The King’s Mistress. Gillian Bagwell

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СКАЧАТЬ was now tending her second generation of Lanes, the children of Jane’s brother John, and decades of sniffing out mischief prompted her to peer more closely at Jane.

      “And where have you been gadding, lambkin? You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”

      “Just in the orchard,” Jane said. “It’s warm out there in the sun is all, and I must hurry if I’m to bathe before supper time.”

      The reminder about the evening’s birthday celebration and the presence of Jane’s suitor brought a grin to Nurse’s round face.

      “Ah, that’s it, then. Thinking about that young man. Well, get you to your room and I’ll have Abigail bring the tub.”

      THE TUB FILLED AND ABIGAIL GONE, JANE REMOVED HER CLOTHES, luxuriating in the freedom she always felt when she was released from her tight stays. Her mind went back to the Gypsy lad, and his lazy glance that had raked her from head to toe. She flushed again. He had liked what he had seen, that was clear enough. No man had ever looked at her with such open cupidity and it made her consider herself in a new light.

      She went to stand before the long mirror that her father had bought for her at such great cost at Stafford. She had never dared to examine her naked body so closely, and felt a little ashamed, but now she gazed at her reflection, trying to see herself as a lover might. She had always thought her breasts were too small, but they were round and high, her nipples a blushing pink against her creamy skin. She cupped them in her hands, imagining what it might feel like to have a man’s hands on her, firm fingers caressing and kneading.

      Her waist was slim, her legs long and firm. The soft thatch of reddish brown hair at the cleft of her legs almost but not quite concealed the secret place beneath. She let her hands drift to her buttocks. Her muscles were smooth and sleek from walking and riding. Unwomanly, she could hear Withy saying, but it was good to feel strong and supple and alive.

      She dipped a toe into the tub to test the temperature. It had cooled enough to be pleasantly warm, and she climbed in, leaning her back against the high end. The tub was not long enough to let her straighten her legs, and her thighs fell open. She thought of the laughing young man, the look of intense pleasure that had suffused his face in the instant before he had seen her. Was it possible for a woman to give herself the same pleasure?

      She usually forbade herself from feeling anything when she wiped herself after urinating, but she knew the sensations that fleeted at the edge of her touch, and now she gave in to the curiosity building within her. She slipped a hand beneath the water, tentatively touching the forbidden place. The bud at the centre was engorged under her fingers, throbbing and alive. It felt as though it would jump as she moved her fingers over it, letting the water tickle and tease.

      She was breathing hard, and let her hand move in circles, delicately, softly. A tremor was building within her. Was this what it was like to be with a man? But that act involved the man’s part, the part of him that melded with a woman. She thought of the engorged flesh bobbing like something alive in the Gypsy’s hand, and imagined what it might feel like to have such a thing inside of her. She slipped two fingers inside herself, and found that she was slippery and warm. She moved her fingers deeply in and out as she let her thumb caress the rosebud at her centre. What had taken her so long to make this astonishing discovery? She wanted the sensation to last forever, but a wave was building inside her that she could not hold back. She pressed her hand hard, deep into her and against herself, and gasped, holding back the cry that she wanted to voice. She was shocked to realise that within this private little earthquake she wanted to be calling his name, whoever he was. Not the Gypsy, not Sir Clement, or any man she had ever met. Some warrior prince perhaps.

      The wave crested and passed. She was alone in a tub of warm water and guiltily removed her hand.

      Maybe Withy was right. Maybe such men existed only in plays and fairy tales.

      DINNER THAT EVENING WAS A FESTIVE AND CROWDED AFFAIR. IN honour of Jane’s birthday and to accommodate the large gathering, the meal took place in the banqueting house that stood to the east of Bentley Hall. Jane had always loved the banqueting house, built in the eccentric Flemish style with high chimneys and dormer windows—a fanciful edifice designed to surprise and delight. Besides those that lived in the family home—Jane and her parents; her oldest brother John; his wife, Athalia; and their nine children; and her brother Richard, only a year older than she—her brothers Walter and William and their wives were there, as well as Withy and her husband, John Petre; her cousin Henry Lascelles; and of course Sir Clement Fisher, seated beside Jane. Her health was drunk and all were in good spirits.

      “I have a special gift for you today, my Jane,” her father, Thomas, smiled. The bald top of his head shone pinkly with perspiration, a fluffy cloud of hair standing out above each ear. He handed a little book across the table, and Jane stroked a finger across the soft red calf’s leather binding with gilt lettering.

      “Oh, Father! How beautiful!” Jane cried, opening the volume. The title page read Poems: Written by Wil. Shakesspeare, Gent, and on the facing page was an engraved portrait, the eyes looking out at Jane in a peculiar, almost cross-eyed way.

      “I thought it would please.” Thomas smiled. “It’s got the sonnets, ‘A Lover’s Complaint’, ‘The Passionate Pilgrim’, and a few poems by Milton and Jonson and others. And it’s a little easier to carry outside to read than the folio!”

      John and Athalia had a book for her, too—A Continuation of Sir Phillip Sidney’s Arcadia.

      “By Mrs A.W.,” Jane murmured.

      “Just published,” John said. “By a lady author, as you can see. Perhaps you’ll become one yourself.”

      “I can scarce wait to start reading!” Jane exclaimed, beaming.

      “Then I daresay we’ll know to look in the summerhouse should anyone need to find you!” Withy said, to general laughter, passing Jane a length of snowy handmade lace.

      There were other gifts—a silk paisley shawl from her mother; yards of fine cloth from her brothers William and Richard; two little purses worked with fine embroidery from John’s daughters Grace and Lettice, aged fifteen and thirteen; and ribbons and garters from the younger girls still at home, Elizabeth, Jane, Dorothy, and Frances.

      “I haven’t got anything for you yet, Jane,” her cousin Henry Lascelles called from down the table. He grinned at her and shook a lock of light brown hair out of his eyes. “But come with me to the fair in Wolverhampton next week, and I’ll buy you whatever you like!”

      “Hmm,” Jane mused, her eyes twinkling. “A new horse, perhaps, with a saddle and bridle worked in silver?”

      “Ha!” Henry shot back. “Perhaps next year.”

      “I’ve made something for you, sweeting.” Nurse stumped forward and presented a stout pair of stockings, knitted from heavy grey wool.

      “They’re plain, but they’ll keep you warm,” she pronounced. “Not like those silly silk trifles you like.”

      “Thank you, Nurse,” Jane said, kissing Nurse’s ruddy cheek and letting herself be enfolded in the capacious bosom. “I will feel even warmer, knowing that you made them just for me.”

      “I hope you’ll accept a little something from me, too, Jane,” Sir Clement said.

      He reached into the pocket of his dark green coat and pulled out a pair of gloves in fine blue kidskin, which he set beside СКАЧАТЬ