Taming The Tempestuous Tudor

‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ she cried, turning her head to avoid seeing his grin. They walked on in silence until Etta slowed and stopped, realising that her coldness was not going to help matters, yet it was the only defence she had.

‘Etta?’ he said. ‘Look at me. Can we be friends now as we once were? Just as a start? It will make things easier for both of us if we can talk about this.’

Turning to face him, she tried hard to find the same sincerity he had shown before he’d revealed his conspiracy to influence her decision. Her long silence signified the mental conflict still raging in her mind until finally she sighed with a slight shake of her head. ‘As for being friends, my lord...that counts for little, doesn’t it, when my future has been decided for me? I thought at one time that we could be friends, but you have lost ground since then and I shall need some persuading that your integrity is what I thought it was. Don’t ask from me any more than I can give, if you please. I have little choice, it seems, about becoming your wife, but you can hardly lay the blame at my door if you find you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. I am my father’s daughter and I am being forced into this situation.’

‘It was never my intent to forfeit your trust, Henrietta. Perhaps my determination to have you for my own, before anyone else, blinded me to the way it might be seen as underhand. But nor do I believe for one moment that I’ve taken on more than I can handle.’

Etta slid a hand to her cheek to cool it, knowing that he referred to her incivility. ‘I have not been used to having a man other than my father telling me what I must do, sir. It will go hard with me. And you, too.’

‘I think I know that, mistress, without you telling me.’

‘But you’ve had women, I suppose? All of them compliant?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve had women, but you are the first I’ve ever offered marriage to.’ His hand moved through the shadows to touch her brow, then to trace a line down her cheek, his thumb brushing against her lips, feeling her tremble.

They parted slightly as something told her to stand firm, not to relent against this tender invasion, but the coldness she tried to summon was slow in coming and now the messages she was sending were the wrong ones. Etta knew how well he would be able to decode them. Placing a warning hand on his shoulder, she tried to hold him away, but it was too late and, before any words would come to her aid, she was being held against him with her face slanted across his.

The warmth of his mouth blanked her mind to everything except the thrilling sensation, and no matter that he’d had women before her, she believed in that moment that she was indeed the only one he had ever wished to marry. For those unfettered moments of honesty between them, each revealed to the other that desire would rise above all other conflicts, with or without their permission, for his kiss was persuasive. Had she not retained that indignation and hurt about being manipulated, she might have given in to the moment, the thrill, the newness of surrender. But she pulled away, moving back into the shadow of the hedge to hide her confusion, one hand covering her mouth. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘this is not...’

‘Listen to me, Etta,’ he said, easing her back to him. ‘This is what we want. It’s what we wanted from that first meeting. We both know it. But it doesn’t mean your surrender if you don’t want it to. You can fight me until you tire of fighting, but from time to time, sweetheart, we can indulge in a truce without shame to either of us. We shall be married within the week and think what a waste that would be if we were to spend our wedding night in useless animosities. That would be pointless. Is that what you intended?’

‘It’s my only weapon,’ she said, looking away into the dimness.

‘What? How can you say so, woman? You of the thousand pinpricks.’

‘That’s an admission, coming from you,’ she said.

‘Do your worst, Etta. I can handle you, but don’t stifle what could be an endless capacity for loving, just to try to hurt me. Our new Queen may do as she pleases about marrying, but you don’t have to emulate her in that, too. Be yourself.’

‘Is this meant to...?’

‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking, that I want a submissive wife in all things. But, no, that’s not what we’re talking about, is it? I’m talking about you denying yourself to get back at me. You were made for love, Etta. Not just that kind of love, but compassion, empathy, kindness, generosity. I cannot believe that this recent resentment will last for ever. That’s not the Tudor nature, is it?’

‘How do you know that, my lord?’

‘I’m learning every day. I think you could keep most men guessing as to which was the real Henrietta, just as the Queen does with her courtiers. But I’m getting to know you, sweetheart, and I’m better placed to discover every single facet.’

