Skye O'Malley (34 page)

He had been married twice. At twelve he had wed a neighboring eight-year-old heiress. She died two years later of smallpox, along with her parents. This left him considerably richer, having inherited money, lands, and the barony of Lynton. Sexually active, he had mourned his wife for the shortest time possible and then wed again. The second wife was five years his senior, painfully plain but very wealthy. An orphaned heiress, her guardians had thought themselves stuck with the poor girl until Geoffrey Southwood’s father
offered for her for his son. Mary Bowen was of an old and noble family. More important, her lands adjoined those of the Earl of Lynmouth’s.

On her wedding day, the poor plain bride showed herself enamored of her handsome bridegroom, and grateful to have been rescued from the shame of spinsterhood. On her wedding night, however, her opinion changed. Her shrieks could be heard all over the castle as Geoffrey Southwood battered his way through her maidenhead and impregnated her. During the next six years she delivered a child every ten months. All but the first were daughters, and each was as plain as her mother. In disgust, Geoffrey finally stopped visiting his wife’s bed. His seven plain daughters were more than enough for one man to dower.

Mary Bowen Southwood was more than content to remain in Devon. She feared her husband. After the horror of her wedding night she had learned to lay quietly during their mating, occasionally even simulating the response expected of her. When it was first apparent that she was pregnant, he had treated her in a kindly fashion. She was glad to have pleased him, especially when Henry was born. But then had come Mary, Elizabeth, and Catherine. The week after little Phillipa’s birth he had been so furious that he slapped her, shouting that she had done it deliberately, that she’d give him a son next time or he would know the reason why. She had learned fear in her subsequent pregnancies. Susan was born next. Geoffrey was in London. Frightened but dutiful, she sent him word. A six months’ silence followed. When he finally arrived home he handed down one final ultimatum. “Produce another son, madam, or you’ll spend the rest of your life here in Devon with your brood of daughters.”

“What of Henry?” she dared to ask.

“Henry goes to the Shrewsburys’ household,” he said flatly.

When the twins, Gwyneth and Joan, were born, the Countess found herself and all of her daughters moved from Lynmouth Castle to Lynton Court. Geoffrey Southwood had had enough.

From that time on he saw his wife and family once yearly, at Michaelmas, when he arrived to hand over the money needed to run their little household for the following year. He refused to make matches for his daughters, on the premise that they were all like their mother and he would not be responsible for other men’s disappointment when the girls produced a string of daughters, as their mother had done.

Mary Southwood was frankly relieved to be rid of her husband,
but she worried over her girls. Through personal sacrifice and great frugality she managed to save half of what he gave her each year. Added to a small, secret hoard left her by her late guardians, she slowly built up small dowries for her daughters. She taught them the arts of housewifery. There would be no grand matches, but she would get them all settled. Eventually fate helped her out when Geoffrey Southwood stopped even his yearly visit, delegating that chore to his majordomo.

The “Angel” Earl, as he was known, spent his time following the Court. The young Queen Elizabeth enjoyed his elegant beauty and sharp wit. Even more, she appreciated his astute knowledge of business and overseas trade. Trade was where England’s future lay, and the educated Queen needed all the advice about it she could obtain. Elizabeth had already demonstrated herself to be a working monarch, and nothing escaped her sharp eyes or ears. Geoffrey Southwood might have an appetite for the ladies, but he deliberately went out of his way to avoid her maids-of-honor, and his respect for her was much appreciated by the vain young Queen. Best of all, Geoffrey came to Court without the encumbrance of a wife, and was therefore free to play one of Elizabeth’s gallants.

The next day dawned bright and blue, as perfect an October day as one could wish for. Skye spent the morning indoors overseeing her household, which was finally beginning to run smoothly, then working with Jean and Robert Small in setting up a new trading company. Later she eagerly snatched up her flower basket and garden shears and escaped to the beckoning outdoors.

The gardener and his assistants had done miracles in a few short weeks. Gone were the waist-high weeds and brambles. Brick walks had been discovered beneath the overgrowth, as well as small reflecting pools and rose bushes. Pruning had brought forth an abundance of late blooms, which Skye now clipped. “Damn!” she swore suddenly, jabbing her thumb on a thorn, then popping it into her mouth to soothe it.

