The Perfect Royal Mistress

  “I cannot consider that. And I will thank you, my old friend, not to darken those prayers with your own dissonant cloud.”

  Buckingham shrugged. “In the meantime, I would say the return of our jolly old blade is well in order, here in Newmarket at least.”

  “I don’t know how jolly I am, considering the events of the past month. But I find I am in the mood for a bit of revelry.”

  “Ha! Splendid!” Buckingham smiled as the coach lurched forward, the sound of horses’ hooves heavy around them. “Now let us find Your Majesty a girl in town with whom you can quite properly revel!”

  “I am not in the market for another mistress, George.”

  “Who said anything about a mistress? Let us just both settle for a rousing good whore!”

  Chapter 12

  ’TIS NOT THE DRINKING THAT IS TO BE BLAMED, BUT THE EXCESS.

  —John Selden

  THEY walked, hand in hand, through a field of bluebells behind Buckhurst’s country house. Charles Sackville also held a full silver goblet of French wine. They had been in Newmarket nearly a month, and to her surprise Nell found that intimacy with Lord Buckhurst was a fleeting thing built on vain attempts and then endless apologies. She had concluded that Buckhurst’s attachment to drink was stronger than anything he felt for her. Still, he wished her to remain, and so still she hoped for the security a miracle match like this one could give her.

  “Here now.” He reached across to touch her chin. “Why look so sad? Do tell me you are enjoying Newmarket as much as I am.”

  “The countryside is lovely.”

  “And my friends adore you.”

  Sir Thomas Ogle and Sir Charles Sedley, the two wealthy libertines, were Buckhurst’s shadows. They stayed at Lord Buckhurst’s house, and spent most of their time drinking, playing cards, or going out with him. Where they went, or what they did when they were gone, she never knew.

  Beneath a sky pillowed with white clouds, Buckhurst looked at Nell. Studying her for a moment first, he pressed an absent, feathery kiss onto the tip of her nose.

  “How would you like to attend a banquet with me this evening Nell?”

  “What sort of banquet?”

  “It is an evening’s entertainment given by the king himself. Lots of dressing expensively, dancing, and drinking, of course.”

  Nell felt a shiver at the unexpected thought of the king. She sank into a patch of flowers so thick that it swallowed her up. “’Is Majesty is here?”

  “He is. And it is his custom to host them as often as twice a fortnight when he is in town,” Buckhurst said, as he drained his goblet in a single, long swallow, then sat down beside her. “I am rather well connected, you could say. My father was a great favorite at court when His Majesty was a boy, and, fortunately for me, this king is given to strong bouts of nostalgia.”

  “Is that so?” She leaned back on her elbows. “’E seemed different when I met ’im.”

  “Royal persona. Important for things like war and asking Parliament for more money. Both full-time occupations, the way I hear it,” Buckhurst said blithely. “Once you come to know him here at Newmarket though, he is a different sort altogether. You will see he is really quite tolerably human, full of all the same warts as the rest of us.”

  “Speakin’ of warts, is ’e likely to bring Mrs. Davies?”

  Buckhurst laughed. “I rather doubt it. The king is not known for his consistency with the fair sex. Especially not here in Newmarket, where there is an abundance of beauty and options. And speaking of being human, Nell, I know I haven’t been the best host, or the best paramour, so far, but I promise you, I’ve turned over a new leaf.” He brushed a hair back from her face and then kissed her passionately.

  “I’ll keep you to that,” she said, but all she could think was what a girl like her should wear when being entertained by the king of England, and what clever thing she would say to charm His Majesty if she were given the chance.

  The rolling green Newmarket Heath had been transformed into an exotic sheik’s harem. Lights twinkled over a canopy of red silk like stars in a summer night sky. Servants, dressed as slaves, strolled up and down bearing silver trays filled with figs and nuts and jeweled goblets of wine. As the royal musicians played just beyond the tent so that he could hear them from the house, Charles sat in his small presence chamber with his head in his hand.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

  Charles shook his head. “Is the queen all right then?”

