Rose Bride (22 page)

Sir Thomas, who was older than Munro and better able to hide any embarrassment at this unorthodox meeting, came over to greet her. Margerie remained seated, though she felt her cheeks grow warm under his intelligent scrutiny. If only she could learn not to blush. But she supposed her face would soon cease to betray her if she spent enough nights pretending to be bedded by one or more of these gentlemen, and in truth reading or embroidering by the fire.

He smiled, gallantly bending to kiss her hand. ‘Mistress Croft.’

‘Sir Thomas.’

His lady mother was
not displeased
, the queen had said. Margerie wondered what Munro’s lady mother would think if she knew the truth. But perhaps she did know it, and would rather the court saw this face of her son, than the other more private one. And what harm did it do?

None, she thought, and smiled up at his lordship’s lover. ‘Has the rain stopped yet, sir?’

‘I fear not.’

‘It is as well we are not out in it, then. Perhaps it will have stopped by first light.’ She looked at Munro. ‘Shall we continue the game another night, my lord?’

Lord Munro was smiling too, not hiding his relief that their meeting had been a success. ‘Yes,’ he said promptly, then remembered his manners. ‘I thank you, yes. Did you . . .’ He glanced about vaguely, and she could see he was already in the other room in his mind, loving and being loved. ‘Bring something to read? More poetry?’

‘You enjoy poetry, Mistress Croft?’ Sir Thomas asked politely.

‘Some, yes,’ she agreed. ‘Not all. Though it helps if it is in English.’

His eyes sparkled, amused. ‘And do you ever compose your own verses?’

‘Sadly, that is not a talent I can claim, sir.’

This was the strangest conversation, Margerie thought, given the circumstances. Yet she continued to smile.

‘Versifying is a rare talent, Mistress Croft, so there can be no shame in admitting so. I am sure you possess many other talents.’

She raised her brows.

‘Forgive me,’ he said at once, ‘I did not intend . . .’

She laughed, and he grinned, looking a little embarrassed at last.

‘I shall be quiet now. It seems best.’ Sir Thomas bowed as though she were a high-born lady of the court and not a disreputable courtesan. His gaze turned slowly, uncertainly, to Munro. ‘Shall we, my lord?’

‘Gladly.’

With one accord, the two men left her sitting alone in the glow of firelight and retired discreetly into the adjoining chamber.

She touched her gold and emerald necklace, deeply pleased by his lordship’s gift, then settled back in her seat. She tried not to listen to what was going on next door, taking up her embroidery and attempting a few stitches. But it was impossible not to hear
some
sounds. And to grow aroused again, intolerably. She glanced at the fire as a damp log spat at her. What was Master Elton doing tonight, she wondered? The man she was not allowed to greet even as a stranger. The man whose bed had been forbidden to her by the queen.

She had written him a note by way of explanation.

We may no longer meet. M.

Five words which had taken as many hours to compose. Poetry, indeed. Like drawing a tooth.

Pretending not to notice the exquisite pain in her heart, she set another rose-red stitch into her embroidery and pulled the thread delicately through: a loop that would have snagged, snarled up, except she freed it in time.

That gentleman’s history
.

What was Virgil Elton’s history? The more Margerie considered the queen’s odd comment – and it was hard not to consider it – the more inclined she was to think it more than a veiled reference to his betrothal.

History
sounded further back than a betrothal. Much further back.

Virgil saw Margerie Croft and Lord Munro from the king’s window while the sacrosanct royal member was being discussed in whispers by the king’s chief physicians.

She was laughing with Munro, dodging raindrops as they ran across the inner courtyard, his cloak held over her head.

It should mean nothing to him. She was a courtesan. They had spent some heady nights together, that was all, driven by the mutual lust of their bodies and aided by his aphrodisiac. Sweating, labouring for pleasure and being rewarded by it. He had demanded complete submission, and her sweet body had yielded freely. Virgil could still recall the immeasurable joy and relief of releasing inside her, so piercing it had been almost painful . . .

His cock stiffened at the memory.

Virgil cursed, turning away. Let her run. Laugh. Smile at Munro as though she knew his secrets.

We may no longer meet. M.

Had he failed to please her in some way? But no, it had been good between them. Too damn good. This abrupt dismissal was over her affair with Lord Munro, he was sure. His lordship must have refused to share, and so he was cast out into the darkness.

His hands clenched into fists, and he struggled not to imagine her in bed with the young nobleman. Damn the bastard.

The experiment had been all but concluded anyway. He would soon have cut off from her himself – had indeed been seriously considering whether to give up their nights together – if she had not sent that note. Women! He thought fleetingly of Christina, then dismissed the idea. She was still too fragile, so pure and white. It would be like lying down in an immaculate bed of snow.

Perhaps once they were married Christina would prove to be as passionate as Margerie. But he doubted it. Christina’s powerful intellect was her passion. She would rather tease a man’s brain than his body, and while he found such intelligence and wit irresistible in a woman, he was also a man of strong physical needs. Needs that had not been assuaged for some days now, he thought grimly.

The possibility of breaking off his engagement winked at him for a moment like a jewel in the cold autumn sunshine. Then he imagined Christina’s hurt, her look of betrayal. Her childish anger.

Not possible.

The king’s examination was at an end. The whispered discussions behind him drew to some kind of conclusion, then the bed curtains were pulled back to reveal a tight-lipped monarch in his nightgown. His Majesty’s fervent attempts to father an heir to the Tudor dynasty had still not borne fruit, and it seemed a miracle was required.

Master Greene turned, sounding nervous. ‘Master Elton. Your improved cordial, if you please.’

He bowed, unstoppered the vial, and demonstrated for the irascible king and his attendants how many drops and in how much wine, and how long before the act . . .

