Chelynne was aware of eyes, hundreds of them, looking at her, or them, mutterings, whisperings. She could not countenance the possibility that they would be appreciative mumblings. She worried about her appearance and manner. She tried desperately to smile and nod at those she passed but it was impossible. She held her chin as high as she could and attempted small, graceful steps. She was pleased, for the first time, with those great folds of cloth that covered her. At least her trembling knees were her secret.
The tall, strong presence beside her led the way and soon she could see the dais at the end of the long length of carpet. Everything else left her mind. The murmurings of the onlookers were silent to her ears and the fear of being at some fault disappeared. She was completely absorbed in the regal majesty of the royal couple: King Charles of Great Britain, France and Ireland, and his queen. He might as well have been God.
Charles sat relaxed, at ease in this glory, one slippered foot outstretched as he leaned back in his throne, viewing the approaching couple passively. Lazy dark eyes with lids that lay half closed in either shrewd comprehension or boredom went over the earl and countess. A grand wig of dark curls added to the grimness of his features and there was a smile, faint and enchanting, his full lips curved only slightly for the sensual and alluring effect.
The queen, Catherine, banked by her husband’s huge and commanding frame, was the fragile vision of a flower. Her eyes, lips and small face were all soft, sweet and pure in appearance. A small white hand was stretched out, and Chelynne fell before it to kiss it reverently.
Had Chad not been there to lead her around she would never have been able to function at all. They joined that great number that stood back to view the rest of the presentations, and soon she could see nothing more of the royal couple. That was what she thought she would have to hold forever in her heart, that brief glimpse of the king and queen.
She had the odd sense of being placed among aliens. All these nobles in their laces and jewels were in her mind the finest the world had to offer. She never for a moment wondered about their worth or thought of each as having an individual personality. She considered them as a whole, a single glittering, majestic entity. And she was proud to be let in the door.
As the mystic moment faded into reality the presence beside her was obvious once again. She looked up at the man towering over her and she found his eyes on her.
“He’s magnificent,” she breathed.
Chad chuckled. “There’s not a woman in England doesn’t think so.”
“And the queen...lovely...so lovely...”
“There are many more beautiful,” he whispered, as if sharing a great secret. “But she is good, and that is rare here.”
She frowned a little, wondering how he could decry this amazing exhibition. What could possibly be wrong? What could be amiss when the beauty so stung the eye?
Chad pointed out the duke of Monmouth, not far from the dais where his father sat, the duke and duchess of York, the duke of Buckingham and other awesome and important people. Chelynne asked, with slight guilt, to be shown some of the women she had heard so much about. With a grunt he obliged, showing her where the most recently favored mistress stood. Louise de Keroualle far outshone the queen with her beauty. There seemed to be none to compare in Chelynne’s eyes. She was surrounded by her own private party of admirers and Chelynne was quick to see the importance of that position.
Chelynne found Frances Stewart, the duchess of Richmond. She cleaved very closely to the ladies-in-waiting. Looking at her now, Chelynne found it hard to believe that she was once considered one of the most beautiful women in England. Though she was elegantly garbed and had a mien of courtly grace, her face was disfigured from the smallpox and her eyes seemed dull and distant as if her despair reached her soul.
Barbara Palmer was lost among the crowd, though Chelynne had heard of the time when she could well have been considered the most important woman in England. When she occupied that position as the king’s mistress she flaunted her importance with a great deal of cruelty. Nonetheless, the hold she had over Charles was a long-lasting one and might have gone on longer had she practiced some discretion and kindness. Still lovely at more than thirty years, she looked like a fixture here, with not so much pomp and glory as Louise had, and lacking the crowd of supporters as well. But even as a fixture, she was not an inconspicuous one. She looked as if she at least considered herself important.
Suddenly there came to Chelynne a certain confusion. Her eyes darted from one to the other of these women and then on tiptoes she looked again at the fragile and lovely queen. Then her large brown eyes drifted to Chad, the question in them obvious. He bent low and whispered. “I suppose if there’s a man on earth can do as he pleases without reprisal, it is he.”
Her question vanished, her eyes clearing as she nodded. Yes, if he chose to have a thousand mistresses, who was to question? If he chose it so, he was the King by the Grace of God, the most powerful man under the sun. Therefore, it must be just. Noting her acceptance and approval just because of the power of the decision maker, Chad sighed and slipped an arm about her waist. What a lot she had to learn.
Dancing began and she watched that too in fascination. She stood proudly beside her husband and not a muscle twitched. The duke of Monmouth caught her attention and gained most of her stares because he was so like his father. She decided he must be a replica of Charles in his youth. It was possible that her mother had loved the image of the young duke over seventeen years ago.
She hadn’t noticed that they had been approached and that Chad stood speaking to someone. When she looked up she was introduced to the earl of Rochester, a handsome man about her husband’s age. She curtsied and before she knew it, she was led to the dance on his arm. He guided her about, postured before her, and when they came together closely he whispered in her ear.
“I am, for one, most appreciative of beauty. I thank you most humbly for getting yourself an earl.”
Her eyes snapped to his face; she was quite awed by his words. When she realized he meant to compliment her, she flushed attractively and lowered her eyes demurely. “You’re most kind, my lord.”
He continued to pay her compliments throughout the dance and she was forlornly out of practice at having so many come to her at once. When the dance was over she was grateful, for they had begun to seem foolish and insincere.
She was not returned to her husband as she expected to be, but surrounded by young gallants wishing an introduction. As Rochester obliged them, she looked around for Chad and found him a long distance away in the firm grasp of Lady Graystone. Chelynne found she had no control over her temper where that woman was concerned. She frowned immediately. When Gwen rubbed one practically naked breast along his arm in a very intimate fashion, Chelynne blanched and nearly fainted. But Chad was not concerned. He talked to another pretty young woman over his shoulder and his casual manner told Chelynne he was accustomed to such brazen gestures.
