Paxton Pride (71 page)

Marie took a tentative step backward. Overpowered by the bold appraisal, some sixth sense reassured her that she need not fear. Here was a fair, hearty man, unlike the usual run of visitors to Penscott Hall. Tall, muscular and adorned with red-gold hair streaming down a broad back, his gold-flecked eyes gleamed merrily in spite of a painful knot rising on the high, smooth forehead. When he spoke, his voice was deep, filled with warmth and laughter and the lilt of Scotland. “Well met, lass.”

She hesitated, knowing safety lay in flight, instead held her ground when he advanced. Dark hair lay in full rich lengths about her shoulders. A heavy over-blouse filled with pinecones and greenery destined to decorate candles lay discarded at her feet. Firm, shapely breasts thrust, not proudly, but innocently against a revealing chemise that made a poor attempt to conceal that which would otherwise be naked.

The forest was quiet now, wrapped in a cocoon of silence. The very air was expectant and tense, heavy with promises unspoken. Marie tried to speak but her throat rebelled, refused to cooperate. A treasure trove of golden-red ringlets on the muscled flesh of his chest revealed where his cravat hung open and the finely woven lawn shirt had ripped. She raised her hands to cover her breasts, suddenly aware and ashamed that the rising nipples should betray her uncontrollable attraction to this total stranger. For some reason, breathing became difficult. Nervously, she dampened parted lips with her tongue.

Jason caught her wrists, slowly pulled her hands aside. Abashed and unable to meet his stare, Marie looked down, only to note the unconcealed arousal where the tight, restraining fabric of his breeches left little to imagination. Alarmed, she raised her head, only to encounter a pair of lips and a searing kiss. As if fused by a great bolt of lightning their bodies pressed together as one. A strong hand slid down her back, cupping rounded buttocks and holding her to him. Hesitating but a moment, her tongue joined in frantic, heated exploration. A silken, sweet moan rose in her throat as the bulging maleness pulsed through the light petticoat and pressed against her.

Marie tried to retreat, but the gesture was hardly more than a deceitful game: his hand would keep her prisoner. He would not let her go. He would hold her … hold her.… Arms circling his neck, her breasts pressed against the awesome frame and her lips parted, seeking air.

A pealing bell shattered the moment. Jason, in surprise, loosed his hold. The bells of Penscott Hall, closer than he thought—in truth, but a few hundred yards through the woods—were signaling the arrival of the king.

Marie leaped from his embrace. The king had come and she was absent! The dream rent asunder. Brazen Scottish lord and demure maid stared at one another. Marie blushed furiously, gray eyes brimming with tears of embarrassment. Hurriedly, she knelt to grab the over-blouse, folded it around the decorations, whirled about and fled into the brush.

“Wait!” Jason called too late. The unknown girl was gone. Jason stared into the woods where she had disappeared. Brilliant, clear tones of a welcoming trumpet echoed through the trees. The mare whinnied curiously. Belief hung suspended in the sunlit air. Never in twenty-six years had he encountered such magnetic desire. Who was she? A creature of the forest? Did Penscott Hall house others like her? Impossible. How could there be another creature of such devastating beauty?

The trumpet stopped and Jason returned to reality. The mare waited, subservient for the nonce. Breeches dusted, shirt smoothed out and cravat retied, the Scot retrieved coat, wig and hat and caught up the mare. “Come, Bess. We've business at hand. For four days we've waited for an audience with this new king who wears a Stuart's crown. At last, we shall see how justly balanced that circlet of power sets on the royal brow.”

Foot in the stirrup, hand on pommel, he paused, memorizing the magic glade. A flurry of leaves twisted through the breeze. A jay scolded harshly overhead. Jason, lost in reflection, ignored the brash discord, instead pondered the complexities of the mission that had brought him here, which weighty import was lessened by the fervent memory of a fair lassie's kiss.

Penscott Hall was alive with music. Every room vibrated to the brilliant tones of harpsichord and violin, mellow horns and merry trumpets. In the great hall, couples curtsied and danced, dipping and promenading to the measured, stately strains. Loose clusters of gossipers, held at near arm's length by wide panniers, exercised agile tongues with all the latest bits of news which, given life, grew to outrageously proportioned lies. Great arrays of amber candles twinkled through a mist-white haze, the inevitable consequence of a vast proliferation of heavily powdered wigs and faces.

