Reunited At The King's Court

‘Will you advise me about what to do to forward a petition to have Mayfield Hall returned? I really would appreciate some advice.’

‘Now the King is restored the injustices will be redressed. Those who remained loyal will not find him ungrateful. He does not forget his friends, but you must give it some time, time for him to settle into a routine.’

‘Of course. I understand. I’m sorry, William. I apologise. I should not ask you. You have your own troubles. What must you think of me?’

What did he think of her? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted to hold her and go on holding her, but it was sheer madness and dishonourable to one other to harbour such thoughts. He shook his head and lowered his gaze, knowing he would be unable to look into those blue-green eyes for much longer without beginning to lose all reason.

‘I’ll do what I can, Arlette. Maybe you should go and see your father’s lawyer—or perhaps Hester, being the eldest. Let him sort it out.’

‘Thank you. I’ll talk to Hester. Goodnight, William. You will come again?’

He turned and looked at her, seeing the appeal in her eyes. ‘Yes, yes, I will.’

Returning to Whitehall, William realised that if he wasn’t careful his feelings for Arlette would be in danger of running out of control. He had been totally unprepared for her—how she would look now she had grown into a woman—how she would affect him. He should never have let her come so close. But, no, he thought, that wasn’t how it was. He should never have let himself come so close. The night and the scent of the flowers and her very nearness had quickened his blood in a way he had not felt for a long time.

He couldn’t let her waste one moment of her precious life thinking of him. In her innocence and naivety she had told him that she cared for him. He had done well, not letting her know how much he had come to care for her, too. But it was hard, no matter how he tried, to still his emotional rebellion against the rational reason of his mind. He had not spoken of his future bride and deep down he had not wanted to. But he knew he would have to sometime and he would do so with a great deal of apprehension and misgivings. He had told Arlette he would see her again. He would, he decided, before he left for Warwickshire.

Arlette was about to return to the celebrations when a man emerged from the parlour. Her heart sank when she saw Sir Ralph Crompton.

With the death of King Charles I, back in forty-nine, Sir Ralph had hoped the Stuarts would have been swept away into oblivion. But now his son was here, bringing with him the evil seeds of lechery and decadence that had flourished at his Court in France and Bruges. Suddenly there was too much laughter, too many people feverishly intent on enjoying themselves—no matter what the cost to their immortal souls. Mistress Dryden troubled him. He had seen her converse with Lord William Latham and he had noticed something in her attitude, something coy, almost flirtatious and frivolous. It had caused him deep displeasure.

Arlette found her crawling dislike of Sir Ralph difficult to conceal. Bobbing a small curtsy, she faced him, having made up her mind to be calm and reasonable on meeting him. He knew her to be a high-spirited girl—better if she had been more docile. Looking at her with a critical eye, he bowed stiffly, as though his joints needed oiling.

‘Ah, Mistress Dryden. You are not leaving, I hope,’ he said in clipped tones.

Stern and unsmiling, he studied her so intently that she felt embarrassed under his gaze. How ugly he is, she thought. How old. Slight of build and thin, with narrow shoulders and thin legs, she hated the thought of being his wife. He was wearing his usual severe black, but he had loosened his white stock. His luxurious periwig made his face look small—it reminded her of a weasel—and his eyes were grey and as cold and hard as steel. She looked at his tightly compressed lips and those eyes of his, which had always seemed to her to be able to see right through her. Could he read her mind now? she wondered.

‘No, Sir Ralph,’ she replied. ‘We are staying with Anne and her family for the night.’

‘I know. That is why I am here. Richard invited me to the celebrations. It is you I have come to see. I thought it opportune for us to become better acquainted.’

Arlette was tempted to comment that after spending the past two decades opposing first King Charles I and then his son when the likes of him had executed the first, she found it odd that he would wish to partake in the celebrations of the return of the monarchy, but thought it best not to. In Sir Ralph’s opinion a woman should be servile, modest and obedient, and only speak to those superior to her when invited to do so. She thought it prudent to keep her comment to herself.

His pale eyes surveyed her, narrowing as they took in her gown and her bright uncovered head before settling on her cleavage between her creamy breasts. A vein began to throb in his temple.

‘You should practice more decorum,’ he said harshly. ‘Your appearance is unseemly, your behaviour with Lord Latham wanton.’

Bright, angry colour stained Arlette’s cheeks. ‘My dress is no more indecent than any other woman’s present, Sir Ralph, and you read too much into my encounter with Lord Latham.’

‘William Latham and his like will rue the day they returned to England,’ Sir Ralph sneered.

‘His like? What do you mean by that, Sir Ralph?’

‘He’s a King’s man—do not forget that Charles Stuart’s father was executed for the tyrant he was.’

‘None the less, his son is the King who it is hoped will turn England back into a place of happiness and contentment, a place of peace.’

The look Sir Ralph gave her was hard. ‘You are far too outspoken, Mistress Dryden. I hope the obedience of your attitude is not a guise to deceive me.’

‘I am not sinful. I have done no harm.’

‘I see so little of you. I might think that you deliberately avoid me. Have I offended you in some way?’

‘No,’ she lied, anxious to be gone, hating the way his eyes devoured her, lingering too long on the swell of her breasts beneath the fabric of her dress, seeming to take salacious pleasure in what he saw despite his earlier rebuke. ‘Hester keeps me busy for most of the time.’

‘Not all the time, surely. You have the time to spend with James Sefton by all accounts.’

The reproach in his voice was evident. ‘James is a friend. He makes me laugh. We are neighbours and of an age and he is fun to be with.’

‘And I am not.’

‘I did not say that, although I know you to be more than twice his age.’

‘True, but let me give you a bit of wisdom. There is more to a man than a handsome face or pair of broad shoulders. Think about it. You know that I have always been fond of you. I find it such a delight to talk to you.’

‘You are easily content, Sir Ralph.’

‘Richard always speaks highly of you—of your intelligence, Mistress Dryden. You are aware of my intentions and that Richard has given permission for a betrothal between us.’

‘I know that.’

‘Then you might sound more enthusiastic about it. It is my wish that we be married before the autumn, so our betrothal will be soon? When you are my wife I shall be favoured twice.’

‘How so?’

‘A beautiful and a clever wife. I would be the happiest of men. What more could any man ask?’

‘What more indeed?’ Arlette murmured quietly.

‘I was drawn to you the first time I saw you and blind to all other women,’ he said, his voice low, as if unable to conceal the passion Arlette never failed to rouse in him. ‘I will visit Richard at his house to discuss the details of the betrothal.’ His eyes narrowed as he noted the flash of defiance that flared in Arlette’s eyes, which vanished almost as soon as it was there. ‘You do want to marry me, don’t you, Arlette?’