“Beast!” she hissed, launching herself at his back. He turned in time to catch and crush her against his chest. Pinioned, she was helpless. “And now, madam,” he said softly as he nibbled her lips.

“Love me, Geoffrey! Please love me!”

“With pleasure, my darling,” and his mouth closed over hers.

She gave herself to him unreservedly, once again surprising him by the intensity of her passion. Her lips were petal-soft beneath his, parting to allow his tongue entry. Never freeing her lips, he lifted her up and carried her to their bed. He laid her gently amid the pillows, then drew off his silken nightshirt. Her sapphire eyes devoured him, his lime-green eyes responded in kind. She quickly drew her own sheer nightgown off, flinging it to the floor, and then held out her arms to him. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her face in his strong hands, looking deep into her magnificent eyes. “No, Skye, don’t make love to me in order to wipe out memories of Niall Burke. I am not afraid of those memories, and neither should you be. You cared deeply for the man once, and I know that those feelings can never be erased completely, nor should they be. I know he hurt you, but he was in pain himself. Forgive him, my darling, for his sake but for mine as well, so that when we love I know it is because of the feelings you have for me, not the deep resentment you still harbor for Niall Burke.”

The tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her face. “Damn you, Southwood, I don’t deserve you! Hell, yes! I’ll forgive the bastard, for he’s to be pitied. I came to terms with the portion fate allotted me, but Niall did not, and hated me while railing at fate. As if I were responsible for what happened to us! And yes, I hated him for inflicting such hurt on me. He made me feel guilty for being happy with you when he had such misery with Constanza. Understand one thing though, I have never made love with you in order to wipe out memories of Niall Burke!”

She looked adorably indignant, and he chuckled, “I am relieved to hear that, madam.” He reached out and slowly fondled an impudent little breast, a lazy smile turning up the corners of his mouth and lighting his eyes. An elegant finger teased a pink nipple to rapt attention, then trailed leisurely between her breasts and downward to the place between her legs. The heel of his palm pressed firmly, then rubbed. Her breathing was more pronounced now, and her eyes glittered through half-lowered lids. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, “you were perfectly fashioned for loving,” and his head dipped down to taste the soft flesh of her breasts. As often as he had done this, it still wrung a passionate cry from her throat that set his heart to beating wildly. He moaned.

His hands moved downward, imprisoning her slender waist for a moment, then slid lower to cup her buttocks. His own long body moved over hers, and Skye reached out to cup and fondle his manroot. Her soft hands played with him skillfully, teasingly rubbing the wet opening of the sensitive organ. “You could rouse a marble statue, witch!”

“Love me, Geoffrey,” she whispered urgently, and spread her legs to receive him.

Slowly, with sweetly practiced skill, he entered her while watching her beautiful eyes mirror what she felt. He drew back and her eyes cried distress. He plunged deep and the pleasure that leaped into that blue gaze added to his own joy. When she finally begged him for sweet release, and her dark feathery lashes lay quivering against her pale cheeks, he felt her spasms break one after another like breakers crashing on the beach. Assured of her happiness, Geoffrey Southwood found his own heaven, reveling in the lovely body that moved so skillfully beneath his, reveling in the sharp nails that dug into his back, in her cry of surrender as his aching manhood burst and flooded her with his burning tribute. She was his, his alone.

Chapter 21

The Earl and Countess of Lynmouth left Devon briefly after the New Year in order to host the Earl’s famous Twelfth Night gala in London. Invitations were at a premium again this year, and London’s best dressmakers and tailors were overbooked, overworked and overwrought in everyone’s mad scramble for the perfect costume. The Countess of Lynmouth’s well-filled purse assured her prior knowledge of all of her guests’ themes. In order that she not offend any by a similar garb, a discreet bribe here and there had been necessary.

To her amusement, several of the women were copying her idea of the year before, when she had come gowned in black velvet as “Night.” Some of them had been clever enough to reverse that role, so there would be at least half a dozen “Days” and four “Afternoons” as well. There were to be the requisite number of “Springs,” “Summers,” “Winters,” and “Autumns.” The Queen was coming garbed as “The Sun,” which was the worst-kept secret in all of London. The three ladies who had had the same idea had been taken by fits of hysteria when they had to change their gowns. “The Moon” and “Harvest” were also popular themes, but no one except Skye had thought of coming as a jewel. She was to be costumed as “Ruby.” As Daisy and her mother had made the dress in Devon, this was the best-kept secret in all of London. Geoffrey would be dressed as “Emerald” in dark green.

