There was the sound of the heavy oaken doors opening, and the look of relief on the face of the priest told Charles that Charlotte Bellamy had at last arrived and his part in all this would soon be over. He turned to behold her, a striking creature done from head to toe in white, with lace trimmed in silver thread adorning her gown. Ahh, Charles thought appreciatively, Barbara ought to dress all the women at Whitehall.
The bulk of Alicia’s hair was pulled sharply away from her face and fell to her shoulders. Tiny curls framed her face. Transparent lace covered her from her breasts to her neck, allowing for a deep plunging V. Her slim waist was caught by a silver chain and her tiny slippers glittered as she took a step. A black cloak lined with silver fox was pulled off her shoulders by her woman, and then a long lace veil that fell from her crown was lightly fluffed. Charles caught the sound of a sigh and turned quickly to look in the direction of Lord Seavers, hopeful, as hopeful romantics often are, that the sigh had come from him.
But Seavers’s expression was serious, if not stern. He stood as he would while commanding a ship, hands behind his back and legs braced slightly apart. The man had gained a reputation in warfare that was nothing less than fantastic, and he held claim to several victorious moments in battle; but Charles feared he was slightly daft if the sight of this bride did not even warm his cool eyes.
Preston Tilden, on the other hand, smiled openly, and his pale blue eyes shone as he beheld the beauty before him.
Well, thought Charles, something exciting may come of this yet.
It was not as if Geoffrey Seavers were seeing something other than what the other men beheld; it was the feeling in his gut that caused his slight scowl and cool eyes. Aye, she was beautiful, and the plan he had been talked into by Rodney had seemed a simple and temporary project, until this transformation in Alicia.
The first inkling that it would not be so simple and impersonal an arrangement came when he viewed her in the inn, garbed in only her linen wrap. Later, at their introduction, he recognized open desire in himself. And when he tasted her lips, his agony heightened. He had not lost sight of his goals. But he did not know how to keep himself from an irrevocable involvement with her. Even now, as she approached him, her shining eyes somewhat sad and uncertain, he fought the urge to cradle her in his arms and comfort her. He had been plagued, since early in his youth, with the dramatic longing to take care of the women whose lives he touched.
And this one was no exception.
They knelt together, exchanged their promises, hers all done in the name of Charlotte Bellamy, and rose to seal their marriage with an embrace and kiss.
Alicia faced her husband, a husband only in a play to entertain those present and to secure an inheritance. Tears clung to her dark lashes and her lips trembled. She had done well to conceal what her heart cried throughout her life, but this once it was more than she could hide.
True, all of her life she could do what had to be done, behave the way she was expected to behave, feel nothing—or at least let nothing she felt show; whatever role was required of her, she could perform. It kept clothes on her back and food in her stomach. Even this wedding was a means to a specific end: life would be comfortable on her hundred pounds.
But this thought did little to console her. This wedding was like a dream she had nurtured; a dream that one day she would be loved, wanted. That it was just another role for her to play hurt her deeply. And though the final plans had not yet been made, their arrangement would end and she would leave. How, she wondered, am I to leave? Feeling what I’ve come to feel?
His lips released hers and she looked for a moment into his concealing eyes. He seemed to reconfirm for her that all her longings would be unmet; that for this union, tickets should be sold as in the Duke’s Theatre. A tear dropped from her lashes and coursed its way down her cheek. For an instant, through clouded vision, she thought she saw a change in his eyes, something close to compassion.
His hand came up to brush the tear from her cheek and then he kissed the same place. His voice came lightly into her ear.
"It’s all right, Charlotte. Brides are oft sentimental on their wedding day."
"Oaf," she muttered back to him.
His earlier sternness returned, and within she felt a certain victory. She had, after all, forgotten her place. Her eyes quickly dried as she took pleasure in teaching him just how well she would play the willing chattel.
A brief though formal supper in Lord and Lady Seavers’s apartments followed, lovingly prepared and displayed by Mrs. Stratton and a staff of giddy and excited servants. To serve an intimate crowd of under thirty people, with the king and his competing mistresses among them, was a feather in any servant’s cap. And while courtiers’ curiosity had peaked when Lady Charlotte was summoned and just arriving at Whitehall, most were satisfied now to have seen her. Since the wedding was done and the newest beauty at least temporarily locked apart from the admiring courtiers and jealous ladies, this group had bored of the folly and did not stay long. The night was young when Charles said his farewells and was followed by his train of faithful pups to a rowdier dinner elsewhere.
"Let me ready you for bed, love," Margaret murmured in Alicia’s ear the moment the door had closed behind the guests. But Alicia did not look at her serving woman. Her eyes were fixed on Geoffrey, who swirled brandy in his glass and looked into it pensively as he stood in front of a blazing fire. She could not pull her eyes from his broad shoulders, his lean thighs.
This was, in all its absurdity, her wedding night.
"Come, love," Margaret said again, this time pulling at Alicia’s sleeve.
This time, at the sound of the voice, Geoffrey turned. For a moment, as their eyes locked, Alicia thought they might be of like mind: that perhaps they should carry on with the play. A timid smile crossed her lips and her voice came softly.
