Lady Gallant (16 page)

Christian was honest with himself. He'd never denied wanting Nora, so why was everyone treating him as if he'd lost his wits? God's teeth, he'd seduced women before. True, none was like Nora. No one was like Nora—timid yet possessed of a secret strength; all milk skin and blush-rose cheeks, yet humble and unaware of her charm. Groaning, Christian leaned on the bookstand and rested his forehead on his arm. He was dwelling on a maid's charms like a randy and infatuated schoolboy. And he'd never been infatuated in his whole twenty-six years.

"Beshrew her," he muttered. "All I want is a little dalliance."

He let himself out of the library, intending to check on his father's pet heretics before rejoining the festivities. At the head of the stairs leading to the cellar, he encountered the earl. Sebastian had one foot on the first step when Christian reached him.

"I came to tell you the guards just stopped Luiz de Ateca from leaving the hall," Sebastian said. "He claimed he was going in search of Nora Becket for the Duchess, but he was headed for the kitchens." Sebastian waited for Christian's reply. "Chris? Christian!"

"Yes, sire."

"Did you hear what I said about de Ateca?"

"Yes, sire, but he can't get belowstairs. Culpepper stands guard with a few goodly men."

Sebastian threw up his hands. "Culpepper. You might as well set Morris dancers to guard as him and his band. Oh, leave that for now. We must return to the hall. But I wanted to tell you that Cecil has sent a warning that rumors concerning his activities are reaching the Queen through Bonner. We are to be cautious and wait a while longer to move Tom and the others."

Linking arms with his father, Christian headed back toward the hall with him. Worry about Nora receded as his thoughts pursued secret avenues and navigated the Byzantine intrigues of court and kingdom.

Christian needed to find out what Bonner knew, yet none of the old priests and nobles who were continually in the man's company would trust him. There was de Ateca, but the Spaniard knew of Christian's antipathy toward him. Were Christian suddenly to become friendly, he would invite suspicion, and unwanted advances as well. Who could approach de Ateca?

"My headstrong, you're not listening to me."

"Forgive me, sire. I was thinking about de Ateca."

"I said you haven't been as clever as you thought in your games with Nora Becket. What did you do to Percivale Flegge? He's fled. Skittered out of the house as though running from the watch."

Christian clenched his jaw and met his father's gaze. "I told him not to marry her. He's not good enough."

"That may be true, but her father has chosen him for the girl, and it is her duty to accept him." Sebastian forestalled his son's protest with a raised hand. "You're no more suited for Nora than Flegge. She needs a gentle, kind man, and—as I love you, my headstrong—you are neither gentle nor kind."

"Mayhap you're right, but all I'm trying to do is strengthen her backbone. She needs a little meanness stuffed into that sweet body." Christian stopped walking and turned to his father. "If there is one thing Jack Midnight taught me, it's that weakness invites cruelty and strength commands respect. The day I struck back was the day he stopped beating me."

"You can't make Nora Becket into something she is not. No, we won't speak of it further. I forbid you to interfere in this betrothal. And don't scowl at me, young baggage. I have to attend the Duchess, and I want to do so knowing I have your promise to leave off."

"I can't give it."

"We'll see about that," Sebastian said.

"Yes, sire."

Christian frowned as his father walked away from him. He watched Sebastian enter the hall through a service door, then cursed his bad luck when Lady Jayne winnowed her way through it and shut it behind her.

"Trapped," Christian said to himself.

Jayne had that look of a determined mule that he'd grown to dread. Then she surprised him with a smile.

"There you are," she said. "I've been sent on a quest by the Duchess. She wants to see that basilisk costume from the last performance. And she wants to hire your costumemaker. I told her you always refuse to reveal his identity, but she thinks she can persuade you."

"I haven't time to parade costumes," Christian said.

"Very well. I'll hunt for it myself."

"No." He blocked her path. "They're probably all still in the disguising house. This way."

As he led Jayne back through the hall on their way to the disguising house, he searched for Nora Becket among the dancers and merrymakers. He found her in a corner, staring down at Roger Mortimer as the nobleman bent low over her hand. She was casting wet-eyed glances of unhappiness at her father until
Roger kissed her hand. Eyes round with astonishment, she burst into laughter as Roger clutched his breast in imitation of heartsick ardor. Her laughter jolted through Christian's body, and he stopped so suddenly, Jayne bumped into him. Nora never laughed like that for him.

"I am not besotted."

"What?" Jayne asked.

Christian deliberately turned his back on the laughing couple and bowed toward Jayne. When he straightened, a slow, indolent smile spread across his lips.

