The King's Courtesan Read online

  The fine hairs on the back of her arms stood on end and her breath quickened with excitement. Ever since she could remember, she had loved storms.

  She glanced at her royal lover, slumbering peaceful y at her side. It amazed her stil that England’s king had reached so far to find her and place her by his side. Her face softened as he stirred in his sleep, and a deep sadness tore at her heart. Despite his unrepentant promiscuity, it was almost impossible not to fal under his spel . He was her third protecter, but the first one she’d had any real feelings for.

  She was half in love with him, which she knew was foolish and forbidden, and she knew he was not in love with her. It hurt, but life was ful of pain and she had survived other wounds. The path that had brought her to the bed of a king was a harsh one, strewn with heartache and bitter betrayal, dashed hopes and danger, and any feelings she had for Charles were not what mattered now.

  She was not so foolish anymore as to dream of gal ant knights or trust in anything as fickle and insubstantial as love…but security, independence, freedom…these might be in reach. The king would be married soon. His new queen would arrive on England’s shores any day.

  Her world and his were about to change. She had fine clothes and rich jewels, a carriage and servants and a beautiful home on Pal Mal . The problem was, none of it was official and very little of it was hers. It was his money that paid the bil s. She had no suite at the palace, despite the many hours she spent wandering its hal s, no lands or titles, and her beautiful home and servants were lent to her, not given.

  The truth was, she was ushered up the river stairs whenever she came to see him, and at the end of her visits, she was sent home the same way. As much as he treated her as friend and confidante in private, her lowly background meant that in public she would always be treated not as a mistress, but as a whore, and what had been so easily given could just as easily be taken away. She needed to ask for what she wanted, no matter her fears of how it might affect what lay between them.

  It took her a moment to notice that everything around her had gone quiet. The calm before the storm. A lightning bolt flashed, silent in the distance, and a dog barked far away.

  She plucked a luxurious oversize robe from the edge of the bed. Lost in its folds, with sleeves rol ed up and hem trailing on the floor behind her, she went to stand by the casement.

  The rain came in a sudden hiss, sweeping in great sheets from off the Thames, accompanied by a jagged bolt of lightning that lit the sky, bathing her face and the room in a ghostly glow. Fanciful as a child, eyes sparking with excitement, she loosened her grip on the robe and spread her arms wide, waiting for the clap of thunder she knew would come. The wind whipped her unbound hair and the silken robe bil owed behind her like blue-and-gold embroidered wings.

  She imagined herself a magical creature, a goddess perhaps, mistress of an ancient force much larger than herself. One who could bid the rain to rise to her command, and control the ferocity and direction of the wind with a sweep of her arm. One who could effortlessly set the course of her own life, and influence the decisions of a king.

  Perhaps this feeling was why she greeted storms with such anticipation. Because she was always remaking herself.

  Always aching to be reborn as something new.

  “God’s blood, woman! What madness are you about now? I swear you traipse about my palace opening every bloody window in your path. A storm is upon us. Climb back into bed before we are awash.”

  She tumbled in an instant, from mighty goddess to lowly mortal. But not so low as that. I am a royal courtesan. And there is power in that, too. Though she turned to look at him, she made no move to obey. He had flung off the covers and lay stretched in al his glory. Her lips pursed in a half smile and she absently twirled a strand of hair as her eyes boldly traveled his length. There are far worse things than being mistress to Charles Stuart.

  Her eyes widened and she gave an exaggerated gasp as he leapt from the bed and strode purposely in her direction.

  “Ods fish, you’ve even pilfered my clothes! And what are you grinning at, eh? If you’l not mind me, my dear. I shal have to take you forcibly in hand.” Growling, he reached for her but she screamed and ducked, eluding his grasp, circling to the far side of the bed, agile and quick as a cat. It was his robe that tripped her up, stopping her short when she stepped on a trailing hem. As she careened sideways he caught her firmly by the front of the oversize garment and set her back on her feet. A sudden gust swirled through the chamber and the fire danced to life, casting wild shadows on paneled wal s and bathing them both in an earthen glow.

  He jerked her hard against him.