“Why does Bryant toy with those when he has one such as you?” Rochester whispered. Chelynne’s eyes misted. What answer could she give? When she looked at him she found she didn’t need one. He was chuckling. “A man can’t be happy until he’s spread the skirts of every...ah, but darling, you’re not distressed? There now, do you know so little of your own husband?”
She bit her lip and looked away. “By God, you love him!” he laughed. “Now, it’s not so bad as that. There’s love aplenty in these walls and you’ll have more than you’re due in no time. I, for one, am at your call.” He bowed.
“What’ve you found?”
They both turned to find young Monmouth watching them with amused interest. She could see mischief in his eyes but it seemed a happy sort and she could not believe that he was actually guilty of all the crimes she had heard the king had to pardon his son for. When she rose from her curtsy she noticed the merriment all around her had increased substantially. There was a minstrel occupying the king in one corner and the laughter of his gentlemen drowned out the song. The orchestra continued for dancing and different diversions took place in far-off corners of the great room. It was much like a fair to her. And she could see no sign of Chad.
“Where might I find his lordship?” she began nervously.
“What, darling? You’ve a taste for your husband still? Could it be we’ve an honest woman in our midst? Well, never mind. I’ll see if I can find him if that’s what you’re after.” He turned to Monmouth and bowed briefly. “Your Grace was planning to steal her away from me anyway.”
Chelynne danced with Monmouth, wondering if his young wife was somewhere in this crowd. She found him most enchanting, his lazy eyes dark and soft like his father’s. His manner was very gallant but so flirtatious. And still she could not see Chad. Neither could she imagine who was married to whom anymore. No one in the room seemed interested in remaining with his spouse.
Chelynne couldn’t help thinking of the duke as a boy, though he was older than she. Being married to a man a healthy ten years older than Monmouth made a great deal of difference. She enjoyed keeping his company that much more because she wondered at the possible kinship that they might share. At one point she noticed that the king paused and watched them as they danced. She thought it touching that Charles held such interest in his bastard.
They all stopped to pay respect as the queen and her women left the room, Charles giving escort. Soon the king was back and the tempo of the party became even more vigorous. Now the day was catching up with her. It had been a long one in preparing for this evening, and she had danced several dances with the duke and was simply bereft of any more conversational niceties. And there was no sign of either Chad or Rochester.
“What have you seen of the palace?” Monmouth asked her.
“Only this, Your Grace,” she replied. Her feet hurt and she was growing more alarmed by her husband’s desertion. If Monmouth walked away from her now she would have nowhere to go, nothing to do. She saw herself standing alone in the middle of this room looking like a ninny.
“Would you like me to show you something of Whitehall?” he asked.
She was greatly relieved. She had an interest in seeing more of it and she could free herself of burdensome time in a tour. “That would be delightful, Your Grace,” she said, beaming.
With a twinkle in his eye he led her through a door, not the one she had entered by, and they were out of sight of those in the presence chamber. She entered a narrow dark hall with him, which was not what she expected but she lacked the nerve to question him. He led her along silently and swiftly and soon there was another door, a short stair, nothing very well lit, and yet another door. She felt as though he were leading her through Whitehall’s secret passages that would eventually put her in the river. She was not very far wrong.
Monmouth closed the third door after them, and they were alone in a dark little room that was smaller than her own closet. One flickering candle was dancing its light off the walls. It had only just occurred to her to ask where they were, and when she turned to do so he came down swiftly on her mouth.
Her gasp of surprise was stifled by his searing mouth. What of the duchess? What of Chad? What possessed him to think he could force himself on her like this? She didn’t know where she was, how to get out or, worse, if there was any way she could. His body held her pinioned against the wall and his hands began to rove. Even through the heavy layers of her gown she could feel the lusty desire of her aggressor. He was firm and exquisitely strong and she could see herself as the helpless victim of his rape.
She panicked at the thought and began to beat against him, a frightened whimper leaving her, but his lips only slid to her neck, completely undaunted by her protests. “My God, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen! Don’t fight me, darling.”
Pure terror gripped her. This could in fact be her brother. Hopeless, she was held against the wall, her pursuer passionately intent. Less than three hours ago she had come to the most wondrous experience of her life, the dream of any young maid gently reared, to be presented at court. Now her husband had vanished and she was the victim of a nightmarish encounter with a noble she had admired. What madness struck this dream away? The merriment of the court seemed a sham, a disaster.
A low rumble of laughter from within the room seemed to startle Monmouth enough to release her. He let go of her completely, rearranged his slightly off-balance periwig, and took a deep breath. He bowed to the stranger in the room and muttered, “Your Majesty.”
“Scamp,” the man scolded with a chuckle in his voice. He came into the light and revealed himself to be the king. Chelynne shook too severely to curtsy. She leaned against the wall as if she would crumple without its support. “Go along,” the king told James. He took Chelynne’s hand to feel its coldness as evidence of her fright. “I’m mightily glad to see the lad has good taste. He’d not have hurt you, I think.”
“I beg your forgiveness, sire,” Chelynne stammered, her voice breaking. She couldn’t meet eyes with her rescuer but she felt his presence as if he were a great archangel who had swooped down to save her. He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and started to lead her away.
“There’s nothing to forgive, unless of course young James should beg it of you. Did he offend you badly, my lady?”
“No, sire,” she murmured. She looked up into his brooding brown eyes and smiled gratefully, but still she lacked the courage to tell him his son had been well out of line.