‘Bad, as well as not so bad?’

‘Yes, you need a strong hand. I can protect you. I can share all I have with you. Will you not do the same for me?’

Materially, she had little to offer him except what her father had decided she was worth in wealth and estate, but if he meant to know about all her vices as well as the virtues, she would show him exactly what he was taking on before she succumbed completely to his charms. ‘What I have, my lord, is what you see and what you will eventually find out about. I am prepared to share with you my deep humiliation and anger, that’s all. You think you can change me. Taming is what you call it. But I do not intend to change at any time in the near future, not until I have achieved something of what I have set out to do. Uncompromising that may sound, but it was you who wanted the connection, not me. I suppose my father will have warned you about what you’re taking on,’ she said, allowing him to hold her hand against his chest, ‘and I’d be a fool to add anything more to his list. In fact, I dare say he’s quite relieved for you to take responsibility for me. As for the rest, it’s no more than you deserve, is it?’

Even in the dim light of that winter morning, she could see the dark slits of his eyes twinkle with a mischievous laugh. ‘As you say, my beauty,’ he whispered, bending his head close to hers, ‘it will be no more than I deserve.’ He touched her lips with his own before she could move away, then released her hand. ‘Now, I must catch the next tide if I want to reach my home by midday. I want you and your parents to visit me at Cheapside, just to satisfy you that a mere mercer can reach your high standards. Bring your cousin Aphra with you, too. She might help to convince you of my suitability.’

‘Please, don’t say any more about that. My intention was not to insult you, or the mercers in general.’

‘What was it, then? Is it that I’m not a courtier? Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I am no nearer to the royal court than I was before and I find that hard to accept, my lord.’

‘Then let’s shelve the problem for the moment, shall we? You may find that, eventually, there will be other things to occupy your time and energy, mistress.’

She would have been a dullard indeed not to have known what he alluded to, but she did not think that, in the circumstances, the prospect was very enticing. Nor, if she could help it, was it even feasible.

Chapter Three (#ulink_d76952cf-9e79-5a52-97f8-727e9f8f827a)

‘He kissed you, didn’t he?’ Aphra said.

‘You can tell?’

Aphra chuckled. ‘Well, there’s nothing to see, exactly, but...’

‘But what?’ Etta peered into the mirror, touching her lips with the tip of a finger, feeling not only the firm pressure of his mouth on hers but also the hardness of his thighs, even through her farthingale. His arm had pressed into her shoulders, bending her into him. Not a tender kiss by any means. She ought not to have allowed it, but Baron Somerville was not a man against whom she was likely to win any argument, as her time in the garden had proved. He would hear her side of things but, in the end, he would retain the upper hand.

‘You look as if you might be seeing eye to eye at last,’ Aphra said. ‘Are you?’

Etta scowled. ‘Indeed not,’ she said. ‘Not as long as I’m expected to live over a shop. He wants us to go and see it. As if that will make any difference.’

‘Just think of all those exotic fabrics and feathers, straight from the Orient and the Indies.’

‘Aphie! You’re not taking this seriously, are you? And anyway, where are the Indies?’

‘I don’t know, love. Sounds good, though.’

Etta was glad of her cousin’s company at a time like this when her deepest thoughts had begun to conflict with the impression she was trying to give of being resolute, strong-willed and still deeply frustrated by recent events. If the truth be told, her first experience of being held so forcibly, of being overruled, kissed without her permission and made to listen, had dealt a serious blow to her attempt at a frosty and implacable manner, and now she felt confused by a riot of new feelings brought on, she knew, by the man’s powerful and shocking closeness. Naturally, with his experience, he must have known how it would affect her, an innocent. He had been places, met people, done things, had women. That thought in particular made her frown. ‘He’s had women, Aphie,’ she said.

But Aphra was looking out of the window, her lovely face suddenly lit by an excitement she tried hard to control. ‘It’s Ben!’ she said, breathlessly. ‘I can see it is. He has someone with him. I must go down, Ettie. Come!’

