“No, Charlie, don’t,” she murmured against his throat. “Leave it as it is. Please. I love storms.”
“Ah, yes. So I recollect. 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 calls the storm clouds that move in from the sea.”
“Really? 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 pillows and followed her down. “What am I to do with you, Hope Mathews?”
She gathered her courage. “What are you to do with me, Charlie?”
“Well…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 ill-suited.”
“Nonsense. We are comfortable together and understand each other well,” 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-swilling 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 controlled. 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. Tell me what dark worries have been plaguing you.”
“I…”
“Yes?”
She shivered. His restless fingers had begun to explore again, tracing her collarbone 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 will soon be on English soil. She’ll be in London within a month.”
His fingers stilled. 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 ill 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, intelligent 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 will always see you well 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 shall 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 will 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 sell oranges and whatever else you fancy to every young gallant 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 small 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 cruelly, 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 dully.
“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’ll not let me close the blasted window, at least let me warm you under the covers.”
She let him pull 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 tell me.”
“You don’t understand at all.”
“What don’t I understand?”
“Soon it will be beyond my control. Your new lady wife will come. She will tolerate Lady Palmer because she must. Because she belongs at court and is married. But she will not tolerate me. I will be the sacrifice you make to show that you cede her something.