Читать книгу NOTORIOUS in the Tudor Court: A Sinful Alliance / A Notorious Woman - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 15

The scene in the Duke and Duchess de Bernaldez’s apartment was very different from that of the grand banquet hall. Indeed, it could almost have been taking place in an entirely different palace, Nicolai thought.

He gazed around the room as he strummed lightly at his lute, taking in all the people. The players in this little pageant. It was mostly the Spanish party, friends of the duke, the lilt of their Castilian accents soft above the music, the flicker of gilt-edged cards, the clink of golden goblets. Their laughter was gentle and muted, unlike the raucous banquet, the colours of their rich clothes subdued, glowing like ancient jewels. The whole room was dim, full of shifting shadows, hidden nooks that melted into the dark linenfold panelling.

Except for one spot of bright silver, where all the light in the room gathered. Marguerite Dumas. She sat at a table with Dona Elena and two of the Spanish gentlemen, her eyes demurely cast on to her cards, an untouched goblet of wine at her elbow. She never glanced toward Nicolai, not even the merest flicker. Yet that thin, shimmering, unbreakable cord that seemed to bind them since the moment they met tightened between them.

“How do you find England thus far, Señorita Dumas?” one of the men asked.

Marguerite smiled. “Very cold, señor.”

The others at the table laughed. “And not just the weather, si? The people are so strange, so rough.”

“Queen Katherine is very charming,” Dona Elena protested. “She has been most welcoming to my ladies and me, and her hospitality cannot be faulted.”

“Ah, but she is Spanish, is she not, my love?” her husband said from the next table. “The daughter of our own sainted Queen Isabella. Of course she will be charming and gracious! It is in her blood.”

“If not for her,” one of Dona Elena’s ladies said, “this place would be quite unbearable. They do not correctly observe etiquette. They do not even dance properly!”

“Poor Princess Mary,” another lady said. “Her mother does her best to raise her properly, I am sure, but to be trapped in such a barbaric place…”

“With women like that Boleyn creature, flaunting about,” a man added. “In Spain, such a thing would never be.”

“A virtuous and faithful queen would never be so disregarded,” Dona Elena agreed sadly. Then she brightened, laying down her cards. “Ah! A double six. I am in good fortune tonight.”

“And you, Señorita Dumas?” one of the men asked.

Marguerite shook her head. “Alas, I have not Dona Elena’s luck! The cards are against me.” She fanned her losing hand out on the table, studying their configuration wistfully. Her gaze lifted, meeting Nicolai’s across the room for only a moment. A quick flash, but long enough for him to see the hollow ache deep in those sea-green pools.

It seemed she found fortune against her tonight, in more than just cards. He remembered the mad fairy creature in the garden, twirling under the moon, arms outstretched to take in all the world had to offer. He remembered her lips on his, her hands grasping at his body, hungry, passionate, desperate.

It awakened an answering desperation in him, too, a feeling like a drunken craving deep inside. He wanted her, needed her, and not just her beautiful body, the fragile, fleeting allure of a lovely face. Her secrets, too. Her true soul, hidden so deep beneath deception and double-cross. He did not understand her, but he wanted to, so very much. And, for one moment in that winter garden, he felt he came so close.

Now, her gaze dropped back to the cards, and she laughed merrily. The gossamer cord slackened, and she was an opaque mystery again.

Surely he would never know what madness came upon her, upon them both, in the garden. She would kill him if she could, yet that cold fact never lessened the flame of pure need that seemed to flare up whenever they were near each other.

He would just have to take care not to come near her.

She was obscured from his sight by a line of pages bearing platters laden with more wine and fresh sweetmeats. Suckets of fruit in syrup, marchpane, jellies, “kissing comfits” made of sugar fondament, all to fortify the hungry gamblers.

“Nicolai!” Dona Elena called. “Would you sing for us?” She turned to Marguerite. “Señorita Dumas, Señor Ostrovsky has the loveliest voice, a veritable Orpheus. Yet he has rarely favoured us with it on this journey.”

Marguerite smiled at her, not looking at Nicolai. “I hope that this will be an occasion for a song, then. I adore music, and have missed it sorely since I left Fontainebleau.”

“I knew it,” Don Carlos said. “You French could never be as cultured as the Spanish, señorita, but you do share our love of fine music.”

Marguerite laughed. “Unlike our English hosts?”

“Do the English compose any good songs at all?” Señrita Alva asked, wrinkling her pretty nose. “Surely the queen must listen to some in her own apartments, but I have heard little but noise.”

“Do you know of any fine English songs, Monsieur Ostrovsky?” Marguerite said, looking to him at last. Her eyes were no longer sad and hollow, just flat and icy. Unreadable as a deep green forest. “You have travelled so much, I hear, you must know much of other lands and their music.”

