Wild Jasmine (72 page)

“May I come tomorrow?” he asked her.

She nodded. “We will need more practice, I fear, if we are to do this well. Perhaps you should bring your cousin Arabella, so we may practice together, my lord. I do not wish to be taken unawares by another player, and disappoint her majesty with an awkward performance.”

“That is an excellent idea,” the prince agreed, and departed.

When he had gone, Toramalli flew back into Jasmine’s rooms, inquiring anxiously, “Are you all right, my lady? The door was locked, and I could not get back in after the earl had removed me. Your mother gave him merry hell for it, I can tell you.” Toramalli chuckled. “She accused him of behaving like a whoremaster, and the earl grew red in the face and shouted that he would not allow
her daughter
to destroy them all just because the prince sought to bed you! Does he really seek to bed you, my princess? He is certainly a merry, handsome young man.”

“Indeed he does desire me, Toramalli,” Jasmine replied
slowly. “Eventually I shall have to yield myself to him, as he is to be England’s king one day. I really cannot offend him.”

“It does not seem too terrible a task, my lady—I mean, to fall in love with Prince Henry. He appears most amiable,” Toramalli observed. “You are not, after all, in love with another, or betrothed. You are your own mistress in all matters regarding yourself and your children.”

“You are absolutely right, Toramalli. I thank you for your common sense, which for my part I seem to have lost,” Jasmine said, then she smiled a soft smile. “He is very handsome, isn’t he? And he is certainly kind and amusing.”

“It is time that you took a lover, my lady,” Toramalli told her. “You have mourned your good lord and husband well over a year, and that is quite enough. You are young, and you are beautiful. Your juices of life flow generously, and should be mingled with those of a strong, young lover.”

It seemed to Jasmine as if the whole world was conspiring against her to place her in Henry Stuart’s bed. Her stepfather insisted that such a role was acceptable within the polite society in which they moved. Royal bastards were also, if recognized and doted upon, acceptable. Jasmine found that very perplexing in light of the attitude that would be taken had the full truth of her birth been known by the court. It appeared that the king had kept her secret to himself. It was obvious that the English court had one set of standards for themselves and another for the rest of the world.

Prince Henry, in the company of his cousin Arabella, arrived the following afternoon. Jasmine had to agree with the prince. The “Fair Arabella,” as popularly known, was, in her late thirties, far too old for youthful Summertime. She was, nonetheless, a pretty woman with fine eyes, and graceful hands which fluttered constantly with her nervousness. Still, she spoke her lines well, and generously complimented Jasmine on the way in which she played her part.

When Inigo Jones and his seamstress arrived to fit Jasmine’s costume, Arabella Stuart departed, but the prince remained.

“If you will disrobe to your chemise, Lady Lindley,” the royal designer said.

“
Sir?
” Jasmine was most startled by his request.

“I cannot fit your costume over your own garments, madame,” was the reply.

The prince sat smiling. He was obviously not about to leave.

Toramalli bit her lip to keep from giggling, and moved to help her mistress. Jasmine sent her a dark look.

“You will be barefooted for the masque, my lady,” Inigo Jones informed her politely, “but I must measure your ankle, for it shall be bedecked with a small wreathlet of grapes. Your natural coloring is really quite marvelous, you know. I shall gown you in shades of crimson and gold! You must wear your hair loose, my dear. I shall personally show your tiring woman how to dress it.”

Master Jones and his assistant tossed lengths of colored silk about, twining certain colors together, wrapping her this way and that. It seemed to Jasmine that their efforts were quite useless, particularly when, after a period of time, she was set free from their ministrations. As they gathered up their materials to depart, Master Jones told her, “You will have your costume in three days, madame. It shall be delivered to Greenwood. Make certain you take good care of it.”

“I cannot believe that my costume will resemble much of anything, my lord,” Jasmine told the prince afterward. “I do not know what he did.”

“He is an extremely clever fellow,” Henry Stuart reassured her. “Wait and see, my love, you will be quite surprised by his efforts. May I take supper with you, Jasmine?”

