Page 40 of The Rose at Twilight

A LYS LISTENED INTENTLY TILL the last noises faded from the anteroom. Not until the thud of a door closing in the distance put an end to all sound but that of the crackling fire did she dare to peep round the bed curtains at her husband.

He stood with his back to the hearth, surveying the room, and she wondered what he was thinking.

Since he had married her by royal command for the purpose of controlling her estate, she could not believe he had any strong feelings beyond, perhaps, thinking her a nuisance.

She hoped he would be kind to her, and she wished she could discern his thoughts from his expression.

He moved at last toward the dressing table, stepping around the tub, pulling off his hat with one hand while he removed the heavy gold-link chain he wore with the other.

Large as the room was after Alys’s small, stark chamber, he seemed to fill it as she, the splendid furniture, and five other women had not.

She swallowed, gripping the covers closer than ever, her knuckles aching, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it.

He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. “Art still awake, madam wife? Do not fall asleep just yet. ’Twould be no good way to begin our marriage.”

She swallowed again, managed to mutter, “No, sir,” and continued to watch him through wide, wary eyes. She had not paid particular heed earlier to his attire, for it was much like that of the other men, but now she was fascinated by every thread.

He shrugged off his black velvet gown and laid it with his hat on a coffer near the wardrobe, then straightened, his hands going to the gold fastenings of his satin doublet.

She watched silently while he undid them, one by one, with deft twists of his fingers, and removed his doublet to set it aside on the stool.

His shirt was snow-white and of the finest linen, its sleeves softly draped, its body molding his broad chest and shoulders.

Standing in only his hose and shirt, his back view reflected in the glass behind him, he was magnificent.

He smiled at her, and her heart leapt, stopping her breath and setting her every nerve atingle. “I brought no servant with me,” he said. “Will you make me continue my disrobing unaided?”

She stared at him, dismayed. “I … I am un—unclothed, sir,” she stammered.

“I had not believed otherwise, but ’tis a natural state, is it not? And I am now your husband.”

She had promised to obey him. In fact, as she recalled the words, she had promised to be meek and obedient in bed and at board.

And here she was in bed, but meekly obedient was the last thing she wanted to be.

Were it possible to vanish from his sight, to pull the covers over her head one moment and put them down the next to find herself safely back at Middleham with Anne of Gloucester, she would not hesitate for an instant.

But Sir Nicholas was waiting.

Alys said between her teeth, “Sir, I cannot. I am not accustomed to walking about before a man without my clothing. I am sorry to displease you, but I cannot do it.”

“Walk about?” His brow creased in puzzlement, and then he grinned at her. “By the bones of St. David, wife, you have a robe there on the bed, do you not? I did not mean you to serve me naked—not just at present,” he added, his grin becoming more roguish. “Later, we will consider the matter.”

To her surprise, instead of shocking her, his words sent a river of warm blood coursing through her veins, and while her pulses raced, in the pit of her stomach a new sensation stirred, one she could not identify but had no desire to suppress.

It radiated downward, making her aware of a part of her anatomy to which she rarely gave much thought, but a part from which every nerve now seemed to emanate. Nervously she licked her lips.

When he chuckled she realized that he had been watching for her reaction, and she saw at once that it had stimulated him.

She could feel a crackling in the air between them now that had not been there before.

“Put your robe on, madam,” he said, “and I will show you how a proper wife ought to behave.”

“And how,” she demanded with spirit as she leaned forward, still clutching the bedclothes about her, to reach for the green silk robe, “do you know aught about proper wives?”

His eyes opened wide with innocence. “Why, my mother taught me, of course. She has long insisted upon serving my father in just such a way, preferring to attend to his personal wants in the place of our servants. Do you disapprove?”

She drew the robe around her shoulders, hoping he would not offer to help her, and grateful when he remained where he was, though he did continue to watch her.

There was an awkward moment when she had to let go of the bedclothes to clutch the robe close across her breasts, but she managed it at last, and arranged the material around her as best she could before pushing back the covers and sliding barefoot to the floor.

