“If the King would spend as much time in the council-room as he does at the tennis-court and Mall,” murmured the Duke as they went on, “the country might be in a better state than it is.”
“Than it is? Why, what’s the matter with it? It seems well enough to me.”
“Women, my dear, never understand such matters and should not—but you may believe me, England’s in a most miserable condition. The Stuarts have never been good masters. Here’s my coach—”
They circled around the Park and stopped at Long’s, a fashionable ordinary in the Haymarket, which was a narrow little suburban lane lined with hedges and surrounded by green fields. The host led them upstairs to a private room and supper was served immediately, while below in the courtyard the Duke’s fiddlers played and people gathered from neighbouring cottages to sing and dance to the music. From time to time a cheer went up for the Duke, who was popular with the Londoners because he was well known to be a violent anti-Catholic.
The food was excellent, well-cooked and seasoned, and served hot by two quiet unobtrusive waiters. But Amber could not enjoy it. She was too much worried about what the Duke was thinking of her, what he would do when the meal was over and what she should do in her turn. He was such a great man, and so rich—If only she could please him enough it might be the making of her fortune.
But it did not seem likely the Duke would be an easy man to please.
He was thirty-six years old, and his life had left him nothing of either illusion or faith. He had raked and probed his emotions, experimented with his senses until they were deadened and dull and he was forced to whip them up by whatever voluptuous device occurred to him. Amber had heard all this and it was what made her uneasy. She was not afraid of what he would do—but that she would never be able to interest this bored and jaded libertine.
Now, once the table had been cleared and they were left alone, he merely took a pack of cards from his pocket and began to shuffle them idly; they flew through his fingers with a speed and sureness which proclaimed the accomplished gamester.
“You look uneasy, madame. Pray compose yourself. I hate to see a woman on edge—it always makes me feel that she expects to be raped, and to tell you truly I’m not in the mood for such strenuous sport tonight.”
“Why, I didn’t think the woman breathed who couldn’t be persuaded by your Grace by an easier means than that.” In spite of her awe and eagerness Amber could not keep a certain tartness from her voice; something in the personality of the Duke set her teeth on edge.
But if he noticed the sarcasm he ignored it. He dealt himself two putt hands, one from the top and the other from the bottom of the deck, inspected each with satisfaction and began to shuffle again.
“She doesn’t,” he said flatly. “Women are all inclined to make two mistakes in love. First, they surrender too easily; second, they can never be convinced that when a man says he is through with them he means it.” As he talked he continued to watch the cards, but there had spread over his face a look of brooding discontent, a self-occupied bitterness. “It’s long been my opinion the world would run far smoother if women would not insist on expecting love to be a close relation of desire. Your quality whore is always determined to make you fall in love with her—by that means she thinks she justifies the satisfaction of her own appetite. The truth of the matter is, madame, that love is only a pretty word—like honour—which people use to cover what they really mean. But now the world has grown too old and too wise for such childish toys—thank God we’re beyond needing to deceive ourselves.”
He looked up at her now and tossed the cards away. “I take it you’re for hire on the open market. How much do you ask?”
Amber looked at him, her eyes narrowed slightly and slanting at the corners. His harangue, made obviously for the sole purpose of amusing himself, since it was plain he did not consider it necessary to convince her of anything, had made her angry. She had been listening to that kind of talk from the tiring-room gallants for a year and a half, but the Duke was the first man she had met who wholly believed what he said. She would have liked to get up, slap his face and walk out of the room—but he was George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, and the richest man in England. And her morals were dictated rather by the expediency of the moment than by any abstract formula of honour.
“What am I bid?”
“Fifty pound.”
Amber gave a short unpleasant langh. “I thought you said you weren’t in the mood for a rape! Two hundred and fifty!”