  She elbowed his ribs, making him grunt, and tried to pul herself free. This was not a man who valued easy conquests. He chuckled against her mouth, walking backward with her lodged firmly against him, one hand anchoring her in place as the other reached behind him, searching for the window latch.

  “No, Charlie, don’t,” she murmured against his throat.

  “Leave it as it is. Please. I love storms.”

  “Ah, yes. So I recol ect. You were born in a tempest as your rickety house swayed like a yardarm in the wind. Doubtless you gurgled and cooed in delight. You must be Electra in disguise. She who cal s the storm clouds that move in from the sea.”

  “Real y? There truly is a goddess of the storm?”

  “But of course there is! Am I not holding her in my arms right now?” He twirled her around until she was dizzy, stopping at the foot of the bed. “You see what a mighty king I am? I have captured the whirlwind. Good Christ, but you’re a bounteous handful for any man, my pet. You are truly a meal fit for a king.” He dropped her in a tangle of multihued sheets and pil ows and fol owed her down. “What am I to do with you, Hope Mathews?”

  She gathered her courage. “What are you to do with me, Charlie?”

  “Wel …several ideas spring to mind.”

  His fingers traced the contours of her breast, but she brushed them away. “You are a king, and I a girl from Drury Lane. We are very il -suited.”

  “Nonsense. We are comfortable together and understand each other wel ,” he said, settling comfortably beside her.

  “We have both been hungry and poor. We are both survivors. In fact, we are two peas in a pod, Hope Mathews, are we not? Outsiders who have fought our way in. We are in the palace, but not of it, and thus uniquely positioned to appreciate the joke.”

  “Yet your father was a king and my mother a brandy-swil ing bawd. In this matter I believe I outrank you.” Charles laughed in delight. “I think I should have liked it better were my mother more like yours. She was a cold and angry woman, and every word, thought or deed was deliberate and control ed. She was much like Lady Castlemaine that way. I do believe she loved my father, though not as much as she loved God. After his murder she married religion, you know. He was a cold, demanding stepfather and I’ve had nothing to do with him, except, like Oedipus, to bury him. Now I make merry and dance on his grave.”

  “Oedipus?”

  “You’re such an innocent little strumpet. Half angel, I think.

  Pay me no mind. Tel me what dark worries have been plaguing you.”

  “I…”

  “Yes?”

  She shivered. His restless fingers had begun to explore again, tracing her col arbone with a delicate touch. “It’s nothing that cannot wait for another time.”

  “You’ve been about to say something for over a month now, Hope. Don’t you think it’s waited long enough?” His knuckles stroked her jaw.

  She took a deep breath. “Your…your queen wil soon be on English soil. She’l be in London within a month.” His fingers stil ed. He’d been waiting for her to bring it up for some weeks now. Barbara, Lady Castlemaine, had already made her demands. She would be named maid of honor to his Portuguese queen. The idea sat il with him, but so did the thought of open warfare with his ever more strident maîtresse-en-titre, and in any case, it was better to begin a thing as one meant to
continue. Catherine of Braganza had surely been raised to understand the duties and expectations of a royal spouse. She would adjust.

  What did Hope want? A title? Jewels? An acknowledged place at court? It would be wildly inappropriate and an affront to his new queen. Barbara was bad enough, but at least she was a countess. He could hardly parade an overdressed street urchin under his new queen’s nose, no matter how charming she was. But he wasn’t ready to part with her yet. A luscious raven-haired vision with stunning eyes, she’d been an unexpected find, and rather than bore him, she’d grown on him steadily over time. Enchanting, intel igent and touchingly idealistic despite her tarnished past, she’d been just the tonic he’d needed as he dealt with increasingly burdensome affairs of state, a difficult and temperamental senior mistress, and the unexpected void left by the departure of Elizabeth Walters and that entertaining and annoying ingrate, de Veres.

  He tapped her nose and then kissed it. “There’s no need for you to worry about matters of state, my dear. Have faith.

  I promise you there is naught to fear. I wil always see you wel cared for.”

  She wrinkled her face in protest, and at the risk of annoying him, pressed on. “Your new wife won’t like my being here at court. I shouldn’t want to upset her.”