The very air hung redolent, weighted with a variety of perfumes, few of which blended pleasantly or even much abated the crushing odor of far too many bodies. Civet, musk and ambergris vied with more daring concoctions: orangery, tuberose and the heady neroli, favored by the Duke of Bracciano. From time to time, in an isolated corner, one might catch a hint of the lighter colognes.

In a side room, away from the din, Marie twisted a last curl into place, stepped back to look at Gwendolyn's rebuilt coiffure.
Cruches,
tiny curls along the forehead;
confidantes,
deep coils dangling about the ears,
crevecoeur,
two deliciously provocative ringlets at the nape of the neck: all were in order. Gwendolyn perused herself with the dedicated attention of a field marshal perusing his maps before going into battle. Finally satisfied, she nodded and returned to a broken train of thought. “This Stuveysant, now. No doubt he's the handsomest of the Hanoverians, don't you think? A bit stodgy, of course, but then they all are.” She glanced at Marie. “Are you listening?”

“Oh, yes, ma'am.”

“Well? Do you or do you not agree?”

“I do, ma'am.”

Sorry she'd asked, Gwendolyn scowled and turned back to the mirror. “I thought you would. Powder.” Marie fastened the long, tentlike cloak about her mistress, tied it at the neck and handed Gwendolyn the face mask. The long cone fit over the mistress's face in order to keep nose and eyes from filling with powder. Everything set, Marie took a handful of talc, blew it over Gwendolyn's head. The cloud rose, settled. Both coughed. Another handful and a touch here and there and m'lady was ready—almost. “I trust you've seen Edmond, at least,” she said, voice muffled by the cone.

“Lord Penscott's had me downstairs 'til shortly, ma'am. He's—”

“—a little rooster with promise, he is. A lad who's had his own way with too many affairs, I think. I've caught his eye, though, and he shall find in me a peculiar conquest, if he dares. Am I ready?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Marie set about putting the final touches on an already thickly caked face. On the whole, she could have gone all night without thinking of Edmond. Narrow of build and somewhat effeminate, he affected an innocuous appearance, a charade too late seen through by unsuspecting maids who let him get too close. Always a little too satisfied with himself, hobnobbing with the Court had made the young man even bolder and more obnoxious. This night she'd passed in the hall as he and Captain Gregory talked. Both leered, and Edmond, knowing she was a servant in spite of all her finery, had made bold to pinch her breast. Marie fled their laughter, running to answer the summons from her lady.

Gwendolyn stood, allowed Marie to remove the cape. “I'm afraid we've a surfeit of males,” she sighed with a happy, dreamy smile. “Did you see the Scot?”

“Scot, ma'am?” Marie asked as naturally as possible, hoping her blush went unnoticed. “A Scot here?”

“Yes. Lord Jason Brand. To seek an audience with the king, 'tis said, though I fear he has little chance. What he has in mind I know nor care not, but what he hides beneath velvet coat and tight breeches? Now
there's
a secret worth the discovery!” She laughed lightly. “Perhaps I'll find the chance to test our supplicant. I'd hate to think he left Penscott Hall without
some
reward.”

Marie's lips formed a tight line of disapproval, which she took care to hide by circling Gwendolyn and brushing the last flecks of powder from her back. The man she'd seen in the forest had been a free, laughing spirit, one who didn't deserve the clutches of Lady Gwendolyn Penscott. If there were any way …

“Well? Am I ready?”

The servant girl adjusted a bow, held a mirror while her mistress checked the results. The overall effect was stunning. Lady Gwendolyn, if not the most beautiful woman of her day, was certainly one of the most daring and alluring. Her rich overgown of russet taffeta was stitched with silver thread in an abundance of floral designs that swept to the floor in majestic cascades. The petticoat revealed at the front was of the most intricate Mechlin lace, expensive beyond belief. A diamond-encrusted stomacher sparkled with dazzling brilliance, competing with high-thrust breasts under a simple but elegant corset set off at the top with a brief swatch of off-white silk through which the top half-moons of ruby areolas were revealed. Gwendolyn snapped open an oriental fan, fluttered the gaily painted device in front of her face. A light cloud of fresh powder rose into the air. “You may return to your other duties, Marie. I shan't need you further.”

