The King's Courtesan. Judith James

truly think me so cruel as to abandon you?”

      “You have never abandoned your children, Charles. But I have given you none. I won’t be the first royal courtesan to become a nuisance. And I do not want to offend your wife. She has done me no harm. I should not be pleased as a wife to find my new husband surrounded by his harem.”

      “I repeat. What do you want?”

      She whirled around to face him. “I want you to let me go on my own terms. Before she arrives. Let me leave court, Charles. I ask for nothing more than your permission to go. I am not without funds. I have some jewelry and some small investments. I would live quietly away from London. I only asked for your help because a woman like myself, with no brother, father or husband, cannot easily enter into contract to purchase property. I had hoped you might act as guarantee, but if the thought offends you I will manage on my own.”

      Hope wasn’t sure how things had turned into an argument with the man who controlled her fate. She knew better, but her anger and hurt made her reckless. “Can you not at least grant me a dignified withdrawal? Surely you owe me that.”

      She felt him stiffen. She must not lose his goodwill at such a critical juncture. It was not the time to let her feelings show. Perhaps such things were never wise. Another lesson learned. She swallowed her anger.

      “Forget what I said, Charles.” Her voice was contrite. “I am a foolish woman. I am frightened, but I know all will be well if you say so. ’Tis but the storm, and a little jealousy perhaps. They have put me on edge.”

      Mollified, he patted her hand. “You have but to trust me, Hope, and all will be well.”

      BEYOND THE PRIVATE CONFINES of drawn bed curtains, the smell of coffee and the soft clatter of silverware, England’s king opened his eyes and stretched. A thin sliver of sunlight crept in through jewel-encrusted hangings, warning him he’d overslept. If he didn’t want to be overrun by functionaries before he reached the stables for his morning ride, he needed to escape his bedchamber soon, but a moment longer wouldn’t hurt. He stretched and turned on his side, reaching for the soft warmth and comfortable weight of a sleeping woman, only to find an empty space and a stack of pillows. Damn the impertinence! She had left him without so much as a by-your-leave.

      It was unusual for him to have angry words with a woman. There were so many better ways to converse, and Hope was as captivating a woman as he’d ever met. He chuckled to remember their first meeting. Her spontaneity, warmth and wit had made her stand out, and she was such a delicious morsel. As small and fine-boned as a nymph, her sultry looks, her throaty voice, her seductive smile and those knowing eyes kept a man on the constant edge of excitement. Yet she could talk and joke and carouse like a man, and a fellow felt at ease in her company, too. It was amazing, really, how she’d emerged from the bowels of London with a spirit so fresh and unscathed.

      She imagined herself jaded and hardened, he knew, but he was a student of human nature, a master at reading others. He’d had to be to survive. It was the things people did when they thought themselves unobserved that told you the most about them. Most schemed for advantage and plotted against those whose demise might speed their own advance, but Hope… She was kind, a virtue usually lost within months of coming to court, and a weakness much coveted by those who would take advantage and abuse.

      She gave clothes and coppers and many of the gifts he gave her to beggars and whores, anyone with a sad tale to tell. She had her own sense of honor. He knew her to be faithful, a thing he found both amusing and endearing, and she was a spirited little warrior, meeting the snubs and jibes of many of his courtiers with head held high and a witty retort of her own. And alone in the dark, when the winds blew wild, she raised her arms to the heavens and danced in the rain. He found her utterly enchanting.

      She’s been my mistress for almost a year and yet my fascination grows. The way she’d danced in the storm last night, her arms flung wide, naked but for his billowing gown, playful child and elemental seductress, whore and innocent and ancient power; what more can a man want from any woman? But now she wanted something, and it was not at all what he had expected. It seemed she wanted to be free of him. It was a most unsettling development. First denied by Elizabeth Walters in favour of that rogue William, and now spurned by Hope herself. A lesser man might question his own prowess.

      He smiled to recall the night Elizabeth spent in his bed chatting, and the kiss he had given her in the palace gardens, and snorted to think of de Veres. The wench had taken aim and the court’s second most notorious libertine had fallen like an ensorcelled stag struck down by Diana herself. Well, good for them both, but damned if the place wasn’t dull without them. Their interactions and courtship, writ large on the stage of Whitehall with all of London watching, had been fine entertainment indeed. Better than a play. It was high time he called them back to court.

      As for his stormy nymph…she was right, of course. Even he could not keep an unmarried woman of low birth and highly questionable background. It was one thing in a bachelor court, and quite another as a married man. The Portuguese were sophisticated. They would wink at a mistress of Barbara’s stature, but to elevate a lowly street urchin to the company of his queen would be an insult they could not ignore.

      So why had her request offended him? Under the circumstances it was convenient, even considerate, and perfectly reasonable. Was it the fact she had brought it up before he did that rankled so? That she seemed ready, even eager to move on? Ungrateful wench!

      I expect I shall keep her awhile yet. Besides…she has no idea what she asks. She needs a man to take care of her. If I helped her out of the palace and onto her own she’d be defenseless amongst my courtiers. An unmarried commoner. A succulent lamb let loose amongst the wolves.

      Unmarried commoner. That was the bar, and in it lay the solution. It was simple and elegant. The girl needed a suitable husband. A gentleman of rank, but not too proud to take a commoner as his lady. Someone indulgent, grateful and quick to understand he was set to guard a treasure. A country gentleman would be ideal. Suitably rewarded to remain discreet when the lady returned to court. Her stint in the country would allow him time to settle things between Catherine and Barbara, and allow her to reflect upon where her best interests lay. Then, like the phoenix, she might return, reborn as a noble married lady. All that was needed was to find the right man.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Maidstone County, Kent

      ELIZABETH DE VERES SPUN AROUND in a circle, faster and faster, her arms stretched wide as azure sky and spring green meadow, leafy canopy and silvery stream, joined in a riotous whirl of color around her. When she tumbled to the ground laughing, her skirts billowing about her, her husband caught her safely in his arms and settled her back against him.

      “Bedlam has many mansions, Lizzy. Have a care.”

      She chuckled and reached for his hand, finding it and clutching it tight to her chest. The sun was warm on her face and, even as the sky still spun above her, she imagined she could feel the slow turning of the earth below. She closed her eyes and listened…the shiver of leaves dancing on the late afternoon breeze, the soft babble of shallow water meandering lazily over smooth stone, the insistent calls and soft warbles of unseen courting birds, and underneath it all, the steady beat of his heart and the soothing rise and fall of his breath. “It makes me feel like I’m flying.”

      He tightened an arm around her waist. “I shall have to anchor you tight, then, so you don’t float away.”

      “You should really give it a try, Will. It’s great fun.”

      He leaned over to nip her ear. “I have tried it in my youth, with you as I recall, and it gave me much the same feeling as overindulgence in very bad sack. The same tottering walk. The same sense that at any moment one’s feet might leave the ground, which I assume is what you mean by flying, and an unfortunate and unpleasant urge to spew.”

      “Pfft! I must be married to the least romantic poet in all of England.”

      “Think you so?” He kissed the top of her head. “I’m fair certain I can show you other ways