Seducing The Pirate
Chapter 9
“There isn’t a woman alive who can be trusted,” said Ruark Helford, picking up his cards negligently.
“I’ve known since I was in my cradle that only a fool would trust a woman,” answered Charles Stuart in his lazy, cynical way.
Buckingham had just let Ruark know that his mistress had been seen flirting with the Duke of York. They were all playing cards in Her Majesty’s drawing room, the gaming tables piled with gold crowns. Catherine’s rooms had become the fashionable gathering place for the courtiers and ladies only because Charles chose to spend his evenings there lately. He was doing his very best to be a dutiful husband and had succeeded admirably except for the one bone of contention which stood between him and his queen, namely his long-standing mistress, Barbara Palmer.
Charles looked across the room at Barbara now and she raised her eyebrows to him in a mute question. He did not commit himself and merely lowered one lazy eyelid in a wink. He sighed. She had such a voluptuous beauty, how could he resist her mahogany-colored hair spread across the pillows or her generous breasts, which filled his hands to overflowing? If only she were a little less tempestuous, a little more malleable … a little less domineering, a little more submissive … a little less extravagant, a little more prudent … a little less demanding, and a little more faithful.
Lord Helford’s face was impassive but beneath the facade he was irritated by Buckingham. He had never liked the man, but knew he made a better friend than enemy. As for Ruark’s current mistress, Ann Ashley, he didn’t disbelieve that the jade had been flirting with the King’s brother James. He had told her he was leaving for Cornwall soon, but dammit, he thought irritably, she could let the sheets cool off before replacing him in her bed. Ann had asked him to take her with him, hinting at marriage. The fact that he’d politely but firmly declined was doubtless the reason for her blatant behavior with James. He had more good sense than to marry his mistress. Women were all alike, he thought cynically—every last one of them looking to sell themselves to the highest bidder.
His mind went back to the first young woman he’d ever kept. It seemed impossible, looking back, that he’d ever been that naive, but he’d been taken like a trout on a hook. He’d paid over a year for the child she had borne until one night when too much liquor had been imbibed, his friend Sandwich admitted he’d gotten the girl with child before he introduced her to Ruark. Well, that had been the first and last time he’d ever let a woman make a fool of him.
It didn’t take Buckingham long to see that the King and Helford were preoccupied with their own thoughts, and he took instant advantage until the pile of gold crowns on the table became his. The money he won meant little to him, but the sense of power he experienced as he stretched out his hand for his gains, observing his opponents’ faces, gave him deep satisfaction.
Disgusted, Charles rose from the game and went to stand behind Her Majesty. Catherine had acquired a taste for gambling and knew herself to be very wicked because of the habits she had picked up at her husband’s court. He bent low to whisper into her ear and she took his advice and immediately won.
It was close to midnight and Charles bent again to her ear with a more amorous suggestion. The company could not leave before the Queen, so when she reluctantly arose and summoned one of her ladies, not a few of the assembled guests were relieved. It was fortunate there had been no dancing planned or it might have gone on until five or six in the morning.
More than an hour had elapsed before the King’s last gentleman of the bedchamber departed. In brocade dressing gown Charles made his way to Her Majesty’s privy apartment, his beloved spaniels at his heel. To his consternation Catherine knelt at the small altar she had had set up in her dressing room, and two of her ladies she had brought from Portugal were still in attendance.
He coughed discreetly, hoping they would take the hint and depart, but they did not. Charles, usually good-natured and well mannered, patiently waited another twenty minutes while his devout little wife finished her prayers. Finally he opened wide the door between the bedchamber and dressing room, affording the dogs entrance to the other chamber. He knew full well her attendants did not have the inborn love of dogs that most English did and he hoped to chase them away by this gesture. Obviously it was not working, and feeling irritated, he went through the adjoining door to expedite matters.
Catherine knelt in her voluminous nightgown, her face uplifted to the cross upon the wall.
“My dear, come to bed, you will catch your death there upon your knees.”
“I won’t be a moment, Charles,” came the soft little voice, but he received a quelling look from the Countess of Penalva.
Charles’s lips tightened. “You ladies may withdraw,” he said firmly.
Penalva and Countess Ponteval, her constant chaperons, exchanged glances and raised their brows at Catherine.