There was a sash to the robe, and she tied it tight, feeling nonetheless vulnerable in the thin garment with her hair tumbling down her back. Her toes wiggled in the soft dark fur of the rug near the bed, and she waited for his next command.

Nicholas had been watching her, and she saw that the warmth in his eyes had deepened to a more sensual, more carnal look that made her heart beat faster.

As if he sensed her alarm, he turned away just then to the dressing table, and hearing a popping sound and a clink, she realized that among the other things on the table there must have been a bottle and goblets.

He turned back, a gold-edged silver goblet in each hand.

“Gifts from his noble grace,” he said quietly.

“He thought solid gold too heavy for you, and had these made. Each bears our name and device.”

Reminded that she now had her own device, she looked down at the ring on her finger, then up at him, saying shyly, “Thank you for my ring, sir, and for my jeweled girdle. Both are wonderful gifts. I only wish I had a proper gift for you.”

“You do, mi geneth ,” he said, his voice low in his throat, “you do.” When her only response was a deep flush, he handed her one of the goblets, watching her turn it in her hand to examine the engravings. He frowned when she did not drink. “The wine will relax you, you know.”

She gave him a twinkling look and said, “Verily, sir, ’tis not relaxation I fear but interior strife. My stomach has accepted a great deal of wine tonight, and only since my bath has it ceased its protesting. I’d as lief not test its patience.”

He shook his head in amusement but said, “You cannot disappoint our Harry. He was vastly pleased with his goblets, intending them to be used for this purpose, and he will ask me if ’twas successful. Would you have me banished from court for disdaining their use or, worse, for disobeying my king?”

“You need not tell him.”

His eyebrows flew upward in pretended shock. “You think it better that I lie to my sovereign liege lord? You surprise me.”

Alys, her judgment dimmed by wine, and her sense of humor stirred by his teasing, managed a casual shrug and said, “He is only a Lancastrian, after all. What can he care about truth?”

Sir Nicholas’s amusement vanished on the instant, and he snapped, “You must not talk so. I forbid it.”

She opened her mouth to offer a saucy suggestion as to what he could do with such undesirable orders but remembered in time, and with a jolt of shock, that since he was now her husband there could well be unpleasant consequences to such a speech.

Warmth flooded her countenance, and she lowered her eyelids, still watching him through her lashes, weighing courage born of too much wine against the likelihood of arousing his temper.

He nodded with satisfaction. “You do well to think before you speak,” he said. “Continue the practice. And now, I pray you, madam, take one small sip of that wine, so that I may in good conscience tell our king how much we enjoyed his gift.”

She obeyed, feeling the warmth of the wine soothe her all the way to her stomach.

It was heady stuff, and the languor that had begun to abate came back in full force.

She drank more deeply and felt herself begin to sway where she stood.

When his hands came to her elbows to steady her, she leaned toward him, sighing when his arms went around her and he drew her close.

He murmured softly against her curls, and not understanding his words, she looked up at him curiously. “What did you say?”

He chuckled, the sound low, caressing. “Madam wife, I must teach you Welsh. ’Twill make matters far easier. I said that you are like the wine itself, deep, intoxicating, and delicious. But I suppose you have heard such compliments all your life.”

“Not like those,” she said in surprise. “Why should I?”

“As beautiful as you are, you need to ask? I have had to avoid you of late to keep my lust from overcoming my good sense.”

“Am I so beautiful?” she said, glad to hear he had reason for his apparent neglect, but fearing to put too much faith in his words.

He was ambitious. He had said so, and she was as certain now as before that he had accepted their betrothal and marriage with grace because of the wealth she had brought him.

Now it appeared that he had also been prompted by lust. She could see it in his silent response to her question, and she knew that men could be motivated by their desires.

Had not two women stirred the powerful King Edward to promises of wedlock with only their wiles and the alluring curves and cushions of their bodies?

Women had very few weapons with which to sway men or to protect themselves, so it was gratifying to learn that she could arouse Sir Nicholas.

However, recalling earlier attempts to influence him with her feminine wiles, she said, “I remember that you did once avow a preference for dark-haired, coal-eyed women.”