A deep, amused masculine chuckle sent her whirling about. To her anger and embarrassment, the handsome Earl of Lynmouth was sitting on the medium-high wall separating her house from the next. He leaped down gracefully and took her hand. “Just a prick, my pet,” he said.

Skye snatched back her hand furiously. “What were you doing on my wall?” she demanded.

“I live on the other side of it,” he answered smoothly. “In fact, my pet, you and I own the wall in common. The building next to
yours is Lynmouth House. It was built by my grandfather, who also built this charming little house for his mistress, a goldsmith’s daughter.”

“Oh,” said Skye coldly, shocked. “How very interesting, my lord. Now … if you will please leave?” she managed.

Geoffrey Southwood smiled ruefully, and Skye noticed that the corners of his strangely green eyes were crinkled with laugh lines. “Now, Mistress Goya del Fuentes,” he said. “I realize that we got off on the wrong foot, and I will apologize now for having stared so rudely at you at the Rose and Anchor. Surely, however, you will not be too hard on me? I cannot be the first man who has ever been stunned by your extravagant beauty, now can I?”

Skye flushed. Damn the man! He really was charming. And if they were neighbors, she could hardly continue to snub him. The corners of her mouth turned up in a small smile. “Very well, my lord. I accept your apology.”

“And you will join me for a late supper?”

Skye laughed. “You are really incorrigible, Lord Southwood.”

“Geoffrey,” he corrected.

“You are still incorrigible, Geoffrey,” she sighed, “and my name is Skye.”

“A most unusual name. How did you come by it?”

“I don’t know. My parents both died when I was young, and the nuns who raised me could never tell me.” It was said so naturally that he was thrown. Perhaps she wasn’t the Whoremaster of Algiers’ widow after all. “And was Geoffrey your father’s name?” she was asking.

“No. He was Robert. Geoffrey was the first of the Southwoods. He came from Normandy with Duke William almost five hundred years ago.”

“How wonderful to know the history of one’s family,” she said wistfully.

“You haven’t yet told me you will dine with me tonight,” he said.

Skye bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I really don’t think I should.”

“I realize it’s a bit unorthodox, asking you to dine late, but I must attend the Queen at Greenwich, and she’ll not let me go till late.”

“Then perhaps we should dine on another day when you have more time,” she replied.

“Have pity on me, fair Skye. I dance constant attendance on
Her Majesty, and it is only rarely that I have any time. My chef is an artist, but cooking for one is little challenge. Unless I provide him with a guest soon I shall lose him. And how can I give my famous Twelfth Night revel without a chef? So you really can’t refuse me, can you?”

She had to laugh. He seemed so boyish, and so very handsome in the open-necked cream silk shirt. He was not at all the arrogant nobleman who had accosted her several weeks before. “I should not,” she said, “but I will. I would not like to be held responsible by all of London for the defection of your chef.”

“I will come for you myself,” he replied. Then he caught her hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. “You’ve made me the happiest of men tonight!” Grasping at a heavy vine growing against the wall, he pulled himself up and quickly disappeared over the top.

Shrugging, Skye picked up her flower basket and returned to the house. If she was to be ready when he came this evening, she had a great deal to do. She stopped, and told herself that this was just a simple dinner, not a romantic liaison.

Robert Small emerged just then from the library. “Well, lass, we’re done now. May I treat you to dinner at the
Swan
tavern up the river?”

“Oh, Robbie. I’m having dinner with Lord Southwood. He is, it seems, my neighbor.”

“That knave! Christ’s toenail, Skye, are you mad?”

“Now, Robbie, he has apologized for his rudeness. I have no friends here in London, and you’ll soon be off again. I must start somewhere.”

“He has a wife,” stated Robert Small flatly.

“I suspected so, but I do not seek a romantic entanglement with Geoffrey.”

Robert Small’s bushy gray-black eyebrows shot up. “Geoffrey, is it? Well, my lass, so you’ll know a bit about the man, attend me. His first wife died when she was a child. His second wife is a woman of no beauty, but much wealth. She’s borne him one son and seven daughters, and for her perfidy she and her daughters are exiled to Lynton Court, her childhood home. He sends his steward each Michaelmas to pay the servants there for the year. Cold bastard, I’d say. He’s rich, though. At least we don’t have to worry about him being after your money.”

