Courtly Pleasures Read online

  It was Henry’s turn to wince. “You never complained,” he began, then shook his head. “But you would not, would you?”

  Frances found her composure coming back and welcomed it like an old friend. “A lady understands her lot.”

  “And you have ever been the lady.” He looked back at her list. “I will provide you with a seal of credit for whatever spending you see fit within London during your time with Queen Elizabeth. How long will you be in town?”

  “Through the autumn. I should leave before the frost if I wish to return to Nottinghamshire before Christ’s mass.”

  “So you do wish to return to Holme LeSieur?”

  “Aye.” She turned her face to the ceiling as her eyes began to brim once more. “I would not abandon our children to be raised by nurses indefinitely. You are approving the separation, then?”

  Handing back the parchment, he answered, “I will not divorce you.”

  The pressure in the room lightened and Frances released her breath.

  • • •

  Henry studied his wife, surprised. For the first time since before their marriage he saw a hint of the passionate girl he’d agreed to marry. She’d done what she was told, obeyed her mother as a child her age should, but he could see the beginning of rebellion in the way she demurred with just a touch of impudence. But she’d never grown saucy with him. Not at all. She was exactly as a wife should be. She wasn’t intimidated by her mother, one of the most powerful women in England, but she was wary of him. He’d convinced himself that the fire he remembered from their interactions prior to betrothal was a false memory. Either that or the act of marriage, of becoming a wife, had crushed her spirit. Until today this woman had consistently played the role of wife with docility. No spirit. No opinions or interest—nothing but duty.

  This was different and, oddly, exhilarating. These demands flummoxed him, and he had an unsteady feeling he’d been there before. Felt like this . . . yes, on the day of their wedding. He’d been a child, fifteen. Skinny, awkward, hardly knowing his arse from his hat. Still, he did his duty and wed and bed pretty fourteen-year-old Frances Spencer. He’d liked her, loved how she never quite did exactly as was told. That impetuous spirit had made him look forward to the conjugal adventures to come. But when it came down to it, Henry thanked God he’d been able to perform at all. She’d been so lovely and so . . . womanly. He’d just had to tell himself that he was her husband now and rightful master. Somehow they’d gotten through it, but even now, thinking of it made him queasy. She hadn’t cried, hadn’t complained—just lain there with that damned pleasant expression pasted on her face. He may not have emerged from that bed feeling like a man, but he had become the legal master of his estate and, thus, duty done.

  The Frances who stood before him now scared and fascinated him almost as much as his young bride. There was no reason for it—he no longer doubted himself. His service to the Crown, his service to the good people of Nottinghamshire, hell, even his service to his wife was commendable. He’d never let anyone down.

  So why did he feel like his wife had just accused him of rape?

  In the eyes of the law and the church, he had every right to divorce her. No one would fault him. Still, the fear and hope hiding behind her forced poise made him wonder.

  “Frances . . . ” he started, reaching to her once more.

  She winced and stepped back, knocking over the bench behind her. “I simply need your yea or nay on my request.”

  He paused, stunned. Did she truly think him a monster? This could not stand. He cleared his throat and relaxed his posture. As unthreateningly as possible, he stepped closer and took her hand. He could feel the chill in her fingers even through the fine leather of her gloves.

  His voice soft, he asked, “And if I say nay?”

  She blinked, the copper tips of her lashes catching the late summer sunlight in a flash. She drew in her bottom lip, worrying at it with her teeth for an unguarded moment before she answered, “I shall have to rethink.”

  “Will you return to the Holme?”

  Frances closed her eyes and let out a breath before raising her chin, her mouth firming into a tight line once more as if she reminded herself to be angry. She pulled her hand from his. “I will not. Not yet.”

  “I see.”

  Henry circled once more around the desk, irrationally hurt by the way her shoulders sagged in relief the moment he stepped out of her space. He pulled a sheet of parchment from the sheaf and inked his quill. The short missive, coupled with his wax seal, would serve.

  “This gives you the LeSieur line of credit. I am certain you will need some more appropriate gowns if you wish to serve among the Queen’s ladies.”