  “She is, sire. She knows now it never was a true pregnancy.”

  He washed a hand over his face. “God, Catherine.”

  “There shall be others, of course,” said William Chiffinch encouragingly.

  “Of course,” Charles blandly agreed. “Is she resting then?”

  “Yes, sire. Resting comfortably at Hampton Court with her ladies.”

  At last he stood and allowed his dresser to drape him in the flowing purple robes of a sheik. He turned, and a flash of gold braid at his broad shoulders caught the light. “Very well, then. Enough of this melancholia. The Dutch…Moll…my wife…We are at Newmarket!” He lifted a hand jeweled now with two large rubies. “Let us away to some revelry at last!” And to forgetting, he thought. But he did not say that.

  He walked outside, encircled by a coterie of self-important men in costumed robes of their own. As they laughed and talked, he thought suddenly again of Lord Clarendon, the old man he had been made to turn against to save England’s place in the world. Clarendon had been with them last time here, in autumn, coming out of this same door with all of them, laughing about something trivial. Now his laughter was forever silent at court. Chancellor of England once. Exiled forevermore.

  Charles had not allowed himself to miss him, until now.

  The politics against him had been too great, the force for change too insistent. Chiffinch walked beside the king now, down into the gardens, but they did not speak. Charles knew Clarendon had been a potent political liability. But surrounded by men who fed continually at the trough of his generosity, the king missed his deeper friendship. Buckingham was a friend, but he was also dangerously motivated by self-preservation. Charles loved him, and the camaraderie between them, but he was not a fool. He saw his friend’s strengths and weaknesses for what they were. He sank into a throne set up for him at the back of the tent, garlanded in vines and grape leaves. The music was exotic, the costumes of his servants creative enough to set a mood. Yet still there was a mounting sense of boredom. Chiffinch’s efficiency led him to the same result, night after endless night. As it would again this night. It was a compulsion he had almost begun to dread. Then, she was there. Nell…

  The thoughts in his mind stilled, and he was caught entirely off-guard.

  She did not see him, so he was free to watch her. She came forward into the tent through an arched opening, dressed in layers of violet silk, edged in gold thread. Her extraordinary hair, the long copper curls, were loose and full on her shoulders. The many candles and lamps created a golden halo of light around her as she paused. It did not surprise him that her smile was wide, and she was softly laughing. What he did not anticipate was that she would be on the arm of Lord Buckhurst, and that she was laughing with him.

  How could she have thought to give up the theater for a reprobate like that? Lord, but she was a deliciously complex creature, always saying and doing the precise opposite of what was expected. His pulse sped, and though noise swirled around him, he heard no other sound. “Is that not Nell Gwynne?” he asked Chiffinch, knowing exactly who she was.

  “The very same, sire.”

  “Tell her I would speak with her.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The king watched Chiffinch walk over to her as he had wished to do himself. But he would not battle with Buckhurst like a commoner. He watched Chiffinch speak.

  Nell turned to the king then with an unexpected little frown. He sat absolutely still, music and guests swirling around him. He was glad suddenly
that she did not know what Chiffinch’s customary role was in his life. The moment of her indecision lingered for what felt like a lifetime. Finally, she tipped up her face, never breaking her gaze from his, and came away from Buckhurst with Chiffinch.

  “I had no idea you would be here, Mrs. Gwynne,” he said, feeling instantly foolish for how ordinary that had sounded.

  “And I ’ad no idea Your Majesty’d remember me.”

  “Ah, there is no way that I could ever forget you.”

  She frowned slightly again, then, very suddenly, her happy smile returned. “’Tis true what they say, that you can charm any girl you please.”

  “Being king does have its privileges,” he smiled back at her, feeling as if he had known her forever. “And what of my theater, which they tell me you have recently abandoned?”

  “I’ve left it for greener pastures.” Nell glanced back at Buckhurst, who was clearly beating both Ogle and Sedley at a drinking contest. She grimaced at the way they laughed and swayed, and how they were cheered on by the others who had gathered around them.