His dour concern over fortune-hunting men made her laugh. She ruffled his thinning hair. “Dear Robbie, you’re a good watchdog, and I thank you. You and Dame Cecily and Willow are my entire
family. I promise to be very careful in my relationship with Lord Southwood, but it’s only a late supper.”

“I’ll stay the night, Skye. It’s best you have a man in the house.”

“Thank you, Robbie. Now, I’d best prepare myself,” and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek she ran upstairs to her own apartment. “Daisy!” she called. “Have a footman set up my bath and lay out the peacock-blue velvet gown with the gold thread flowered underskirt.”

As the footmen lugged the buckets of steaming water up the back stairs from the kitchen, Skye sat at her dressing table sliding necklaces through her slender fingers. She decided upon a double strand of perfectly matched pale-pink pearls from which hung a teardrop diamond of slightly deeper pink. The necklace had been Khalid’s gift. It no longer hurt quite so much to think about Khalid.

The footmen departed and she undressed slowly. Daisy took each garment, and Skye reached for some tortoiseshell hairpins and secured her dark hair. It would not be necessary to wash it tonight, as she had done so yesterday in a mixture of fresh rainwater and essence of roses. Now she walked naked across the room and poured some of the same rose essence into her tub. Daisy averted her brown eyes. She could simply not get used to her mistress’s habit of bathing regularly, let alone bathing naked. The young woman liked her mistress, however, and so she bore with her eccentricities.

Skye chuckled. “You can open your eyes now, Daisy. I’m safely in the tub.”

“Oh, mum, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

“Haven’t you ever looked at yourself, Daisy? Women have very lovely bodies, but men are never quite so pretty.”

“Oh, mum! How you talk! Look at myself indeed! If me mother had ever caught me doing such a thing she’d have beat me black and blue.”

Skye smiled to herself and wondered why the English—no, she amended—why the Europeans were so afraid of their bodies. Then she laughed at herself for, though she could not remember it, she too was European. But she couldn’t imagine herself bathing only a few times a year, and then in a cotton shift!

She picked up the damask rose soap, built up a rich lather, and washed her face. She lathered the rest of her lithe body, slowly and thoroughly, summoning an almost unbearably sensuous feeling. Good Lord, she thought, as she watched the nipples of her breasts harden, I’m alive again, and I want a man to love. She blushed with
the memory of how Geoffrey Southwood had looked at her this afternoon.

Stepping hastily from the tub, she took the big warmed towel from Daisy and began to dry herself. “Bring me a light wool caftan,” she said. “It’s too early to dress yet. I’ll sleep for a bit.”

Slipping on the caftan, she added, “Leave the tub till later, I’ll rest now, and ring when I want you. Go get your dinner.” The little maid curtseyed and left the room.

Skye lay upon her bed, drawing a fur robe over herself. Geoffrey Southwood had a finely turned leg, she thought, and those lime-green eyes had undoubtedly melted many a heart. She was much too vulnerable to be having dinner with him. Oh, why had she accepted the invitation? She was lonely. Perhaps that was why. Khalid had been dead almost two years, and suddenly she was again aware of the fact that she was a woman, a woman who, up until her husband’s death, had been well loved. She would have to be very careful lest she present the Earl of Lynmouth with the wrong impression of herself. She drifted into a light sleep and awakened at Daisy’s touch.

“The Earl of Lynmouth’s footman is below, mum. His lordship will be here in half an hour.”

Skye stretched languidly. “Fetch me a basin of rose water, Daisy. Is my gown ready?”

“Yes, mum.”

Skye bathed her face, hands, and neck, having shed the caftan. With averted eyes Daisy handed her mistress her silk undergarments, lacing the little boned busk up tightly, smoothing down the several petticoats, the last one threaded through with blue ribbons, as was her silk underblouse. Skye slipped on her new knitted silk stockings which were of the palest blue with a tiny silver thread vine pattern. Her garters were also blue with deep pink rosettes.

Daisy carefully slipped the gold-threaded underskirt over Skye’s head, and laced it up. Lastly came the beautiful peacock-blue velvet gown, split to show the embroidered underskirt. The puffed sleeves were slashed to reveal a soft creamy sheer silk underblouse. Skye slipped on her blue satin slippers and stood before the pier glass, a faint smile on her lips. She slid the pearls around her neck, watching with fascination as the pink diamond nestled in the deep valley between her breasts. Yes, it was perfect.