A handsome rogue, and popular—Priscilla doubtless basked in reflected celebrity—Buckhurst was one of the “Wits” or “Merry Gang,” as they were called. These high-spirited gentlemen enlivened society with their sardonic and often vulgar poetry, plays, and literature. They were tolerated at court because Charles found them amusing, but they wielded no power. Buckhurst was most certainly not what Lord Hobbs was looking for in a son-in-law.
“I wish you every happiness with him,” he told her.
She smiled smugly.
Amy glanced around, having finally noticed that Colin was no longer by her side. She recognized Priscilla with a jolt of surprise, and was even more surprised to find herself not worried or jealous in the least. Seeing them together, she was quite sure Colin didn’t love Priscilla and never had.
She glided up to where they faced each other, and with a warm smile, Colin moved aside to include her.
“Lady Priscilla, may I present my wife, Amethyst—”
“Amethyst,” Priscilla repeated under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she struggled to remember something. “Amethyst.” Suddenly, her gray eyes snapped open wide. “You!” she exclaimed.
“A pleasure to see you again, Lady Priscilla.”
Colin’s brow furrowed in a frown of puzzlement. “You’re…acquainted with each other?”
Priscilla didn’t answer. Her beautiful mouth was slack with disbelief.
“We met once, at Madame Beaumont’s,” Amy explained, clutching Colin’s arm in a silent statement of possession. “Before we were wed.”
Priscilla finally found her voice. “I don’t believe this,” she spat.
Colin laid a hand over Amy’s where it rested on his arm. “You don’t believe what, Priscilla?”
“I don’t believe you broke our betrothal to wed her,” she burst out as though Amy weren’t there.
She had a nasty habit of doing that, Amy thought.
“Why, she’s not—” Priscilla sputtered, “she’s only—she’s—”
“My wife,” Colin supplied. “And a countess. The Countess of Greystone. A smallish estate, with a charming medieval castle. You’ll remember it, I’m sure?”
Priscilla stared at him for a moment, her eyes so cold that Amy half-expected Colin’s arm to turn to ice under her fingers. Then Priscilla lifted her perfect chin, turned, and walked away.
She hadn’t taken more than three ladylike steps when Amy and Colin convulsed in laughter. Amy was sure Priscilla could hear them, but she didn’t care.
“I do believe she’ll be asking Buckhurst to send for the carriage forthwith,” Colin said with more than a little satisfaction. “She’s certain to have a headache this evening.”
“Is she, now?”
“Based on my experience, I’d wager on it. And this time, I find myself perversely pleased to be the cause of it.” He took her hand. “Come, the dancing is about to begin.”
The musicians were tuning up at one end of the chamber, and the presentations were complete. King Charles stepped down from the dais and gave the signal for the music to start.
He danced the first dance with Catharine, as was only proper. It was a courante, slow and grave, a pantomimic dance suggesting courtship.
Amy watched in awe, unable to believe she was in this place, at this time, watching the King of England dance with his queen. He moved with a rare grace for so large a man and cut a dashing figure indeed. In fact, he was put together in quite a pleasing fashion and, being a man who enjoyed and excelled at all types of sports, hadn’t an ounce of spare fat on his well-formed frame.
The next tune was an English country dance, a few simple steps executed by many couples in a double line. Colin pulled Amy into the queue, and there she was—dancing at Whitehall Palace. Amethyst Goldsmith, merchant’s daughter. Incredible.
When the ladies’ line passed the men’s, she could feel Charles’s gaze on her.
Following the country dance was a branle, a group dance featuring pendulum-like movements combined with much running, gliding, and skipping. It was a bit too energetic for Amy in her present condition, so Colin led her off to the side.
“Greystone!” The voice was light and self-assured, and Amy turned to see its owner. The lady’s deep blue eyes were set in a classical face framed by auburn curls.
“My Lady Castlemaine.” Pleasure at meeting her was evident on Colin’s expressive features. “Amy, this is Barbara, the Countess of Castlemaine. Barbara, my wife, Amethyst.”
So this was the king’s longtime mistress! “I’m glad of your acquaintance,” Amy said with a little bow, perfectly mimicking the behavior of the lords and ladies around her.
Colin watched Barbara look Amy up and down, nod her approval, then lean forward for the obligatory casual kiss. “I’m glad of your acquaintance, also,” she returned with, to her credit, as much warmth as she allotted to any female.
Colin smiled to himself. A natural predator, Barbara’s charms were mainly reserved for men.
“Where is your rival tonight, Barbara?” He took advantage of his excessive height to give the chamber a sweeping glance.
“My rival?” Barbara’s tone bordered on offended, as though she thought it absurd that anyone could rival the celebrated Countess of Castlemaine. But she wore a broad smile on her face, attesting to her good humor.
“Frances. La Belle Stewart.”
“Frances? Have you not heard? My word, Greystone, whyever do you hide yourself away in the countryside like that? You miss all the fun.”
“Heard what? Is she ill?”
“Only in the head. The ninny up and married Richmond in April—eloped, they did. Charles is livid. He won’t stand to see her, at court or anywhere else.”
“But why?” Colin asked dryly. “Certainly so inconsequential a matter as marriage wouldn’t affect his pursuit of her.” At the same time, he put an arm around Amy’s shoulders to draw her near.
“If it were anyone else, you’d be right.” Barbara looked from Colin to Amy and back. “Almost anyone else,” she amended pointedly.
Colin’s lips quirked in a half-smile. “But not Frances?”
“Not Frances. She’s behaved with nauseating correctness—to the extent of returning all the jewels Charles had given her. Can you imagine?”
Of all people, Colin reflected, Barbara would have a hard time imagining that. “Perhaps she simply values a wedding ring over the benefits of being a royal mistress,” he suggested.
“Hmmph!” Only Barbara