  “You are granting my request then?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “But . . . ”

  “You may remain in London as planned, but I will not grant you the separation at this time.” He handed her the rolled parchment. “I want to understand my role in this better before I make a decision. Perhaps, I wish to redeem myself in your eyes.”

  “I do not see why. I am only one of your obligations. You do not desire me.” Her statement held sure surety Henry couldn’t help but argue.

  “Do I not, madam?” Did he? Up until now he really had not desired her. She made the thought unpleasant. But this Frances, the one challenging him, was different. “Mayhap I hold you in high esteem.” Which, of course, he always had. She filled her role at the manor excellently.

  “Do not mock me, husband. I do not expect nor want your esteem or your love.”

  Love? Where had that come from? “Love is a strong word. Stronger, I fear, than the emotion that lies behind it.” He’d heard courtiers play at courtly love for years and it never meant more than a tumble in a closet.

  The fullness of Frances’s lips curving into a smile but her eyes remained weary. “Love. We wed too young. It is known that boys do not love until they are mature.”

  “I am mature now,” he baited, not sure why he would want to defend his potential for love. Love caused all sorts of mayhem and general stupidity.

  “Of course you are, but does love ever keep you from eating or sleeping? Give your heart palpitations? I think not. Not courtly love. Not for me, at least.”

  The courtier in him felt like he should protest, but integrity won. “You would not wish my love. You have already told me so.” The stated truth, simple and painful, felt more intimate than anything they had shared over the duration of their marriage.

  “To what end?” she asked. “If love means sexual congress, I do not want any man’s love. With it comes the expectation of some reciprocity, and, as I said . . . ”

  He interrupted, “You wish to remain unmolested.”

  “Just so.”

  In that moment he felt a connection with her he couldn’t explain. They’d had longer conversations over crops, linens, and their son’s path to Eton, but this reached deeper. He felt as if he looked upon a stranger but recognized, in the spark in her eyes, the potential for more. Maybe court would be good for her, give her an outlet to be witty or rude or whatever caught her fancy. It might even give him a better idea of who she was really. And that might lead to something new between them.

  Friends? Clearly not lovers.

  Molest—what sort of word was that to describe the act of love?

  She still had the full lips of the girl he’d married. In fact, she was almost exactly like she’d been on their wedding day when the severe fashions of Queen Mary still lingered even past Her death. No fashionable lady at Queen Elizabeth’s court covered her head so completely with the French hood and veil any longer, adopting a look with more hair, less hat. When was the last time he’d seen Frances’s hair uncovered? Was it gold still or had it darkened with the years? It was hard to tell with only the slicked part at her crown visible. Her features were pleasing, but she would be eaten alive by the ladies at Court. She had the stamp of the country on her, as she should. Her duty was to the famil
y and the estate back home.

  But now she was in London. Her illness after the birth of the twins, and the loss, had changed something in her. He’d never seen her be anything less than pleasant, courteous, and calm. The consummate lady . . . and bland as boiled beef. Yet today’s interview, well, Henry didn’t know what to think. She swayed between poise, vitriol, and absolute dejection. What was a man supposed to do in these cases? The threat of tears was his undoing, though he couldn’t begin to fathom her reasoning. Melancholia, as he knew it, was so far from Frances’s character that he could not purport it.

  The bell chimed two, calling Henry and the other members of Parliament back to the commons.

  He held out his hand expectantly, and his wife, with only a little hesitation, offered hers. Leaning over her hand, politely not placing his lips on her gloved knuckles, he looked up to find her studying him, her cheeks flushed with color. A blush? It was so lovely and girlish, a sweet flush over her expression of consternation. After the shock of this meeting, the dichotomy of the two made him want to laugh. Made him want to affect her the way she affected him.

  “Lady wife, this interview is not done. Take your position at court, but expect me to attend you there. You will need a friend, and I hope to show you that I can be something more than the man you think me to be.”

