Courtly Scandals Read online

  Praise for Erin Kane Spock

  Courtly Pleasures:

  “Mrs. Spock’s ability to weave an intriguing story with exquisite description and deep character study is truly admirable. This is the first in what promises to be an addictive series.” —Raquel Byrnes, author of The Tremblers and Ruby Dawn

  “Erin Kane Spock’s Courtly Pleasures is a steamy and delightful historical Elizabethan romance from a sparkling debut talent!” —Australian Romance Readers Association, Inc.

  “Heartwarming, tender . . . a hero I want for my very own!”—Mary Wine, author of the Highland Wedding series

  “Loved the active seeking of consent. It’s the best kind of second-chance romance.”—grade A, Smart Bitches, Trashy Books

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  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter One: On the First Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me a Partridge in a Pear Tree

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three: On the Second Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Two Turtle Doves...

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six: On the Third Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Three French Hens...

  Chapter Seven: On the Fourth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Four Colly Birds...

  Chapter Eight: On the Fifth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Five Gold Rings...

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven: On the Sixth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Six Geese A-Laying...

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen: On the Seventh Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Seven Swans A-Swimming...

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen: On the Eighth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Eight Maids A-Milking...

  Chapter Seventeen: On the Ninth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Nine Ladies Dancing...

  Chapter Eighteen: On the Tenth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Ten Lords A-Leaping...

  Chapter Nineteen: On the Eleventh Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Eleven Pipers Piping

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One: On the Twelfth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me Twelve Drummers Drumming...

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Feast of the Epiphany

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Guide

  Cover

  Contents

  Start of content

  Courtly Scandals

  Courtly Love, Book 2

  Erin Kane Spock

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Brian Spock, who has dealt with my brainstorming sessions and general dismissal of most of his ideas for years. He’s put up with a lot, but continues to be my rock. That’s romance.

  This book is also dedicated to my mother-in-law, Susan Spock, who has read every book I’ve written in its most raw form and been unfailingly honest in her critique. This book is her favorite (so far).

  Chapter One:

  On the First Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me a Partridge in a Pear Tree

  December 25, 1572

  Whitehall Palace

  Mary’s corset bit into her back and hip as Anne gripped her in a firm embrace.

  Anne appeared unaware of Mary’s discomfort. “Christmastide will be so wonderful this year!” She grabbed Mary’s hands and threw herself into a reel, towing Mary with her. “I have you, my dearest friend, with me. It will be such a jolly time.”

  Mary smiled as Anne pulled her into another swift hug. She had not seen Anne for over a year when circumstances reunited them a few months past. Mary had been in service as a companion to young Anne. At two and twenty, with no appropriate marriage prospects, she’d been honored to join the Cecil household as a companion to the then twelve-year-old Anne. William Cecil, though highly esteemed at court, was merely a knighted landowner at that time, which put Mary and Anne at the same social standing even though Mary was paid to be there. Mary had left the Cecil household just before Anne had married the Earl of Oxford and become the countess and Sir William Cecil himself was named Baron Burghley.

  Mary had never had high expectations for the marriage, but she’d been horrified to see how sapped, how spiritless Anne had appeared upon their reunion at Hampton Court Palace three months ago. In spite of the fact that she had not heard once from Anne in the year they had been apart—until Anne invited her to stay on at court as her guest when Frances, Mary’s current mistress, left—she felt like she had no choice but to accompany her to Whitehall Palace for the Christmas festivities. This time she was a guest of the countess, and though her own rank was now significantly lower than Anne’s, she was here as a friend, not a servant. Frances LeSieur had found happiness and gone to celebrate the twelve days of Christmas at her home in the country. Frances would be just as well without Mary, but Anne needed someone who cared.

  While Anne’s smile seemed genuine, Mary could not believe that she actually intended on attending any of the twelve nights of Christmas revelry. Anne was much too concerned with what her father might think to actually enjoy a good party.

  Mary did not have that particular problem.

  If everything she had heard was correct, the twelve nights at court would be full of the most amazing entertainments, some legitimately provided by the Queen’s household, some by the courtiers unable to control themselves under the guise of Christmas. She could hardly wait.

  The ladies finished two full twirls before collapsing side by side on a chaise, the full hoops of their farthingales fighting each other in the limited space.

  Mary stood and reached out her hand. “Here, let me fix you.”

  Anne accepted the offered assistance and stood, letting Mary settle her skirts into a more ladylike fashion before sitting again, this time more elegantly.

  Mary suppressed a smile. Anne had let the new high rank of countess go to her head. It was nice to see a moment of honest abandon—this was the first Mary had witnessed since she had joined Queen Elizabeth’s court in late September with Frances. With her duties to Frances her priority, it had been hard to find the time to reestablish her friendship with Anne. Between courtly posturing and revelry, there had been no private moment where Anne could be anything other than a countess, a great lady of the court. Now, on the twenty-fifth of December, she and Anne finally had a moment to themselves. A time to be real. And she desperately hoped Anne’s horrid husband would not be present for any of it.