The night of the masque Skye stood before her pier glass more than pleased with what she saw. The deep-red gown was magnificent but not gaudy. The underskirt was silk sewn all over in a swirling ornate design with tiny rubies and gold thread that glittered with every movement of light. The overskirt was heavy velvet, the slashings in the velvet sleeves showing the matching silk of the underskirt and repeating the design of tiny rubies. The neckline was daringly low, causing the Earl to comment, “I do not know if I approve of your generosity in showing to the Court the sweet treasures that are mine alone to enjoy.” Skye had laughed and replied, “But mink of the envy it will cause, my lord.” He had laughed, “What a naughty vixen you are,” and suddenly placed about her neck a beautiful necklace of large rubies. “My Twelfth Night’s gift to you, sweetheart.” As she gasped, he bent and fastened matching drop earrings into her ears.

“Oh, Geoffrey!” Her hand touched the necklace reverently. “They are extraordinary.” Turning, she kissed him sweetly. The heady perfume of her body assailed him, and he felt a stab of desire. “For mercy’s sake, my love, thank me later! At this moment I am seriously considering the disarrangement of both your gown and your hair.”

She giggled happily, flushed with pleasure and excitement. “Oh, I love you!”

He forced his passion away and muttered, “I’d truly rather be home with you in Devon than here now, preparing to allow half of London to eat and drink me out of house and home as well as ogle my wife’s breasts.”

Skye laughed, delighted, then sat and allowed Daisy to put the finishing touches to her hair. The ladies of the English Court were currently frizzing their hair, but Skye would have none of that. Her own glorious tresses had been coaxed into a chignon at the nape of her neck. The chignon was decorated with red silk flowers. Her hair was parted in the center and two small curls, lately named lovelocks, dangled on either side of her face.

Skye stood up, satisfied, and pirouetted before her husband.

“Well, milord?”

“There is nothing I can say that you don’t already know, my pet.” She smiled. He asked, “What of me, madam? Am I not wormy of notice?”

Mischievously she eyed him as boldly as any gallant would eye a lady of his fancy, and the Earl’s mouth twitched with amusement at her mimickry. She circled him slowly, looking him up and down critically, and men said, “You’ve got the best-turned leg of any man at Court, my lord, and the emerald-green velvet compliments those superb eyes of yours. The ladies will be hard put tonight to remember you’re mine-but they had better!”

He bowed elegantly, acknowledging the compliment. Laughing, arm in arm, they descended the stairs to the great ballroom of Lynmouth House.

The first carriages were beginning to arrive, and Skye and Geoffrey stood regally at the top of the main staircase greeting their guests. The ballroom filled quickly. Even the Queen arrived early, escorted by the handsome Lord Dudley, among others. “We intend staying late, my dear Skye,” announced Elizabeth.

“You and Southwood give the best party of the year!” “It was to avoid disappointing Your Majesty that we returned to London-temporarily,” said Geoffrey. “Skye is not quite over your godson’s birth.”

“This ‘twill not tax you too badly, my dear?” questioned Elizabeth anxiously.

“No, madam. The sight alone of your dear face strengthens me,” replied Skye.

The Queen’s eyes twinkled. “What a perfect courtier you are, my dear Skye. Certainly a fit mate for Southwood!”

The Earl bowed at the compliment and offered his hand to Elizabeth as the first dance began. Lord Dudley partnered Skye. She did not really like the Queen’s favorite, a fact of which he was quite well aware. Unfortunately, her very aloofness excited Robert Dudley. He was a man who loved danger, and the thought of seducing this beautiful woman beneath the very noses of both Elizabeth and the lady’s husband was deliciously tempting.

Robert Dudley’s view of himself was such that it simply didn’t occur to him that he, the most popular man at Court, could be sincerely rebuffed. He blandly assumed that Skye was being coy, though there was nothing of the coy maiden in Skye’s personality. If he had known her well, Dudley would have realized this. As he partnered her his eyes feasted on the pearly luminescence of her skin, then plunged deep into her decolletage. What sweet round little apples she hid beneath her bodice. The perusal was all done quickly, for though Elizabeth had thus far denied him total possession of her royal body, she was a very jealous woman.