“I do not know if supper will be available at Greenwood tonight, my lord,” she told him. “My mother and stepfather had planned to dine at Whitehall with Sybilla and Tom. Toramalli, go to Mrs. Evans and see if she can prepare something sufficient to satisfy a royal appetite.”

After wrapping a scarlet velvet chamber robe trimmed in thick, soft marten about her mistress, Toramalli curtsied and hurried off.

“We will eat here before the fire,” he said, as if it had already been settled. Henry Stuart knew it unlikely that the cook would refuse to feed him. She would consider it an honor. He stretched his long legs out, warming the soles of his boots before the dancing flames.

Jasmine said nothing. Instead she moved to pour him some wine. She had hoped to have more time, but it was obvious he would not give her any more time. He was clever, she had to admit. He had chosen an evening he knew her family to be gone from the house, and he would seduce her in her own bed, where she was most likely to feel more comfortable. Jasmine
smiled to herself admiringly. Henry Stuart would be a marvelous king one day. He was an excellent tactician.

“My lord.” She handed him his goblet.

Placing it upon the little table next to his chair, he reached out and drew her down into his lap. “I want you in my arms where you belong, madame, not seated primly across from me with your marvelous eyes watching my every move with trepidation. When I kiss you, I want you to open your mouth,” he commanded her, taking a drink from his goblet. Then he did kiss her, and slowly transferred the wine from his mouth to hers, his eyes never leaving hers.

Jasmine swallowed the liquid, shocked by the sensuousness of the act. Henry Stuart might be young, but he was obviously no stranger to passion. “You have never had a mistress?” she queried him.

His blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “Are you jealous already, madame?” His hand slid beneath her robe and stole slowly up between her legs. “I came to England’s court when I was nine. I have told you that I became a man at eleven. When I was thirteen, I dallied a bit with Frances Howard, who is now Lady Essex. Being a very spoiled and proud lady, Frances likes to believe she was my mistress. She was not. I have never considered keeping a mistress until now.” His slender fingers caressed the soft flesh of her Venus mont. Then, a single digit sought for, and found, the tiny jewel of her womanhood.

Jasmine could feel the tip of his finger, motionless on her flesh, simply touching her. Her cheeks grew warm and her heart jumped within her chest nervously. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, her breath catching in her throat as she struggled to breathe normally. She could feel his lips brushing the top of her head, and all the while, she was more and more intensely aware of his finger touching her. Just when she thought she could bear it no longer, the single finger began to stroke her little jewel with a tender, light touch.

“Look at me,” he whispered to her.

“I cannot,” she murmured back, feeling inexplicably shy.

“Aye, you can, my love,” he told her. “I adore it that you are so demure with me, but you must not be reticent, Jasmine. Now, my darling, look up at me. There is nothing so terrible about what we do. I am simply touching you, my love. Look at me,” he crooned low.

Slowly she raised her head, and when finally their eyes met,
he bent to kiss her. His mouth was warm and incredibly sensuous on hers. He kissed her tenderly at first, his kiss deepening until she was so overwhelmed with its sweetness that she silently prayed it would never end. She arched herself, twisting her body to meet his lips, aching suddenly with her need to be possessed by him. “
Please!
” she half sobbed as the seductive workings of both his mouth, and the marauding finger, began to arouse her more than she thought she could bear.

It had been so very long since she had known passion, and Jasmine was very aware now that she needed passion in her life. She was more than just the mother of Rowan Lindley’s three children. “
Please!
” she repeated, and cried out softly as she felt two of his fingers penetrating her, moving quickly to ease her need until finally she collapsed against him, weeping bitterly, half relieved, half shamed by her own conduct.

He cradled her tenderly within the security of his arms until her little sobs had dissipated. Then he arose, setting her on her feet. “You can stand,” he told her as he walked across the room to the door and, turning the key, locked it. “Where is your bedchamber?” he demanded.

Wordlessly Jasmine pointed, and Henry Stuart nodded, removing her velvet robe first. Then, hooking his hand into the neckline of her chemise, he ripped it open in a single stroke and pulled it off of her. He stood silently for a long moment, his blue eyes sweeping over her. With impatient fingers he yanked his own clothing off. When he was as naked as she, he stood for a brief time allowing her to see him. He was tall, with long, graceful limbs, a smooth, broad chest, and a manhood already engorged with his desire for her.