  The king’s eyes followed hers. She was embarrassed by the display that was all too common at court. Good, he thought. His gaze intensified. “It’s Buckhurst, the biggest libertine in England, you’re with?”

  “If Your Highness will pardon me, I thought that was you.”

  “It is just that I rather expected more from one of London’s great new actresses.”

  She gave him a wide-eyed look. “Speakin’ of that, where, might I ask, is Mrs. Davies?”

  Charles could not have imagined allowing someone to speak that way with him even an hour ago. But for a moment, she had bested him, and he had actually enjoyed it. He stood then, took both of her hands, and drew her against him in a way that surprised them both. “As it happens, Mrs. Davies is in London, along with the queen and Lady Castlemaine. Now then. Have you any more clever questions for me?”

  “Not at the moment. But, if you’d like, I’ll let you know when I do.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. He was feeling enormously invigorated, and desirous of doing far more with this absolutely wild, delectable creature than merely spar. But all in good time. The chase, the thrill of the chase, that was the thing. They were so close now that he could smell the fragrance of her skin. It was cool and lightly floral. “So. You are here with Buckhurst as his what?”

  “As whatever it takes to change my life, and ’elp me to care for my sister.”

  “Ah. The notion that every actress should find herself a nobleman and settle down.”

  “Indeed, Your Majesty, not every actress can find ’erself a king now, can she?”

  “Fortunately, I’m certain you have heard that the king has a dreadfully wandering eye.”

  “And just who might that be dreadful for?”

  “Any girl not clever enough to tame it, I suppose.”

  “And is there such a girl in all the world?”

  “Not so far. But the king before you is an optimistic man with a benevolent heart.”

  “Your Majesty shall keep tryin’ to find that girl?”

  “I might well have done it.”

  “And yet, there is a problem?”

  “Sadly, it appears she may well be preoccupied at the moment by another man.”

  “That would be dreadfully sad,” she teased.

  “Indeed, it would.”

  They were still so close that in spite of the flurry of guests and music around them, he kissed her as if they were entirely alone. Her lips were warm, and he felt her knees give just slightly as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. It had not ever felt like this to kiss anyone. It was a moment more before they came apart. He took her hand then and ran the tip of his tongue across the inside of her wrist. “Tragic not to know what might have been,” he said on an exaggerated sigh.

  He could see her struggle to swallow. The tide had turned. Now he had entirely bested her, and they both knew it. How utterly delicious.

  “’Tis ’ow Your Majesty greets all your lady guests, is it then?”

  He was smiling. “Only the truly special ones.”

  “My ma always said to beware of strangers with honeyed tongues.”

  “Did she not also tell you the value in a bit of risk?”

  “She never really took many risks at all. Which likely explains why she’s been ’appier all of these years stayin’ drunk.”

  “I’m sorry, Nell,” he said, speaking her name aloud for the first time, and feeling an odd little shiver at the sound of it on his tongue. “My own mother’s rather fond of drink as well.”

  “Oh, you couldn’t compare the two. Yours is a queen, and all mine has ever been is a royal pain in the arse!”

  He laughed outright. “Tell me, do you always have such a quick reply to everything?”

  “Thinkin’ things through is dangerous work, Your Majesty.”

  “And we couldn’t have that, now, could we?”

  “Not if a girl from Coal Yard Alley expects to get ’erself to a proper square like Lincoln’s Inn Fields one day.”

  He was not listening now. He was thinking only of what he longed to do with her, and how he meant to make that happen with Buckhurst only a few feet away. How difficult could it be? The fool drunkard had not even noticed that the king of England had taken his mistress and kissed her, in front of his entire court. Feeling his insistance, she tried to turn from him, but he held her hand, tightening his grip.

  “Lord Buckhurst needs me.”

  “Oh, my dear. Do take care with that illusion. Lord Buckhurst may be many things, but—”

  “He’s kind and generous…and he is goin’ to change my life.”

