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Authors: A Rogues Embrace
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Winters declared gaily, eliciting more giggles. “And with such a husband, your previous one will soon be forgotten.”
“I shall never be able to forget Mr. Longbourne,” Elissa muttered truthfully.
The young woman at the door started to slip, until Mistress Winters’s next pronouncement made her straighten as abruptly as if she were a marionette being pulled from above.
“Minette Sommerall refused to perform tonight, I hear. In Sir Richard’s play, that is. Claimed she was ill—but we know better, don’t we?” She poked Elissa in the back. “She’ll find another man soon enough, I should think. She won’t pretend to kill herself like his other mistress did.”
Elissa stiffened.
“Oh, have I said something wrong?” Mistress Winters asked innocently.
The other women exchanged amused glances.
A rather plump woman whose rounded bodice displayed more of her breasts than good taste would permit anywhere except the court stumbled toward Elissa, then tugged ather veil like a fishwife spotting a bargain on a tinker’s cart.
“You’ll tear it,” Elissa admonished, reaching up to take it off herself.
“Ladies, I will undress alone,” she commanded in a tone of finality that was always effective with her servants.
Mistress Winters grinned and shook her head, making her cosmetic powder crack like aged porcelain. “Oh, no, my lady,” she said with a throaty chortle. “We must wait until the groom comes. To do otherwise would be unseemly.”
“Very unseemly,” the woman at the door echoed.
Elissa sighed. If they would not leave, she would simply pretend they were not there. With that in mind, she began to remove her dress herself.
“Here, let me take…” Mistress Winters offered, grabbing the skirt.
“I shall do it,” Elissa snapped.
She stepped out of her dress and laid it on a nearby chair. Clad in her chemise and petticoat, she quickly removed her shoes. Despite the warmth of the room, the polished floor was cool on her stockinged feet as she wiggled out of her petticoat.
“Your chemise is only linen,” Mistress Winters noted with obvious disappointment as she took the petticoat.
Elissa didn’t care that her garment wasn’tsilk or satin. She’d had such a garment once, and she had burned it a week after her wedding.
Paying the women no heed, she yanked the combs from her hair so that it fell loose about her shoulders and tumbled in a mass of waves to her waist.
She heard some of the women suck in their breath and permitted herself one small moment of vanity, for she was proud of her thick hair.
The young woman at the door suddenly staggered backward, nearly colliding with Mistress Winters. “They’re coming! I hear them!”
At nearly the same moment, the door flew open and a half-naked, bootless Sir Richard careered into the room, sliding to a halt on the polished floor.
Behind him lurched a group of equally drunken courtiers like some kind of debauched band of merry men, led by the king himself. She also spotted servants bearing what looked like trays of food and carafes of wine.
Elissa stared at the man who was now her husband. The skin of his muscular upper body seemed to glow in the candlelight. His black hair was wildly disheveled as if he were some kind of savage, and his face flushed. She did not think it was shame or embarrassment that accounted for that; more likely, it was wine.
She was likewise flushed, and she knew why the hot blood coursed through her body. If he was not ashamed by such a display of naked flesh before all these women, she was embarrassed for him.
And then she remembered she was only wearing her chemise and stockings.
“What ho!” Charles cried. “The bride is not abed?”
Elissa scrambled under the covers. She nearly fell right out again, for the sheets were of unfamiliar and very slippery satin.
She managed to sit and pulled the heavy coverings up to her chin, noting that Mistress Winters stood with the king, while Sir Richard …
The
“I shall never be able to forget Mr. Longbourne,” Elissa muttered truthfully.
The young woman at the door started to slip, until Mistress Winters’s next pronouncement made her straighten as abruptly as if she were a marionette being pulled from above.
“Minette Sommerall refused to perform tonight, I hear. In Sir Richard’s play, that is. Claimed she was ill—but we know better, don’t we?” She poked Elissa in the back. “She’ll find another man soon enough, I should think. She won’t pretend to kill herself like his other mistress did.”
Elissa stiffened.
“Oh, have I said something wrong?” Mistress Winters asked innocently.
The other women exchanged amused glances.
A rather plump woman whose rounded bodice displayed more of her breasts than good taste would permit anywhere except the court stumbled toward Elissa, then tugged ather veil like a fishwife spotting a bargain on a tinker’s cart.
“You’ll tear it,” Elissa admonished, reaching up to take it off herself.
“Ladies, I will undress alone,” she commanded in a tone of finality that was always effective with her servants.
Mistress Winters grinned and shook her head, making her cosmetic powder crack like aged porcelain. “Oh, no, my lady,” she said with a throaty chortle. “We must wait until the groom comes. To do otherwise would be unseemly.”
“Very unseemly,” the woman at the door echoed.
Elissa sighed. If they would not leave, she would simply pretend they were not there. With that in mind, she began to remove her dress herself.
“Here, let me take…” Mistress Winters offered, grabbing the skirt.
“I shall do it,” Elissa snapped.
She stepped out of her dress and laid it on a nearby chair. Clad in her chemise and petticoat, she quickly removed her shoes. Despite the warmth of the room, the polished floor was cool on her stockinged feet as she wiggled out of her petticoat.
“Your chemise is only linen,” Mistress Winters noted with obvious disappointment as she took the petticoat.
Elissa didn’t care that her garment wasn’tsilk or satin. She’d had such a garment once, and she had burned it a week after her wedding.
Paying the women no heed, she yanked the combs from her hair so that it fell loose about her shoulders and tumbled in a mass of waves to her waist.
She heard some of the women suck in their breath and permitted herself one small moment of vanity, for she was proud of her thick hair.
The young woman at the door suddenly staggered backward, nearly colliding with Mistress Winters. “They’re coming! I hear them!”
At nearly the same moment, the door flew open and a half-naked, bootless Sir Richard careered into the room, sliding to a halt on the polished floor.
Behind him lurched a group of equally drunken courtiers like some kind of debauched band of merry men, led by the king himself. She also spotted servants bearing what looked like trays of food and carafes of wine.
Elissa stared at the man who was now her husband. The skin of his muscular upper body seemed to glow in the candlelight. His black hair was wildly disheveled as if he were some kind of savage, and his face flushed. She did not think it was shame or embarrassment that accounted for that; more likely, it was wine.
She was likewise flushed, and she knew why the hot blood coursed through her body. If he was not ashamed by such a display of naked flesh before all these women, she was embarrassed for him.
And then she remembered she was only wearing her chemise and stockings.
“What ho!” Charles cried. “The bride is not abed?”
Elissa scrambled under the covers. She nearly fell right out again, for the sheets were of unfamiliar and very slippery satin.
She managed to sit and pulled the heavy coverings up to her chin, noting that Mistress Winters stood with the king, while Sir Richard …
The
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