"Mrs. Stratton is eager to help me out of my gown, milord."
The hand holding the drink came out abruptly in her direction and his voice was also quiet, though impatient. "Go ahead, then. I’ll be along."
Alicia donned a daringly transparent sleeping gown and covered that with a dressing gown of the same pink hue, though less revealing. While her heart thumped out a rhythm that spoke of anything but fear, she was not certain that consummating this bargain was wise, though she desperately wanted him to make love to her.
Am I his bride? she asked herself. Am I his love or his servant or his desire? Will he make me his whore?
And then her thoughts quickly raced to a possible consummation and she wondered how she was to explain that she was not a virgin. He did not expect her to be, his words had proven that. But she wished him to know that she’d lost her virtue to a misguided moment of love and passion and not to paying tavern patrons. She had not been used for sport by drunkards and thieves, though she had been betrayed once before.
There had been moments, though brief and fleeting, when she had seen compassion and caring in his eyes, when she felt like a person and not a possession in his presence. She prayed she would find another such moment as he approached her. Otherwise, she was not sure she could let him touch her, however intense her own desires.
Her hair was brushed out and lay across her shoulders. She arranged herself on the daybed, the large four-poster seeming too real for her, and excused her one servant. Wine, she thought, would serve her now, though she’d already had more than she was accustomed to. Geoffrey did not enter her bedchamber for a very long time, and the time clawed at her nerves. She was on such a ledge of apprehension when he did enter that the sound of the latch and the opening of the door caused her to jump.
His periwig had been discarded and his coat was slung over one shoulder. He looked ready for a comfortable evening; he looked ready for bed. He still carried the glass of amber fluid in one hand but he was not drunk—Alicia had come to know.
His coat was tossed onto a nearby chair and he came to sit on the edge of her settee.
"You’ve done a masterful j
ob of the day, love," he said with pride. "I’m pleased."
"Mrs. Stratton deserves your thanks," she said.
"For the dinner I’ve thanked her and given her a little something extra. You, on the other hand, were magnificent."
This form of seduction was very new to Alicia. She lowered her eyes and mumbled her thanks.
"I have all the papers the king was holding. There’s land in the country that I doubt Charlotte ever saw and I think it will be quickly sold. But before that we should visit the manor—when the weather clears. Are you agreeable to a trip?"
Her eyes came up and her apprehension about their possible consummation fled. He was again bent on business. "If you wish."
"I think it would be wise at least to look at the property, though I need the money as quickly as possible."
Muted by his cool reserve, she simply looked at him.
"We will move from this house in a few days, and may I suggest as little entertaining and gadding about as possible until then."
Not the slightest discomfort from longing showed on his face. "Whatever you wish, my lord," she said, though her voice was becoming less timid and more perturbed.
"Very well, we’ll keep it simple and stay away from the curious, since there’s no honeymoon."
"And is that in keeping with the custom, sir?" she asked coldly.
"What exactly were you expecting, madam?" he asked.
"Not very much more," she snapped.
"Well, my dear, you’ve done a fine job and I hope you know how pleased—"
With a huff, Alicia drew herself from the daybed and stood glaring at him. "I’m certainly glad you’re pleased."
He took on an expression of complete confusion. "What’s got your wind up now?" he asked. "God’s bones, I can’t seem to pay you a decent compliment without getting your nose out of joint, nor can I—"
"Decent compliment? You mindless oaf, what compliment is this? Where does your great plan end and your own mind begin?"
"I haven’t any idea what you want," he returned, nearly as angrily.
"Is there any part of me that doesn’t fit your plan?"
He stood and once again they glared at each other over a piece of furniture.
"Your constant complaints don’t fit my plan," he blustered.
"Is there a man under that armor, or are you a ship and a contract? What flows through your veins, my fine lord? Blood or oil?"
He placed his hands on his hips and met her, blow for blow. "Well, my fancy harlot, is it love you plead for now?"
"Never have I had to play the harlot until now," she shot back. "Even through the years I served the ale to men, never did I sell myself. Does any woman know my lord Seavers’s love—or do they all show their pretty smiles and best manners, only to be met by your cold eyes?"
"I think perhaps I’ve been better appreciated before now. You might thank me for your gowns and jewels and fine lodgings."
"I could as easily thank Charlotte Bellamy, poor wench. She’d have found something lacking in this marriage."
"I see the newer gowns have done little for your morals. Are you so starved for a man that you taunt me now? I thought you wanted nothing more of me than my hundred pounds and a few months of courtly life. But I see from your antics that I was wrong to trust a tavern wench to act the lady. I—"
"You slimy son of a guttersnipe! How dare you treat me as you would your whores! Who would do for you what I do? Who would play your game as well, fool so many with nary a flaw? ‘Sdeath, you’re a wretched blackguard hiding in a sea captain’s coat."
"Lower your voice, bitch, before you bring out the guard—"
"I wager you throw the whores in the streets orange skins and blow them kisses."
"Enough of your slurs, wench, or I’ll see you driven out of your fine lace and jewels, and slinging ale for your drunkards again."