  He tilted her chin with a finger, so she looked him straight in the eye. “I have told you that you needn’t concern yourself with it. Your concern should be pleasing me.” His smile was gentle, but there was a coolness to his voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

  “Charlie, if I don’t leave before she comes I shal be sent packing soon after. I am no lady to grace your court. I have no husband to give me any hint of respectability. She wil think me a common whore and be mightily offended.”

  “Hush, love!” His look of annoyance changed to a rueful grin. “You are a most uncommon wench.”

  “It’s close enough to the truth, Charles. You know I cannot stay.”

  “I know no such thing. I am master here and I won’t be dictated to by ministers, mistress or wife. You have never asked me for anything for yourself, Hope. Should I send you back to the slums of London? Marry you off to some fat merchant? Or drop you by the theater to sel oranges and whatever else you fancy to every young gal ant that comes to town?”

  She bit back an angry retort. Did he think those were her only choices? She had saved her money and jewelry. She didn’t gamble and she was no spend-thrift. She had been preparing for some time for a day like this. “You could help me find a modest property, perhaps. A town house or smal cottage where I might retire quietly from court.” She was offering him an easy choice. One that should be a relief.

  She held her breath. Her future lay in his hands. With one word he could grant her independence and freedom. One gesture could make her dreams come true.

  “So…the price to be rid of you is a modest one. I wonder…

  what is the price to make you stay?”

  She slapped him, her palm leaving a red stain on his cheek. He grabbed her wrist and held it cruel y, denying her the chance to strike again. “Don’t try Barbara’s tricks on me. It only cheapens you.”

  “You were the only man who never made me feel like a whore.”

  “And you were the only woman who never set a price on her…friendship. It seems we are both disappointed.” She yanked her wrist from his grasp and sat up. “I am sorry.

  I should not have hit you,” she said dul y.

  “And I should not have offered insult.” He took her arm, gently this time, and raised her bruised wrist to his lips to kiss. “Damn, but you’re cold as a corpse. If you’l not let me close the blasted window, at least let me warm you under the covers.”

  She let him pul her back into the bedding and cover them both beneath heavy blankets. Charles was seldom cruel, and his bursts of anger were fleeting and rare. But it hurt to be compared to the voracious and greedy Barbara Palmer.

  “I was not setting a price on my friendship. I was—”

  “I know exactly what you were doing, my dear. I take no offense. Everyone does it. You are more subtle than most.

  You wish me to convince you to stay. To entice you…with what? I would prefer it did you just tel me.”

  “You don’t understand at al .”

  “What don’t I understand?”

  “Soon it wil be beyond my control. Your new lady wife wil come. She wil tolerate Lady Palmer because she must.

  Because she belongs at court and is married. But she wil not tolerate me. I wil be the sacrifice you make to show that you cede her something. I wil be banished and shamed in front of the court. You know this is true, Charles.”

  “You 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 smal 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 wil manage on my own.”

  Hope wasn’t sure how things had turned into an argument with the man who control ed 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 goodwil 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 swal owed her anger.

  “Forget what I said, Charles.” Her voice was contrite. “I am a foolish woman. I am frightened, but I know al wil be wel if you say so. ’Tis but the storm, and a little jealousy perhaps.

  They have put me on edge.”

  Mol ified, he patted her hand. “You have but to trust me, Hope, and al wil be wel .”

  BEYOND THE PRIVATE CONFINES of drawn bed curtains, the smel 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 pil ows. 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 smal 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 fel ow felt at ease in her company, too. It was amazing, real y, 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 usual y lost within months of coming to court, and a weakness much c
oveted 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 tel . 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 bil owing 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 al 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 Wil iam, and now spurned by Hope herself. A lesser man might question his own prowess.

  He smiled to recal 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 fal en like an ensorcel ed stag struck down by Diana herself. Wel , good for them both, but damned if the place wasn’t dul without them. Their interactions and courtship, writ large on the stage of Whitehal with al of London watching, had been fine entertainment indeed. Better than a play. It was high time he cal ed 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.