, absently kicking my skirts through the dry leaves and grass. It had always seemed to me that Charles had trouble enough with his own family without having to hear of mine as well; besides, once I’d left home, Madame and the others I’d met at Court had become more truly my family than the one I’d left behind.

“If you did,” he teased, “it would have been the most beautiful egg imaginable, like a giant pearl lined with gold.”

“Oh, sir, that is nonsense,” I scolded, even as I delighted in his jests. It was a sign of how comfortable we’d become in each other’s company that we could be foolish like this, as if he wasn’t a king at all.

“No nonsense at all, when you are my rarest little bird,” he said, kissing me lightly on my cheek. “What do you think he’d make of me, the old Comte de Keroualle?”

“My father?” I stopped walking, and unpinned my hat, rubbing my head where the pins had pulled in my hair. “My father is a stern old soldier, sir, and does not care for anyone he hasn’t known for twenty years.”