She was gone. Marie closed the door for a moment of privacy and crossed to Gwendolyn's mirror. How jealous Arabella and the others must be! She twirled in front of the mirror. Three hours has passed since she had dressed, and still she couldn't believe what she saw. Black hair piled in curls, one dangling over her right ear, another partially covering her left eye. Makeup: just a hint of rouge and powder. Plenty enough for a lady-in-waiting, especially one whose complexion needed no assistance in the first place. Lord Penscott's choice of a gown had been perfect. The bone-white silk was cut low to accentuate the natural thrust of her breasts and set off the creamy texture of shoulders and neck. Semiprecious smoky quartz on her stomacher matched the color of her eyes. More yards of silk rustled in the skirt, which was set off with an overlayer of light, light green lace. Though not as sumptuous as Gwendolyn's, the gown's simplicity, in concert with Marie's youth and radiance, contributed to an effect of classical elegance unrivaled by any other woman pressent.

Half-dreaming, Marie took one last look in the mirror before leaving. Lady Gwendolyn had promised Lord Brand a reward. Of her body, of course. Nightmare visions of the promise fulfilled, of writhing, naked bodies.… Marie clenched her fists, whirled from the mirror and ran out the door.
Well, why not?
The door slammed with a great bang that echoed down the hall.
He's probably no different from the rest. Lords and ladies at play. I have no reason, no right, to be jealous
.

Only she was.

Jason Brand cut a commanding figure in the crowded upper hall, now dancing, now skirting the edges of the elegant patterns inscribed on the floor by a sweating throng. Disdainful glances of those he considered mere fops were turned aside with a leering grin, if not ignored totally. The center of attention in the gallery was George Lewis of Brunswick-Luneberg, hereditary lay Bishop of Osnabruck, Elector of Hanover and great-grandson of James I, now better and more simply known as His Majesty, King George I. At fifty-four, he was short, fair-skinned, portly and shy to a fault. Jason found it hard to believe this new king capable of command. That he spoke no English promised to pose but a minor hindrance.

There were factors in Jason's favor. George I, bred a soldier, was reputed to be brave and could be obstinate. He had no particular love of his new subjects and, as had been rumored, was determined not to be led about by a great conniving swarm of English ministers. Unless Sir Roger Penscott and his Whig friends had already convinced the king with their half-truths and filthy innuendos … Jason frowned. As had been the case all evening, His Majesty was ringed by associates utterly indifferent to either justice or the fate of Scotland.

“Ah, Brand! A curious horseman, what?” Lord Penscott exclaimed as the Scot approached.

“Curious, sir?”

“My son Edmond, here, spoke of you bolting from the king's party and vanishing into the woods. I trust you found something there to your liking.”

Edmond smirked. His dislike for Jason Brand was clearly evident: but one son removed from inheriting the Penscott title and estates, the young man considered his station far above that of any Lowlander. “Yes. For a moment I feared his rash dash”—Edmond chuckled, inordinately pleased—“was a signal loosing a great Jacobite rabble concealed in the woods.”

The king's interpreter, M. Bothmer, chortled in amusement. His Majesty looked away, bored with banter he didn't understand.

“Now, sir. That surely must not have been the case, else we would have seen the rump of your well-trained gelding. Word tis, he becomes skittish at the smell of danger, real or imagined.”

Edmond blushed, the Scottish lord's unsubtle slur cutting to the quick. That those listening laughed at his expense was even more galling. “Sir! I protest this—”

Jason turned away and bowed low to the king. “My liege,” he said slowly, waiting for Bothmer to interpret. “I have waited long for the moment I might beseech an audience. The consummation of this desire has been elusive, for Your Majesty is hemmed about by zealously overprotective souls who make bold to determine what you should and should not hear. But at last I stand before you, and beg you dear pardon for assuming my king himself decides who shall speak and who shall stand silent.”

The King listened to the interpreter, stared at Jason with lazy, clear blue eyes. For a long moment he gave no answer, instead sipped from a goblet of pounded gold. Count Stuveysant, George's Hanoverian confidant, knew his lord's mind. The sturdy, middle-aged Germanic leaned toward their host. “What time do we hunt on the morrow, m'lord?”