Nicolai shrugged. “Perhaps I know one fine English song, yet I could not say if it would please you, Mademoiselle Dumas.”

“Oh, la, I am not so difficult to please as all that! A goblet of wine, some sweets…” She held up her bowl of suckets, skewered with a long, forked sucket spoon. “A melodic song from a handsome man, and I am most content.”

“You see, Nicolai, you cannot disappoint our fair guest,” Dona Elena said. “She is a homesick stranger in this cold land, just as we are.”

“And music is the universal language to warm any chilly night,” said Marguerite.

“I would never wish to disoblige two lovely ladies,” Nicolai answered. “If it is an English song you desire, ’tis an English song you will have.”

Nicolai tuned his lute again, strummed a few chords, standing as he began his song. The words were only half-remembered, a poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt, who, like Nicolai, had led something of a nomadic life. They had caught Nicolai’s fancy and he set them to music, only for his own amusement. He had never sung them for an audience until now.

And truly it seemed only an audience of one. Marguerite’s steady gaze followed him as he strolled around the room, stopping beside this lady and that while really he sang only to her.

“‘And wilt thou leave me thus, that hath loved thee so long in wealth and woe among? And is thy heart so strong as for to leave me thus? Say nay, say nay!’”

Marguerite propped her chin in her cupped hand, wine and sweetmeats seemingly forgotten as she watched him. Her face was bland, serene, she gave naught away, yet she did not turn from him. And, deep in her eyes, there was spark like a ray of light in that ancient forest.

“‘And wilt thou leave me thus, that hath given thee my heart never for to depart, neither for pain nor smart? And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay!’”

He smiled at Señorita Alva as he rounded her table and she giggled back, but he ended his song next to Marguerite. Her shoulders tensed warily beneath the white satin of her gown, yet she did not turn away.

“‘And wilt thou leave me thus, and have no more pity on him that loveth thee? Alas thy cruelty! And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay!’”

Nicolai strummed out the last of his tune, a soft flurry that echoed the “say nay, say nay,” and the song died away. He bowed amid applause, his watchful gaze never leaving Marguerite.

“Well, mademoiselle, what say you to my song?” he asked. “Did it please you?”

She paused for a long moment. “Perhaps there is one fine English song. When it is sung by a Muscovite.”

There was a wave of laughter, a round of more wine. “Perhaps you would favour us with a French song, Señorita Dumas?” Dona Elena asked. “I am sure you must have a pretty voice.”

“Not as pretty as Monsieur Ostrovsky, I fear,” Marguerite said. “I would make a poor showing after him, especially as I am rather weary. I would be most happy to sing for you on another occasion, though, if I am given a Spanish song in return.”

“Another time, then, Señorita Dumas. We will look forward to it,” Dona Elena said kindly. “Nicolai, will you escort Señorita Dumas to her chamber? We have kept her too long tonight.”

“Oh, no, Dona Elena, one of the pages will light my way back,” Marguerite said. “It is not far, and I would not wish to deprive you of Monsieur Ostrovsky’s interesting company. Thank you for your kind hospitality tonight, I have greatly enjoyed it.”

With a graceful curtsy, a swirl of white-and-silver skirts, she was gone, led by one of the eager young pages. The chamber went back to its low hum of conversation, the soft flicker of new hands of cards being dealt. But to Nicolai it seemed that all the light had vanished, leaving only smoky, smudged shadows.

Dona Elena beckoned him closer. “She is very beautiful, is she not?” she whispered.

Nicolai smiled. “I think that can hardly be denied.”

“Yet she seems so sad. She is an orphan, you know, with no one to look after her interests in this world.”

Nicolai thought Marguerite more than capable of seeing after her own “interests.” But Dona Elena was right about the sadness. Sometimes it seemed to cling to Marguerite like a winter mist, blurring and obscuring her real self, hidden behind that beauty, which was all anyone seemed to see. “It was kind of you to befriend her.”

“And you, too, Nicolai? Your song tonight seemed to cheer her. Truly, amado, you are the most merry person I know!”

“Dona Elena, are you trying to matchmaker again?” Nicolai teased.

She laughed. “You could not marry a French woman! But everyone needs music, diverting company. Especially lonely young ladies—as long as it does not go too far.”

Nicolai remembered Venice, his hand on Marguerite’s naked thigh, his mouth on her breast, the smell and taste of her wrapping around his senses, driving him to lunacy. They had already gone past “too far”!

“I fear Mademoiselle Dumas could hardly escape my company,” he said. “We are to work on a pageant together.”

“Very good! I am sure it will be the finest ever seen in this dull place. Now, will you sing us another song? Señorita Alva seemed to enjoy the last one as well…”