Silently he lifted her up in his arms and carried her into the bedchamber. Near the fire, which burned brightly, giving the room its only light, was a tall mirror in a carved silver casing. Henry Stuart stood Jasmine before the mirror, standing behind her so they might both gaze on their naked images, erotically reflected in the dim, smoky glass. His hands moved from her shoulders down her torso to cup her breasts in his palms. Tenderly he fondled the proud, high cones of flesh, teasing the dark, rosy nipples into sharp little points. His red-blond head dipped low to kiss her neck and shoulder with deep sensuous kisses, his mouth hot and moist upon her flesh.

Jasmine’s dark head fell back against him. She had never in her life, she realized, felt so helpless before a man’s passion. He was in full and total control. She was not afraid, however.
For some reason, what was happening between them was right. His teeth sank into her shoulder, and she moaned with her rising, overwhelming desire. He turned her about to face him, their lips met fiercely and they kissed each other until their mouths were bruised and aching.

Slowly he forced her to her knees before him, his hand cupping his throbbing member, offering it to her, and she took him in her mouth. Henry Stuart’s eyes closed and he groaned with the pleasure she so quickly gave him. Her mouth drew strongly and rhythmically upon him. Her tongue swept over and around him, teasing lightly but insistently. He struggled against his own lust, and won. He wanted far more than just the little they had shared so far.

“
Enough!
” he growled harshly. He pulled her to her feet as she released her hold on him, pushing her back so that she fell upon her bed, her legs hanging over awkwardly. Kneeling quickly, he drew her slender limbs over his shoulders, his head pressing forward between her shapely thighs, his tongue seeking her out.

Jasmine cried out sharply at his touch, which was almost painful to her in her aroused state. She felt as if she were close to bursting into flames, and gasped desperately for air. Her limbs felt leaden and weak. She was helpless before his sweetly marauding mouth, and yet the pleasure filling her was almost too much to endure. She didn’t want him to cease his divine ministrations even if she died from it.

“
Sweet! Sweet!
” he groaned low against her moist flesh.

She arched to meet him, encouraging him in his lust, needing it, craving it, pleasured beyond her wildest dreams by it. She had loved Jamal Khan with a girl’s first love. She had loved Rowan Lindley with a woman’s love. She did not love Henry Stuart, but she did need him. She needed this passion. She wanted it. She would have it!
Or she would die!

The prince released his hold upon her and, standing, pulled her completely onto the bed. His strong young body covered hers. She felt him penetrating her, and Jasmine wrapped herself around her lover, encouraging him in his efforts. He thrust furiously into her passage, rousing her further and further until she cried out with fulfillment, but even then he was not satisfied. Once again he drove her up passion’s peak, this time, however, tumbling over into the sweet abyss with her.

Returning slowly to his senses within the comfort of her embrace, he said, “Madame, you are a fit mistress for a king.”

He laughed when she replied, “And you, my lord prince, are certainly more than a fit lover for an Imperial Mughal princess!”

“Then it is settled between us, is it?” Henry Stuart asked.

“Aye, my lord. I will be yours, but you must be faithful to me, my Hal,” Jasmine told him.

“And if I am not?” he teased her.

“Then I shall not be faithful to you either,” she said with utmost seriousness. “I shall never forget that you are to be England’s king one day, Hal. But you must not forget that I am a princess born. Who could you bed who would be my better? There is no one, and therefore you would bring shame upon me. I will not countenance it, my lord.”

“Someday I will have to take a wife,” he said.

“A wife is a wife,” she answered. “I will forgive you a wife.”

Henry Stuart laughed again, genuinely amused. “My darling Jasmine, I absolutely adore you! There has never been anyone in my life who could satisfy my passions as you do, or make me laugh as you do. Swear to me that you will never leave me, my love.”

She looked into his eyes and thought that he was a very sweet man. If she was the prince’s official mistress, she would always be safe from marriage. She would be her own mistress by being the prince’s.