Norman Geoffroi de Sudbois and the determination?of his Saxon wife remained strong traits, even down to the sixteenth-?century Geoffrey Southwood.
This Earl of Lynmouth was twenty-eight years old. Six feet tall,?he had dark-blond hair, lime-green eyes, and, as Skye had observed,?the face of an angel. It was a beautiful face, yet an entirely masculine?one. Oval, the forehead was broad, the cheekbones high, the nose?long and slim, the mouth sensuous, the chin slightly pointed. His?fair skin was tanned, and because his face had no flaws, he kept it?smooth-shaven. His wavy hair was cut short. His body was the lean?one of a man used to regular exercise.
He had been married twice. At twelve he had wed a neighboring?eight-year-old heiress. She died two years later of smallpox, along?with her parents. This left him considerably richer, having inherited?money, lands, and the barony of Lynton. Sexually active, he had?mourned his wife for the shortest time possible and then wed again.?The second wife was five years his senior, painfully plain but very?wealthy. An orphaned heiress, her guardians had thought themselves?stuck with the poor girl until Geoffrey Southwood’s father offered for her for his son. Mary Bowen was of an old and noble family.?More important, her lands adjoined those of the Earl of Lynmouth’s.
On her wedding day, the poor plain bride showed herself enam-?ored of her handsome bridegroom, and grateful to have been rescued?from the shame of spinsterhood. On her wedding night, however,?her opinion changed. Her shrieks could be heard all over the castle?as Geoffrey Southwood battered his way through her maidenhead?and impregnated her. During the next six years she delivered a child?every ten months. All but the first were daughters, and each was as?plain as her mother. In disgust, Geoffrey finally stopped visiting his?wife’s bed. His seven plain daughters were more than enough for?one man to dower.
Mary Bowen Southwood was more than content to remain in?Devon. She feared her husband. After the horror of her wedding?night she had learned to lay quietly during their mating, occasionally?even simulating the response expected of her. When it was first?apparent that she was pregnant, he had treated her in a kindly fashion.?She was glad to have pleased him, especially when Henry was born.?But then had come Mary, Elizabeth, and Catherine. The week after?little Phillipa’s birth he had been so furious that he slapped her,?shouting that she had done it deliberately, that she’d give him a son?next time or he would know the reason why. She had learned fear?in her subsequent pregnancies. Susan was born next. Geoffrey was?in London. Frightened but dutiful, she sent him word. A six months’?silence followed. When he finally arrived home he handed down?one final ultimatum. “Produce another son, madam, or you’ll spend?the rest of your life here in Devon with your brood of daughters.”
“What of Henry?” she dared to ask.
“Henry goes to the Shrewsburys’ household,” he said flatly.
When the twins, Gwyneth and Joan, were bom, the Countess?found herself and all of her daughters moved from Lynmouth Castle?to Lynton Court. Geoffrey Southwood had had enough.
From that time on he saw his wife and family once yearly, at?Michaelmas, when he arrived to hand over the money needed to run?their little household for the following year. He refused to make?matches for his daughters, on the premise that they were all like?their mother and he would not be responsible for other men’s dis-? appointment when the girls produced a string of daughters, as their?mother had done.
Mary Southwood was frankly relieved to be rid of her husband,?but she worried over her girls. Through personal sacrifice and great?frugality she managed to save half of what he gave her each year.?Added to a small, secret hoard left her by her late guardians, she?slowly built up small dowries for her daughters. She taught them the arts of housewifery. There would be no grand matches, but she?would get them all settled. Eventually fate helped her out when?Geoffrey Southwood stopped even his yearly visit, delegating that?chore to his majordomo.
The “Angel” Earl, as he was known, spent his time following?the Court. The young Queen Elizabeth enjoyed his elegant beauty?and sharp wit. Even more, she appreciated his astute knowledge of?business and overseas trade. Trade was where England’s future lay,?and the educated Queen needed all the advice about it she could?obtain. Elizabeth had already demonstrated herself to be a working?monarch, and nothing escaped her sharp eyes or ears. Geoffrey?Southwood might have an appetite for the ladies, but he deliberately?went out of his way to avoid her maids-of-honor, and his respect?for her was much appreciated by the vain young Queen. Best of all,?Geoffrey came to Court without the encumbrance of a wife, and was?therefore free to play one of Elizabeth’s gallants.