  “I do not know what you hope to . . . ”

  She gasped as he pulled her close, the proper buttons of her modest dress pressing against his chest, her skirts belling back.

  “I hope to learn more about the woman I married before I agree to leave her,” he leaned in, whispering against her cheek, “unmolested.”

  He wasn’t sure if it was his injured pride that propelled him forward or the challenge. Certainly, she had emasculated him. He needed a chance to prove she was wrong. He would no longer be the awkward bridegroom with her, they both deserved that much. And he could start right now by showing her the man he’d become.

  “Why?” she asked, her back turned rigid under his hand. Only the quaver of her voice gave away her discomfort. At least she no longer had that calm mask. He hoped he never saw it again.

  “Because if my wife has learned the act of love is distasteful, then I have been a poor husband indeed.”

  “You have done all you ought and should welcome the knowledge that your duty is done.” Her brow relaxed, and her mouth turned up in the pleasant half smile he now knew to be false.

  He pulled her closer, and she bit her lip.

  “My lady wife, I am nowhere near to done.” He leaned close enough for a kiss; her breath fanned his beard. “I have much to learn and have not even begun. This is not over.”

  Chapter Two

  Rule Eight: Only the most urgent circumstances should deprive one of love.

  “What did he say?” Mary and Jane, Frances’s ladies, spoke in unison.

  She silenced them with a tired glance.

  “Thank you, Master Rigsby. Drive onward to Hampton Court.”

  “Aye, Mistress LeSieur.” With a click, the carriage door shut out the noise of the dirty street outside.

  She closed her eyes against the dim light of the enclosed space. Six days ago they’d left Holme LeSieur in Nottinghamshire. She’d pushed her driver, her ladies, the horses, even herself, as if the faster she arrived in London and confronted her husband the sooner all this would be over. She let out a sigh as her head fell back against the squabs. This was nowhere near finished. If anything, she had made her life more complicated.

  “Frances?” Mary’s voice broke through the pounding in her ears.

  Mary Montgomery, tall and dark, grasped hands with Jane Radclyffe, petite with a head of golden curls that would not stay confined under her proper French hood.

  “You were right, as ever, Mary,” Frances answered the unasked question. “He did not greet my suggestion kindly.”

  Jane leaned forward, placing her hand over Frances’s. “Nor did you expect him to. If this is what you want, you must be prepared to fight for it.”

  She had no response, no words of solace for her ladies. Should her husband choose to put her out, where would Jane and Mary go? They must be as anxious as she.

  “It is not a complete loss. He approved credit for my stay in London. He . . . ” She paused, uncertain. “He seemed different somehow. Older. Larger. Something.”

  “Mayhap you are not familiar with the man he is in London,” Mary offered with a nervous smile.

  “Aye.” Frances worried her lip with her teeth. She’d been so sure of how this would play out, but now . . . What had she done? At home, at least, she knew what was expected. Here . . . well that was the point, wasn’t it? As lady of the manor she was almost part of the building. Here she would have a chance to be herself. Whoever that was.

  Just as the rutted road smoothed to cobbles, the driver called the horses to a halt. A rap at the door was all the warning she had before being greeted by one of Hampton Court Palace’s liveried footman.

  Too tired to school her posture and expression into the norm, she let herself be dragged out and joined the current of people flowing through the palace. Too late to turn back now.

  • • •

  “The steward is busy, but he gave me direction to our rooms.” Mary joined her once more after attending to the steward. “Your Lady Mother sent a courier ahead, and we have been provided for. If you will follow me, Frances? Jane? They are waiting for us in the gallery.” Mary did not wait for an answer as she worked her way through the chaos of the main hall.

  The constant motion and noise throughout the palace, even without the Queen in residence, made Frances long for the quiet of the country as she followed Mary’s sure step. “You know the palace very well.”

  Mary nodded. “Oh yes, I was companion to Mistress Ann Cecil—”

  Jane interrupted, “Oh, is she not the Countess of Oxford?” Jane’s feigned awe of a fact Mary must have repeated a thousand times made Frances giggle.