"And you’ll rot in Newgate, fool, for laying a finger to my lace." She turned angrily away, presenting her back, her arms crossed over her chest. Ignorant, iron-blooded imbecile, she silently raged. Could he not see what she would trade for a kiss? For one show of affection in lieu of his constant patronizing of her acting ability? "I am the fool. I thought there was more flesh in you than silver." She turned back to him. "You are a clout-headed, self-centered—"
"Alicia," he warned, his green eyes blazing.
"—lying, scheming jackass." She took a breath. Her anger, as much with herself for wanting him as with him for rejecting her, did not allow her to see how close he was to losing control. "And never," she sneered, "have I known such a tight-fisted bastard as you."
The glass he held broke in his hand, and quickly, both hands were on the daybed as he easily slid it away. With a squeak of fear, she picked up the lacy folds of her dressing gown and made to get away, but before she took two steps, he had grabbed her arm, spun her around, and thrown her on the bed. He pounced atop her and held her pinioned. No amount of struggling could free even her arms, and when she ceased her fight, she was forced to look into his angry eyes.
"I allowed you more words than good sense said I should," he told her, his voice deep but controlled. "Now listen to me and hear me this time, for I won’t say this again. You’ve a certain right to be angry, for truth, I use your beauty, charm, and wit to gain my fortune. But I gave you the terms and you agreed, so I’ll not take another tongue-lashing from you."
Tears came to her eyes as a thousand emotions built within her. She was ashamed of the slurs she’d cast on him, and, from her point of view, he had been entitled to the oaths he had hurled at her; she had goaded him so. Further shame filled her that she had been angry at not being wanted to fill any physical role for him. And more than that, it still stung her so deeply to want him, while he continually assured her that she filled only a temporary and detached role in his life. She blinked her eyes hard and the tears flowed across her temples and into her hair.
"I don’t want you harmed or scarred, but I’ll see you taken quickly and quietly away from here if there’s any chance you’ll scare off my money for ships, Alicia."
"I am a person; not a dog to be whipped for growling," she sputtered.
"And so you’ve had a hurt or two, wench. Do you think that you alone have suffered disappointments? Been used and tossed aside?"
"Nay, I think not I alone," she stammered. "But never did I choose to give that back to another." She sniffed and choked. "You are cold, Lord Seavers."
"Aye," he said, brushing her hair from her brow. "Perhaps I am that, but I’ve more on my mind than a toss in bed with a tavern wench."
"And if I were Charlotte Bellamy? What would you give me then?" she asked with a sniff.
"Not a great deal more," he assured her. "Except perhaps a good lashing for your foul behavior."
He pulled himself from atop her and stood looking down at her. "But you are not Charlotte," he said in a voice that was low and soft. "You are Alicia, a lass spirited away from a country ordinary. And unless I make some arrangements for your existence here to be short, we’ll all rot in Newgate. Or worse."
She covered her eyes with the back of her hand as she considered her outburst and the strength of her words. They might’ve been heard. And she could not think of a way to undo that.
"Now, Alicia," he fairly whispered. "Can I trust you or must I send Rodney to fetch you away on the very night of our wedding?"
She shook her head. Though it was difficult, she struggled to sit up, and faced him. "I—I’m sorry, my lord. I promise you—I won’t question our agreement again."
Through her blurred vision she could see some softness in his gaze. "And I am sorry, Alicia. I had hoped you would not be hurt. I believe I warned you from the beginning: I belong to no one. I will have no ties now. You should not have let yourself love me."
Her mouth dropped open slightly and she stared at him aghast.
"You cover it very poorly." He shrugged. "Indeed, you cover it not at all."
Surprisingly, she did not feel
another surge of tears. In a manner, the confrontation was mostly comfortable to her. "And you, Lord Seavers," she said with amazing calm, "can you love no woman?"
"I think perhaps I can’t," he replied. "But be assured," he went on with a smile that was rueful, "if I do learn that I can love a woman, I hope she is as lovely as you—with a bit less belligerence."
She turned her head away. "I hope for your sake, Geoffrey, that you live long enough."
The rain mingled with snow and sleet through the Christmas season. It was a time when most of London preferred to hover around blazing fires and exchange their gifts. With the coming of the new year the weather cleared somewhat, though it remained frightfully cold. Roads were passable and lodging available for the most part. It was just after the new year that Preston Tilden began sending couriers out of the city on a route that took them all the way to Portsmouth and spread them generously across the southeastern portion of England.
The couriers Preston had hired were told to ask after a small child who had been separated from her family in 1650. Lord and Lady Tilden, Royalists, could no longer stay in England safely and had to plan their flight out of the country. But then the revolution was young and the noble couple clung to their optimism, hoping the war would be short-lived and they would be able to return to England soon. They had no way of knowing it would be years before Royalists could reclaim their England.
Lord and Lady Tilden packed up what they could carry, and at Lord Tilden’s insistence, their five sons fled with them. "The Commonwealth may claim my land and home and arms, but by damn, they will not cost me my sons. If death lies upon the road, they’ll go with me." It was only through Lady Tilden’s pleading that the baron allowed their baby girl, Letty, to be spirited away to an aunt in the south of England for her safekeeping until they could either return for her or pay her passage to some faraway place.