The next day dawned bright and blue, as perfect an October day?as one could wish for. Skye spent the morning indoors overseeing?her household, which was finally beginning to run smoothly, then?working with Jean and Robert Small in setting up a new trading?company. Later she eagerly snatched up her flower basket and garden?shears and escaped to the beckoning outdoors.
The gardener and his assistants had done miracles in a few short?weeks. Gone were the waist-high weeds and brambles. Brick walks?had been discovered beneath the overgrowth, as well as small re-?flecting pools and rose bushes. Pruning had brought forth an abun-?dance of late blooms, which Skye now clipped. “Damn!” she swore? suddenly, jabbing her thumb on a thorn, then popping it into her?mouth to soothe it.
A deep, amused masculine chuckle sent her whirling about. To?her anger and embarrassment, the handsome Earl of Lynmouth was?sitting on the medium-high wall separating her house from the next.?He leaped down gracefully and took her hand. “Just a prick, my?pet,” he said.
Skye snatched back her hand furiously. “What were you doing?on my wall?” she demanded.
“I live on the other side of it,” he answered smoothly. “In fact,?my pet, you and I own the wall in common. The building next to?yours is Lynmouth House. It was built by my grandfather, who also?built this charming little house for his mistress, a goldsmith’s daugh-?ter.”
“Oh,” said Skye coldly, shocked. “How very interesting, my?lord. Now… if you will please leave?” she managed.
Geoffrey Southwood smiled ruefully, and Skye noticed that the corners of his strangely green eyes were crinkled with laugh lines.?”Now, Mistress Goya del Fuentes,” he said. “I realize that we got?off on the wrong foot, and I will apologize now for having stared?so rudely at you at the Rose and Anchor. Surely, however, you will?not be too hard on me? I cannot be the first man who has ever been?stunned by your extravagant beauty, now can I?”
Skye flushed. Damn the man! He really was charming. And if?they were neighbors, she could hardly continue to snub him. The?corners of her mouth turned up in a small smile. “Very well, my?lord. I accept your apology.”
“And you will join me for a late supper?”
Skye laughed. “You are really incorrigible, Lord Southwood.”
“Geoffrey,” he corrected.
“You are still incorrigible, Geoffrey,” she sighed, “and my name?is Skye.”
“A most unusual name. How did you come by it?”
“I don’t know. My parents both died when I was young, and the?nuns who raised me could never tell me.” It was said so naturally?that he was thrown. Perhaps she wasn’t the Whoremaster of Algiers’?widow after all. “And was Geoffrey your father’s name?” she was?asking.
“No. He was Robert. Geoffrey was the first of the Southwoods.?He came from Normandy with Duke William almost five hundred?years ago.”
“How wonderful to know the history of one’s family,” she said?wistfully.
“You haven’t yet told me you will dine with me tonight,” he said. Skye bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I really don’t?think I should.”
“I realize it’s a bit unorthodox, asking you to dine late, but I must?attend the Queen at Greenwich, and she’ll not let me go till late.”
“Then perhaps we should dine on another day when you have?more time,” she replied.
“Have pity on me, fair Skye. I dance constant attendance on Her?Majesty, and it is only rarely that I have any time. My chef is an?artist, but cooking for one is little challenge. Unless I provide him?with a guest soon I shall lose him. And how can I give my famous?Twelfth Night revel without a chef? So you really can’t refuse me,?can you?”
She had to laugh. He seemed so boyish, and so very handsome?in the open-necked cream silk shirt. He was not at all the arrogant?nobleman who had accosted her several weeks before. “I should?not,” she said, “but I will. I would not like to be held responsible?by all of London for the defection of your chef.”
“I will come for you myself,” he replied. Then he caught her?hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. “You’ve made me the happiest?of men tonight!” Grasping at a heavy vine growing against the wall,?he pulled himself up and quickly disappeared over the top.
Shrugging, Skye picked up her flower basket and returned to the?house. If she was to be ready when he came this evening, she had?a great deal to do. She stopped, and told herself that this was just?a simple dinner, not a