  Mary rolled her eyes, and Frances took up the reins. “Oh, and were you not at Hampton Court often? Sometimes with the Queen, Herself, or so I have heard.”

  Mary turned to face them, the smiling curve to her eyes belying the stern set of her mouth. “Fine. I suppose I have spoken of it before.”

  “A little,” Frances agreed. “Lead on, Mistress Mary. I hope your knowledge of court will help ease our paths. If Lady Oxford is with the court, I should like to meet her.”

  Mary’s face blanched, and the shine left her eye. “Oh, yes. Perhaps.” She turned and led them down the corridor without another word until she stopped before a broad oak door. “Here we are.”

  The palace was like a world unto itself—Frances prayed for the fortitude to follow through in this busy place. Her husband’s reluctant acceptance of her presence in London demanded that she find success. As much as she feared she’d issued him a challenge, she had one to meet as well: all she had to do was learn, well, everything.

  • • •

  Michaelmas had come and gone, and the palace, sparkling and full of fresh flowers, waited in a hush of anticipation. The Queen was past due and could arrive at any time. Frances, even after a fortnight, still was unused to so many people, so much bustle of activity. She groomed herself at the basin in her room and donned her best woad blue linen kirtle and umber-toned surcoat. She checked her reflection in the glass, smoothed her slicked hair down from the center part, and secured the length of it into a caul, and pinned her French hood in place. Her face looked a little wan, so she dabbed on a bit of her all-purpose rouge and left her chamber to await the court’s arrival in Henry VIII’s great hall.

  Frances could scarcely believe that this hub of activity and finely dressed people was the same palace she’d grown to understand in her weeks here. She looked around in amazement at the crowd of courtiers vying for attention. Somewhere beyond the crush of people the Queen, God’s anointed monarch, greeted Her court. Frances did her best to calm her pounding pulse and draw a breath. The Queen, h
ere, in the same room. She hadn’t anticipated how thrilling, how overwhelming, it would be.

  Standing on tiptoes, she did her best to peer through the gaps between the well-dressed courtiers only to have that view blocked by some woman’s ostentatious plumage. Still trying to catch a glimpse of the Queen, Frances felt herself being pushed farther back and back to the perimeter of the room as more courtiers made room for themselves. What was she thinking to be here at court? She belonged in the country. How could she hold her own against these sparkling, and pushy, members of Her Majesty’s court? This was no place for her. Flattening herself against the wall, Frances realized the immense tapestry of Abraham and Isaac partially obscured an alcove. With a sigh of relief and a little disappointment, she escaped from the crowded hall into the safe little haven.

  “You’re Bess’s girl, yes?” The voice behind her startled a yelp out of her. Frances turned mutely to look at the speaker. An elegant woman sat calmly on a small bench. It seemed Frances had disturbed her hiding spot. “I suppose I should say ‘The Countess of Spencer,’ to give her rank due consequence,” the older woman continued, “but I dare say she will always be Bess to me.” The woman finished her statement with a sweet smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes and shone through their blue depths with genuine warmth. Disarmed by the woman’s kindness and evident age, Frances was not prepared when the stranger leapt to her feet, produced a handkerchief from her sleeve, moistened it with spittle, and attacked her cheeks with unexpected strength. By the time Frances had the wherewithal to pull away, the woman was satisfied with whatever she had just done and sat down again.

  “Better, but not much.”

  “My lady, I do not wish to be rude . . . Who are you? What did you do to me?” began Frances shakily with both hands on her cheeks. “And why would you do such a thing?” She hadn’t decided yet if she should be affronted or see humor in the situation.

  The older woman let out an infectious, merry laugh. She was probably approaching sixty, but she had the eyes and rosy cheeks of a younger woman. Her steel gray hair rose over a hairpiece that made the twist stand at least three inches from her forehead. Her black silk attifet and veil were somber, but the thick jet and hematite beading covering the entire black velvet surcoat belied the simplicity. The wealth on display before her announced that this woman was higher rank. Frances glanced down at her own less than impressive appearance and grimaced.