Later that autumn, he was out walking the grounds of Richmond Palace with Christina, pleased at her progress – she had been invalided so long, it was a rare delight to see his friend on her feet – when he caught sight of Mistress Langley first, then Margerie, the two ladies strolling together in the walled rose garden.

The roses were almost all finished, of course, and the rose bushes had been tied back and tended, ready for the next season’s growth. But it was a more peaceful garden now that no one came there anymore, and he had often found himself walking there himself in the early mornings, thinking of it as his own private sanctuary.

So it was a shock to glance through the iron gate and see Margerie there with her friend, pausing to examine a bare rose bush, her head bent. His pulse had quickened at the first glimpse of that demurely white-capped head, wild red hair escaping, refusing to be controlled. He hated his instinctive response and fought it, teeth gritted, trying to ignore the painful rush of emotion.

Christina had been talking comfortably of their wedding plans while he listened with half an ear, concealing the emptiness he felt at such discussions. She frowned when he stilled, looking at him with surprise. ‘Virgil, what is it?’

‘Nothing.’ He smiled at his betrothed, determined not to look in Margerie’s direction. ‘A sudden chill. This north wind bites when it blows.’ He studied her face, hoping his own did not reveal his feelings. ‘Are you not tired? You have walked further today than ever before.’

A spark of pleasure lit in her blue eyes at this praise, lending her an unusually lively air. ‘Yes, I am a little fatigued. But I wish to be quite well for our wedding,’ she admitted.

‘When . . . When is it, again?’

‘Oh, Virgil!’ she exclaimed, pinching his arm. ‘Have you not been listening at all? I have written to your mother, and she thinks early next spring is best. But I would prefer to be married by Christmastide at least. I do not wish us to delay any longer. Why should we, now that I am free of my uncle’s interference?’

‘Indeed,’ he agreed huskily, glancing back at the rose gardens.

They had passed the gate now, but he could hear Kate Langley’s voice in the walled garden, and wondered what they were discussing. Not him, that was for sure.

‘You have something on your mind, Virgil,’ Christina accused him. ‘Tell me what it is.’

‘No, I am merely concerned for your well-being. I am convinced you must be tired. Let me escort you back to your chamber.’

‘I am tired, but my maid can escort me,’ Christina said primly, for the girl had accompanied them on their walk about the palace grounds. ‘Your mother warned me in her letter not to be alone with you here, for a woman’s reputation is very fragile. And I have heard certain whispers at court . . .’

He stared round at her. ‘What whispers?’

Christina’s coy look left him in no doubt what this gossip had concerned.

‘Forgive me, I have no wish to discuss it further,’ she said. ‘But rest assured I am not angry. You are a man, Virgil. And this may surprise you, but I find it pleasing that you are not . . . not chaste. I had wondered, you see. For in all these years of our betrothal, you have never once tried to seduce me.’

‘Christina!’

She met his gaze without flinching. ‘Well, you must admit it is strange.’

He was shocked now, and deeply troubled. ‘I was merely too concerned for your honour to attempt such a thing. And my mother was right to warn you. Very little at court goes unnoticed.’

‘But once we are married, you will . . .’ Christina hesitated, clearly embarrassed, her gloved hand tightening on his arm. ‘
Love
me?’

Her blush was startling. It was like seeing a statue come to life, he thought. Pygmalion’s perfect woman. Only she was not his perfect woman. More was the pity, for he would soon be forced to marry her. It was either that or hurt her intolerably.

‘Let me escort you inside, Christina,’ he muttered, not answering her disturbing question.

In truth, he did not know his own mind on that topic. She was a woman, and not unattractive. There would be no hardship involved in bedding her. But for life . . .

Christina said nothing more, to his relief, and Virgil was able to escort her in silence to the arched doorway into the palace.

Once he had seen her and her maid servant safely inside, he turned and retraced their steps to the walled rose garden. The gate was ajar, and he slipped silently inside, glancing up and down the narrow paths. They were still there, near the rose arch. Two women admiring the stillness of an autumn garden.

The beautiful Kate Langley saw him approaching, and turned with a cautious smile. ‘Master Elton,’ she said loudly, dropping a curtsey, and he noted how Margerie stiffened at the sound of his name, her face suddenly rigid.

God’s blood, did she hate him so much? What had he done to offend her so severely?

His heart was thumping violently. Get yourself in hand, he told himself sternly.

‘Mistress Langley,’ he murmured, bowing to both ladies, then straightened, looking at Margerie. ‘Mistress Croft.’

She did not waste time on pleasantries. ‘What do you want?’

It was like a slap in the face.

Virgil was abruptly angry. ‘To discuss your note, madam.’

‘There is nothing to say, sir.’

‘I have one question.’

‘Ask it of God, then,’ she countered sharply, glaring at him with those captivating green eyes that still haunted his dreams. ‘For I have said my piece.’

‘By the rood!’ he exclaimed, a sudden heat in his face. ‘Will you not at least tell me
why
?’

‘I shall not, sir.’

Virgil struggled against the urge to speak more plainly. They were strangers, it seemed. And must converse like strangers, with forced politeness and veiled references. Forgetting how they had once lain together in intimacy and trust, keeping each other’s secrets.

Why was he even here? It was humiliating. He would be married soon, the arrangements were in hand. The banns would be read, the church decked with flowers. Christina would walk down the aisle as she had always dreamt of doing. He would have a wife; he would not need a mistress. Another man’s mistress, in fact.

‘Mistress Langley, of your goodness,’ he managed at last, tempering his tone with an effort, ‘would you allow me a moment to speak privily with this lady?’

Kate Langley bit her lip, looking from him to her friend in consternation.