Charles’s temper frayed a little, yet he spoke to them with humor. “’Sblood ladies, I don’t think Catherine needs protection from me. She is my wife and I get to use her seldom enough with you constantly standing guard over her.”
They disapproved of everything about Charles Stuart and made no effort to hide their feelings. With great reluctance they departed with an air of abandoning an innocent lamb to a wolf.
When they were alone, Charles strolled up behind Catherine and said softly, “My love, when you are without sin, why do you find it necessary to spend so much time on your pretty knees asking God’s forgiveness?”
She turned from the altar with a determined look of defiance on her face. “I’m not praying for myself, Charles; I’m praying for you.”
“Ah, my love, if you stayed upon your knees throughout eternity, I doubt me you could get all my sins forgiven.” He smiled at her and his swarthy good looks almost melted her heart. He took her hands into his and firmly lifted her from her knees. Then he whispered, “Come to bed, Catherine.” His head dipped low to kiss her, but she turned her face from him and by doing so confirmed what he had suspected. The delayed bedding was a deliberate tactic, a prelude to an unpleasant matter she wished to discuss.
Charles sighed. All he wanted was a pleasant hour’s lovemaking, during which, if he was lucky enough, his seed would fill his little queen with an heir to the throne. God knows, he knew better than to expect passion from her. She could never satisfy his deep sensuality and he accepted that with a good grace and treated her with gentle kindness, but her reserve and reticence in all things sexual were beginning to weary him.
She allowed him to lead her into the bedchamber, but not to bed. “Charles,” she began bravely, “there is a course you are determined upon which will destroy my happiness completely.”
“Surely even I could not be such a brute, Catherine,” he demurred.
She flushed because Charles had been kindness itself to her. Others may have laughed at her foreign clothes, speech, and manners, but never Charles. A tiny sob escaped her lips. “It is that woman again,” she said, lifting reproachful eyes to him.
Charles kept a wise silence.
“It has come to my ears that she has demanded you make her a countess.” She stamped her slippered foot in determination. “I do not wish it!”
“My dear, if I choose to honor Mrs. Palmer, try to understand that it in no way dishonors you.”
“’Tis like a slap in the face to flaunt her before me.” Catherine’s sallow face flushed a dark red.
Charles glanced wistfully at the bed where the two spaniels had stretched out to make themselves comfortable, then he sat down on its edge. “Catherine, there is no dishonor to have been mistress to the King. You wish me to end the liaison, but it would be most unkind of me to simply cast her off. The whole court would ostracize her. Like a wolf pack they would rend her to shreds. By bestowing the honor of a title upon her, I fulfill my obligation to the lady. Surely you will be generous in this, Catherine.”
“What obligation?” she flared.
Charles had a dominant mother who had tried to bully him all his life. Simply because he was good-natured, most women thought they could control him. They could not. “She has just borne me a son. It is no secret.”
Catherine burst into tears. “I’ve heard the whispers … you think I’m barren!”
He gathered her close and tipped her face up to his. “I think no such thing, sweetheart. I’ll put an end to the whispers tonight,” he said, drawing off her nightgown and removing his brocade robe. In the wide bed, he nudged the dogs over with his long thigh and took Catherine into his arms. She hid her face against his broad chest and bathed him with her tears. With infinite patience he cradled her until she had cried herself out. She was extremely slim and her breasts were as underdeveloped as a girl of eleven, but he stroked her gently and thumbed her tiny nipples. He kissed her a half-dozen times then murmured firmly, “The matter of Lady Castlemaine is closed.” He purposely used the title he was about to bestow upon Barbara.
In a small voice Catherine said, “I’m afraid it isn’t.” She hesitated a moment then blurted, “I asked Chancellor Hyde not to allow Parliament to sanction her title.”
Charles was furious. Though the Queen seemed sweet and biddable in most things, in this she was determined to thwart him. He threw back the covers and set his long legs to the carpet. “Good night, madame,” he said coldly.
“Charles, where are you going?” she gasped piteously.
The King did not bother to reply. He thought his destination was patently obvious. He went out through the privy garden and took a shortcut to King’s Street which ran through the palace grounds. Barbara Palmer’s fashionable house was situated most conveniently. It was almost 2:30 in the morning, but he felt confident that his mistress would welcome him with open arms.