Jayne caught her breath. "Indeed, my lord, you are capricious with your favor."

"You don't want my favors?"

"Oh, I want them."

Saying nothing more, Christian threaded his way through the crowd in the hall and out into the courtyard that separated the house from the disguising hall. Jayne stuck fast to his side, clinging to his arm. She waited only until a unicorn fountain was between them and the house to dig in her heels and tug him so that he fell against her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down for a kiss. Her lips pressed against his, then she nipped at them with her teeth between whispers.

"You're not teasing me, are you?"

Christian shivered as she nibbled on his neck and sucked at the skin at the base of his throat. "No."

"I won't have to pay you with some ruffian's head?" Her fingers skittered to the fastenings of his doublet.

He tore his lips from hers. "Damn you, don't speak of Midnight." He sucked in a deep breath, for Jayne's wandering fingers had discovered his codpiece. Grabbing her hand, he held it away from his groin. "Harlot, wait until we're inside."

Jayne complied, refraining from touching him again until he shut the door to the tiring room that held boxes and trunks of costumes. The fantastic raiment of that night's masque lay discarded in heaps about the place. The head of a hobby horse rested atop the silver and green dragon's body.

Turning from closing the door, Christian found that Jayne had snatched up the costume of a fairy princess. It was a gossamer thing of white shot with gold. Of a sudden, the glittering piece turned to silk with black trimmings, and the image of Nora's rose and cream body filled the garment. He was back on a garden bench, pressing a trembling body beneath him, seeking entrance…

"Put it down," he said in a quiet voice.

Jayne froze, and the costume dropped to the floor. Christian watched it pool like sunlit water before he turned away.

"You've changed again," Jayne said. "It's not fair. I had you before that simple goose Nora Becket caught your eye. My claim is the better. And besides, everyone knows she's going to marry Percivale Flegge."

Bending over a pile of regalia, Christian lifted a mask to his face. It was of a falcon. Gilded feathers swept back to reveal slits for his eyes. The beak jutted out, gold and hard over his own nose.

He fastened the band at the back of his head and moved his neck in imitation of the sharp, swift movement of the bird. The mask ended below his nose, leaving uncovered his mouth and chin. He raised his arms like wings and hissed like an angered falcon. He swooped at Jayne, toppling her onto a pile of dresses.

She giggled, but left off when Christian didn't speak to her. Breasts heaving, she studied him as if trying to discover his mood. Christian kept his weight on top of her and held her gaze with his while he yanked at the laces of her gown.

"The mask," she said. "I can't see your eyes."

He jerked hard at the bodice of her gown, and it ripped, parting to reveal her breasts. They were heaving with her agitated breathing. Still staring into her eyes, Christian covered one of them with his hand. He did nothing else.

Jayne squirmed, but he pressed his hips down over hers and held her still. Propped up on one arm, he could see her growing arousal, and smiled.

"Take off your clothes," she said.

Heedless of her words, he pulled at the already loosened laces at his groin. When Jayne saw what he was about, she cursed and bucked, but his weight was too great.

"No," she said. "I want you naked."

His smile grew malicious as he jerked skirts and stiffened petticoats up to Jayne's waist, then lowered himself between her legs. He was hard put not to groan when his swollen flesh nudged her loins. His smile faded, and he trapped Jayne's arms with his own. She had abandoned her protests and was gazing into his eyes.

"Take off the mask," she whispered. "Do you hear me? Say something."

He stared down at her, trying to force himself to go on, while a nasty little voice droned in his head,
It's not Nora. Not the one you want. Not Nora, not Nora, not Nora, not Nora
. Nearly crying out in angry frustration, he flung himself away from Jayne. Rolling onto his back, he tore the mask off and threw his arm over his eyes.

"God's mercy," he said.

Jayne had scrambled to her feet and was struggling to right her clothes while viciously cursing him.

"You dare treat me like this?" she said in a dangerously low voice.

He moved his arm and looked up at her. He was still too stunned by his own actions to care much about her. "I treat you as you allow yourself to be treated," he said.

Her eyes narrowed, and he tensed, thinking for a moment she might hurl herself at him. But she only whirled away and stomped from the room, leaving him alone with his unquenched lust and his disquieting thoughts of Nora.

Christian de Rivers kept heretics in his cellar.

Nora rested her chin on her fist and pretended to watch the Queen's gentlemen pensioners play at bowls. While ail the ladies cooed over the players, Nora tried to make sense of the previous night's tempest. Too many things had happened at once, and she was confused.