Penalva and Countess Ponteval, her constant chaperons, exchanged glances and raised their brows at Catherine.
Charles’s temper frayed a little, yet he spoke to them with humor. “’Sblood ladies, I don’t think Catherine needs protection from me. She is my wife and I get to use her seldom enough with you constantly standing guard over her.”
They disapproved of everything about Charles Stuart and made no effort to hide their feelings. With great reluctance they departed with an air of abandoning an innocent lamb to a wolf.
When they were alone, Charles strolled up behind Catherine and said softly, “My love, when you are without sin, why do you find it necessary to spend so much time on your pretty knees asking God’s forgiveness?”
She turned from the altar with a determined look of defiance on her face. “I’m not praying for myself, Charles; I’m praying for you.”
“Ah, my love, if you stayed upon your knees throughout eternity, I doubt me you could get all my sins forgiven.” He smiled at her and his swarthy good looks almost melted her heart. He took her hands into his and firmly lifted her from her knees. Then he whispered, “Come to bed, Catherine.” His head dipped low to kiss her, but she turned her face from him and by doing so confirmed what he had suspected. The delayed bedding was a deliberate tactic, a prelude to an unpleasant matter she wished to discuss.
Charles sighed. All he wanted was a pleasant hour’s lovemaking, during which, if he was lucky enough, his seed would fill his little queen with an heir to the throne. God knows, he knew better than to expect passion from her. She could never satisfy his deep sensuality and he accepted that with a good grace and treated her with gentle kindness, but her reserve and reticence in all things sexual were beginning to weary him.
She allowed him to lead her into the bedchamber, but not to bed. “Charles,” she began bravely, “there is a course you are determined upon which will destroy my happiness completely.”
“Surely even I could not be such a brute, Catherine,” he demurred.
She flushed because Charles had been kindness itself to her. Others may have laughed at her foreign clothes, speech, and manners, but never Charles. A tiny sob escaped her lips. “It is that woman again,” she said, lifting reproachful eyes to him.
Charles kept a wise silence.
“It has come to my ears that she has demanded you make her a countess.” She stamped her slippered foot in determination. “I do not wish it!”
“My dear, if I choose to honor Mrs. Palmer, try to understand that it in no way dishonors you.”
“’Tis like a slap in the face to flaunt her before me.” Catherine’s sallow face flushed a dark red.
Charles glanced wistfully at the bed where the two spaniels had stretched out to make themselves comfortable, then he sat down on its edge. “Catherine, there is no dishonor to have been mistress to the King. You wish me to end the liaison, but it would be most unkind of me to simply cast her off. The whole court would ostracize her. Like a wolf pack they would rend her to shreds. By bestowing the honor of a title upon her, I fulfill my obligation to the lady. Surely you will be generous in this, Catherine.”
“What obligation?” she flared.
Charles had a dominant mother who had tried to bully him all his life. Simply because he was good-natured, most women thought they could control him. They could not. “She has just borne me a son. It is no secret.”
Catherine burst into tears. “I’ve heard the whispers … you think I’m barren!”
He gathered her close and tipped her face up to his. “I think no such thing, sweetheart. I’ll put an end to the whispers tonight,” he said, drawing off her nightgown and removing his brocade robe. In the wide bed, he nudged the dogs over with his long thigh and took Catherine into his arms. She hid her face against his broad chest and bathed him with her tears. With infinite patience he cradled her until she had cried herself out. She was extremely slim and her breasts were as underdeveloped as a girl of eleven, but he stroked her gently and thumbed her tiny nipples. He kissed her a half-dozen times then murmured firmly, “The matter of Lady Castlemaine is closed.” He purposely used the title he was about to bestow upon Barbara.
In a small voice Catherine said, “I’m afraid it isn’t.” She hesitated a moment then blurted, “I asked Chancellor Hyde not to allow Parliament to sanction her title.”
Charles was furious. Though the Queen seemed sweet and biddable in most things, in this she was determined to thwart him. He threw back the covers and set his long legs to the carpet. “Good night, madame,” he said coldly.
“Charles, where are you going?” she gasped piteously.
The King did not bother to reply. He thought his destination was patently obvious. He went out through the privy garden and took a shortcut to King’s Street which ran through the palace grounds. Barbara Palmer’s fashionable house was situated most conveniently. It was almost 2:30 in the morning, but he felt confident that she would welcome him with open arms.
Her household servants did not bat an eye as the King of England made his stealthy way up the stairs to milady’s chamber. Barbara was in bed, fortunately alone, but when she heard the familiar step she was awake instantly.
“Don’t get up, darling, I’ll join you in a moment,” Charles said, removing his coat.
Barbara threw aside the covers, lighted a dozen candles, and stood before him, her ample charms displayed in a pale lavender nightgown. His eyes darkened with desire, but she held up a forbidding hand. “Sire, we must talk.”
He sighed. She wouldn’t use a formal title unless she wished to discuss something serious. “We’ll talk later, Babs, just looking at you has made me hard as marble.” He was on her in two long strides. His practiced, skillful hands pulled the straps of her nightgown from her shoulders, baring her heavy breasts to his heated gaze. He lifted one in his strong, brown hand and bent his mouth to the succulent, dark aureola. He knew he could rouse her to scalding passion in moments with his hands and mouth. She tossed her magnificent head of mahogany-colored hair and cupped his hardness with one knowing hand. As he groaned his need she placed her other hand on her own breast and deliberately pulled the nipple from his mouth. “We will talk now. Your marble rolling pin can wait till later. Charles, I heard something today that made me want to die!” she said dramatically. “There is a conspiracy afoot to make sure I never receive the title you have faithfully promised me!” She clutched the lavender gown to partially conceal her breasts.
“Barbara, you know I will do everything in my power to see you created Countess of Castlemaine,” he soothed. “Come to bed, your king needs your services.”
“Everything in your power!” she scorned. “Anyone would think that old man Hyde has more power than you. Get rid of him, Charles!”
“In a way Edward Hyde does have more power than I. He is my chancellor, Barbara, and the head of Parliament.”