  “Will you join the Christmas festivities then, Anne?” Mary already knew the answer. Cecil’s house had been borderline Puritan, and Anne had been raised to be studious and serious.

  “Oh, my father would have an apoplexy if I did.” He would.

  “Then why the excitement?”

  “Well, you shall go, of course. Then you will tell me everything.” Anne sat forward, the façade of the mature lady gone. “And I mean everything. You might even have a dalliance.”

  Mary laughed and settled herself onto a cushion on the thick hearth rug. “You wish me to have a dalliance so I can tell you about it?”


  “Well, I expect you to enjoy yourself as well. It is Christmastide.”

  “Christmastide is not an excuse for everything.”

  “To some it is. I recall you once felt the influence of the Christmas spirit quite strongly.”

  Anne’s words hung in the air as Mary tried to form a response. The past few moments had tricked her into feeling as if the past year had never happened. As if Anne were still her fifteen-year-old charge and Mary was a marriageable gentlewoman serving in the Cecil house. As if she’d never left, never had to leave.

  But no, time had passed and everything had changed.

  Strumming broke the silence as Girard, the Oxford house minstrel, resumed on his lute, reminding Mary and Anne that they were not alone in the room. Perhaps Anne did not care that her ladies in waiting and various servants could hear their conversation. After all, Anne was a countess now and did not have to worry about her reputation the same way Mary did—hence her willingness to have a private conversation in front of a room full of retainers.

  “Flow my tears, fall from your springs . . . ” Girard’s soft tenor soothed the tension in the air. Mary looked around surreptitiously, noting Anne’s ladies in waiting working on their needlepoint, their eyes downcast. Of course they had been listening. Girard was sure to have heard everything, but he had become a dear friend and already knew most of Mary’s secrets.

  Mary let the silence between her and Anne stretch and made a pretense of listening to Girard’s song. Anne did not seem to notice—probably lost in her own thoughts, as usual.

  The Oxford household had spent the last few days moving into the massive suite of rooms at Whitehall Palace. Anne, intent on proving herself as the Countess of Oxford, had insisted that her rooms be opulent as befitted her station, so the household had traveled with wagon after wagon of boxes full of tapestries, rugs, and furnishings—not to mention Anne’s wardrobe. The rooms were packed full of high quality items that had been positioned perfectly, and still they felt cold. Mary, as a special guest of the countess, had been instructed not to help with the move. It was not so for Anne’s ladies in waiting. Mary had to wonder if they resented her—after all, most of them outranked her. It was incredibly awkward.

  Mary leaned closer to the fire, feeling the heat soak through her heavy wool gown. Winter had come late this year—which had been convenient in regard to her move from Hampton Court Palace to Whitehall. Over the past few days, the frost had struck with a vengeance and the world outside the limed stone of the palace was crisp and harsh, stripped of life. Looking around at the thick tapestries that covered the mismatched wood paneling, Mary prayed that it would be enough to fight off the chill.

  “Mary, you do know I have forgiven you for leaving me.” Anne’s words were curt and sharp.

  Anne? Forgive her? Mary had always thought it was the opposite way around. Anne’s husband’s actions, his despicable and wicked actions, had left Mary with no choice but to leave the Cecil household and return to her family. Anne knew this, and yet she blamed Mary? And here she thought she was being the benevolent one. “Anne, you know I had no choice at the time.” Mary’s words came out louder than she had intended.

  “So you say.” Anne sniffed with her newfound countess affectation. “But you left me alone . . . ”

  Anne’s statement was cut short by a loud crash as the heavy oak door leading into the sitting room slammed open. Directly into a standing cabinet. Apparently not everything in the room had been positioned as perfectly as Anne had demanded. Mary’s amusement was short lived when Ned de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, entered the room.

  The knot that had wound tighter and tighter in her chest throughout the conversation with Anne constricted with a jerk of pain. She’d never wanted to see that man again. Being at court brought the risk daily. Actually, being housed as a guest of Lady Oxford made it a near certainty, but still she wasn’t prepared.

  His practiced look of superior ennui did not fool her. Beneath that waxed mustache lay the face of a monster.

  In a fluster, all of Lady Oxford’s ladies stood and lowered themselves into reverances, showing respect for his rank. Mary rose from her position on the floor as fast as she could and reveranced gracefully, keeping her back straight while bending one knee and extending the other leg so that the toe of her slipper peeked out from under her skirts. It was the appropriate response to someone of higher rank, and very few people outranked the Earl of Oxford. Including his wife.