Instantly switched to a different channel, Aphra dismissed Etta’s potentially interesting snippet of information to focus on their newest guest, their uncle, Dr Ben Spenney—Dr Ben, as he was known to the family—was the half-brother of Aphra’s mother and Etta’s stepmother, and was now an eminent apothecary whose home at Sandrock Priory had been left to him by his father, Sir Walter D’Arvall. Sir Walter and his long-suffering wife had been allowed to buy the priory after the closure of the monasteries over twenty years ago, spending a vast amount of money and effort on remodelling it for domestic use. Now, it was occupied by Dr Ben and his household, amongst whom were several young students of medicine from various parts of Europe come to study in England. He was a gentle and scholarly man, not unlike the monks with whom he’d been raised, and his family doubted he would ever find time to marry. In spite of the disparity in their ages, Ben and his niece Aphra had always held an extraordinarily deep affection for each other, though this had never been actively encouraged because of their close relationship. It was no secret to the family, but nor was it a subject ever singled out for comment, even by Aphra’s younger brother Edwin or the twin cousins with whom he worked. Now, as Etta saw the sparkle in her cousin’s eyes and the quick flush of colour to her cheeks, her heart ached for Aphra, whose special affection for Ben could never be allowed to flourish.

Downstairs, by the roaring log fire, the delight at seeing Dr Ben after an interval of several months was truly genuine, Sandrock Priory being miles away in the Wiltshire countryside within visiting distance of other second homes belonging to the D’Arvalls and Bettertons. Far enough away from London for the air to be sweet and pure. Dr Ben’s companion was quickly made welcome. ‘Master Leon of Padua,’ said Ben. ‘One of my very brightest students. I’m taking him with me to lecture at the Apothecaries’ Hall. For the experience,’ he added.

Master Leon, a well-made young man with large dark eyes and a skin that could only have been burnished by an Italian summer, wore a sober gown of dusty black over a grey-brown wool tunic and a flat cap that had seen better days. His manner and speech, however, suggested that his education had been exceptional. ‘Dr Spenney,’ he told them, ‘is either trying to offer me the experience or show me how little I know and how much I have yet to learn.’

They laughed, but Aphra said, ‘How little you know about what, sir?’

‘About the curative qualities of plants, madonna,’ he said, smiling.

‘But any housewife knows which plants heal. It’s part of a woman’s training,’ she said. ‘We have recipe books that are generations old.’

‘Aphra,’ said Dr Ben, gently, ‘stop teasing. You know what he means.’

The glances they exchanged seemed to imply much more than words, and the laugh that rose in Aphra’s throat was of a kind not often heard by the others. But his half-sister, Lady Raemon, who also had a special fondness for Ben, suspected that the real reason why he had chosen Master Leon to accompany him was to meet Aphra, and it was not long before the two were gently sparring about which plants were native to their respective countries. Etta joined in, then took them both to inspect the herb garden. So it was quite by chance that they missed the arrival of two more guests in the same barge from further down the river, Baron Somerville and Sir Elion D’Arvall, the eldest son of the late Sir Walter, and elder brother to Lady Raemon.

Sir Elion D’Arvall had once aspired to a senior position in the royal household, having assumed that he might be offered the post as King’s Cofferer on the death of his father. But with the change of sovereign had come a change in many other departments and Sir Elion had been overlooked, only to be instantly recruited by William Cecil, advisor on financial matters to the young Princess Elizabeth. Now she was Queen at last and Sir William made Secretary of State, Sir Elion had become an extra pair of ears and eyes both in England and abroad, acting as diplomat in the courts of Europe. It was inevitable that he and Baron Somerville would one day arrive together, having often met while on business abroad. ‘Where was it last, Nic?’ Sir Elion said, passing him a handsome silver-lidded tankard. ‘Antwerp, wasn’t it?’

Lord Somerville took it from him. ‘I was doing deals with silk merchants,’ he said, remembering with a smile. ‘I’ve learned a lot since then.’