  “I hope you’re right about that. The good Lord above knows you’d be the best thing ever to happen to him.”

  “Well, now, that’s right diplomatic of Your Majesty to say.”

  “It’s only the truth, Nell. I cannot seem to speak to you any other way. Most women make me want to run as far from that as I can get.”

  When she began to turn from him again, he gently pulled her back. A heartbeat later, he pressed a last kiss onto her neck, just beneath her earlobe. The heat between them pulsed, then flared as their eyes met.

  “Will you be at the races tomorrow? My horse, Old Rowley, is competing.”

  “Old Rowley, is it? ’Tis not a name I would’ve chosen for a king’s ’orse.”

  “And he’s not actually a horse a king might have chosen. But I had one just like him when I was a boy. Those were good, carefree days I like reliving whenever I can.”

  “I’ll tell him I would like to go. But I can’t promise. You know Lord Buckhurst.”

  “I don’t suppose it would help if I commanded him to attend?”

  “No.” She paused a moment. “But you might invite ’im. ’E’s ever so impressed to be known by the king of England.”

  “And you, Nell, are you impressed?”

  “Flattered, surely.” Her gaze held his fully. “But if I were too impressed, I couldn’t be myself.”

  “And I certainly would not want that,” the king said in reply.

  Another actress? thought the Duke of Buckingham condescendingly. That jade from in front of the theater? When had that occurred? He knew well enough when the king was besotted. He had stood through the entire conversation with his back to the king and Nell, in disbelief at her spirit and wit. Nell Gwynne was voluptuous, clever, and deliciously unique. It was not at all likely that she could find the powerful place Barbara had held at court—or in the king’s heart—but she might do quite nicely as a temporary replacement. The only impediment, he thought, watching them together, was that wastrel, Buckhurst. The king was led away by Arlington’s wife, Isabella, to dance a spirited courante, and now Nell was struggling to help Buckhurst to his feet, his having just collapsed with Sedley into a fit of drunken laughter. A damsel in distress. How perfectly priceless. Buckingham calmly strode the few paces to her, and gave her his most charming smile. ?
??Do pardon me, Mrs. Gwynne, but might I be of some assistance?” He watched her expression: At first, she was grateful for the intervention, then she recognized him as the man who had been with the king that day in front of the theater, and only too willing to insult her.

  “I don’t suppose a girl like me needs Your Grace’s sort of ’elp.”

  He nodded. “The problem is, if you do not forgive our unfortunate misunderstanding, you will likely be on your own in getting a very dissolute man back to his house.”

  She stared at him. “I’m all right on my own, Your Grace. Gettin’ by on my own’s the way it’s always been. Rather good at it, I am.”

  “I’m certain life has made you the resourceful woman you are. But learning to accept assistance when it is offered shows your wisdom.”

  Buckhurst was vomiting on the ground now between them, and Sedley had passed out in an equally unattractive heap.

  Nell did not want to trust him, he could see, but he pressed on. “I shall send two of my stewards and my coach. You cannot handle him as he is now, and you should not be made to. You need not trust me in order to accept. I shall remain here at the banquet in order to prove I have no ulterior motive.”

  Nell tipped her head, looking at him cautiously. The night air between them was bright with fireflies. “Very well, then. Thank you.”

  “Don’t think another thing of it. You were right to be wary of me, and I was wrong to have underestimated you. It has been quite a long while since I have done that. Hopefully, we can start again on a better footing.”

  “I don’t suppose a duke ’n me would find ourselves very often in the same company for any sort of foot at all.”

  “One never knows, Mrs. Gwynne. Look at you, present at an affair given by the king of England. Would you have expected that a year ago, you with your oranges in front of the King’s Theater?”

  “That seemed about as likely then as you offering your friendship.” Lord, but she was quick. Yes, indeed. In need of a bit of training, a bit of style, but she would definitely fill the bill for now. “Well said, madam.” The Duke of Buckingham smiled and led her away to find his coach.