  Anne remained seated, her face composed and calm. She merely acknowledged her husband with a nod of her head. Something was not quite right—but then again, nothing ever was right between the earl and the countess.

  Oxford made a leisurely gesture to rise up those in reverance, but fixed his wife with a cold stare. Why had she not shown him due respect? Everyone in the room could read the disdain in his eye as he questioned, “Lady wife, are you not well?”

  “Well enough, my lord. I thank you humbly for inquiring.” It was not like her to be terse—especially with her husband. The most joy they seemed to get out of their marriage was in the subtle sting of artfully parried words.

  “Fie! There is not a humble bone in your body!” Ned de Vere was born to prestige and rank. Any affection he might have had for Anne had dissolved completely upon their wedding—Mary suspected he would never forgive himself that he married so much beneath him for such a mundane thing as money. “A humbling would do you good. You forget your low birth. Your father is no better than a page with a piss bucket.”

  Anne remained seated, calmly regarding her husband as if he had said nothing particularly interesting. As much as Mary loved her friend, she could not stand to witness the sick byplay of disgust and disrespect. How did Anne live with it? Why had Anne chosen to marry him?

  “My lord husband, I never forget who my father is.” Anne stood up at this, her slight form almost dwarfed by her elaborate gown. “And you would do well not to forget either. That page, as you call him, is Queen Elizabeth’s most trusted advisor. He has the Queen’s ear—you do not.”

  Mary stood stock still, willing herself to blend in with the wall. Ned de Vere’s complete lack of empathy was almost inhuman. He had been a ward in the Cecil’s house—raised by Anne’s father. Years of love and nurture had had absolutely no effect on the pompous ass. He still had a smattering of academic respect for Anne, but for the most part, his birth placed him so high above the inferior Cecil family that they were not worthy of notice. Mary had been part of the whole debacle during her years of service as Anne’s companion. She would never understand it.

  Oxford straightened his doublet and resumed his expression of bored antipathy. “I received your summons. I must say I never knew you to have a sense of humor. My men and I enjoyed a good laugh at the thought you would have the nerve to summon me.” Catching sight of a mirror, he adjusted his position to better inspect himself. “I came because I wish to speak with you. Since I know that nothing you say could be of any interest to me, you will listen obediently and not interrupt.”

  Mary stifled her snort of disgust, just as Anne held out an expectant hand. Mary looked around and noticed that not one of Anne’s ladies had raised their eyes from the ground after Oxford’s arrival and had not seen Lady Oxford’s subtle request. She prayed to God that Oxford would take no notice of her, or at least, not recognize her, as she hurried over to hand her friend a goblet of watered wine. No such luck. Oxford simply looked at Mary and waited expectantly. Mary knew he was demanding her service as well. If she were to ask him what he required, he would upbraid her as an idiot. Reverancing her acknowledgment of the unspoken command, she backed over to the table and prepared his wine. She was not his servant, but he wouldn’t care—to him, everyone lower in rank was his servant. Pride was something she was willing to sacrifice just to ensure the whole interview would end as uneventfully as possible. The best she could hope for was that he wouldn’t remember her, that she’d just blend in with the other gentlewomen present.

&n
bsp; Anne maintained her serene pose as the Earl of Oxford accepted his goblet and took the seat across from her. It was almost a picture of marital harmony.

  “As I am sure you have noticed, we have been wed a year. Though it pains me, I have done my duty by you and now wait upon you to do yours. I would have you know that if you prove to be barren, I will seek to divorce you or worse.” Mary, through sheer force of will, did not rush over and put her knee to his groin and elbow to his nose, but imagining it helped her get past the sudden nausea. How dare he. “I will also press suit against your father for breach of contract. Should you survive the ordeal, you will be forever marked as flawed and have no recourse in life but to hide away in your father’s home. Do you understand me? I know you to be a bit slow, so I will repeat anything that may have gone over your head.” Oxford raised a severely tweezed brow questioningly and leaned forward in a mockery of concern.

  Awful man.

  Anne Cecil, lowly born daughter of a mere statesman, sat patiently with an inquiring look on her face. “Are you finished? Excellent. I summoned you here today . . . ”

  Oxford refused to allow his wife the luxury of believing that anything she did or said had consequence. “I came to speak with you. I spoke. Now it is your turn to respond to my question. Do you understand my position?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Anne answered in a casual tone. Mary had no idea how Anne could rein in her temper so well. Anne was a proud, intelligent young woman; it was disgusting to watch her being treated so abhorrently.

  “Very good. So, if there is nothing else . . . ” Oxford rose and placed his goblet on the nearby table, sloshing the remnants of his wine onto the rug in the process.

  Anne rose with him, this time giving him a reverance. “I am pregnant.” Anne stated her words clearly. For once, Oxford was speechless. “I summoned you so I could share the joyous news.”