As he turned and went to the door Barbara sat drumming her nails on the edge of the table, her eyes taking on a dangerous sparkle, and then all at once she pulled away from the maid and got to her feet, raising her arm to secure the last bodkin herself.
“Roger! I want to speak to you!”
His hand on the knob, he turned and faced her. “Madame?”
“Get out of here, Wharton.” She gave a wave of her hand at the maid but started to talk before the girl had had time to leave. “I think you’d better come tonight, Roger. If you don’t his Majesty will think it damned peculiar.”
“I don’t agree, madame. I think his Majesty must find it more peculiar that a man should be content to go tamely and parade his wife’s whoredom before half the Court.”
Barbara gave an unpleasant laugh. “The mistress of a King is not a whore, Roger!” Her eyes suddenly narrowed and hardened and her voice rose. “How often must I tell you that!” Then it fell again to become soft, purring, sarcastic. “Or can it be you haven’t noticed I’m treated with twice as much respect now as I got when I was only the wife of an honourable gentleman?” The inflection she gave the last two words showed her contempt of him and of her own insignificant station as his wife.
He looked at her coldly. “I think there’s a better word for it than respect.”
“Oh? And what’s that pray?”
“Self-interest.”
“Oh, a pox on you and your damned jealousy! I’m sick of your bellow-weathering! But you’ll come to the supper tonight and act as host or by Jesus you’ll smoke for it!”
Suddenly he crossed to her, his pose of indifference gone, his face flushed and contorted with anger. He caught hold of her fore-arm. “Be quiet, madame! You sound like a fish-wife! I was a fool not to have taken you to the country when I first married you—my father warned me you’d disgrace us all! But I’ve learned since then, and I’ve discovered that to some women freedom means license. It seems that you’re one of those women.”
Her eyes, almost on a level with his, stared at him tauntingly. “And if I am,” she said slowly, “what of it?”
All the uncertainty he had shown before her at first had now vanished completely, leaving him poised and determined. “Tomorrow we shall leave for Cornwall. I don’t doubt that two or three years of country quiet will do much to restore your perspective.”
With a sudden swift wrench she jerked away from him. “You damned noddy! Just you try spiriting me away to the country and we’ll make a trial of what good it does me to have the King’s favour!” They were standing silently, both breathing hard, staring fiercely into each other’s eyes, when there was a knock on the door and a voice called:
“His Majesty, King Charles II!”
Barbara looked around. “He’s here!” Automatically her hands went to her head to make sure that every hair was in place, her eyes moving swiftly and excitedly, and though her face still showed traces of anger it had cleared considerably. She went to pick up her black-spangled fan and then returned. “Now! Are you coming down to act as host, or no!”
“I am not.”
“Oh, you fool!”
Her hand lashed out and slapped him stingingly across the face and then she picked up her skirts and hurried across the room, pausing a moment to compose her features before she opened the door. Then she went out and down the broad portrait-lined hallway, to the staircase.
Below her stood the King in conversation with her cousin, Buckingham, but as she appeared both men stopped talking and turned to give her their attention. She came down slowly, partly because the precarious unbalance of pregnancy made her cautious, partly to let them admire her. And then as she reached the bottom she curtsied while both men bowed and the King, who alone might remain covered in his own presence, swept off his hat.
Barbara and Charles exchanged lingering smiles, deep intimate looks charged with memories and anticipation. And then she turned to the Duke who had been watching them with cynical amusement on his face.
“Well, George. I didn’t expect you back so soon from France.”
“I didn’t expect to be back so soon. But—” He gave a shrug of his heavy shoulders, glancing at the King.
Charles laughed. “But Philippe flew into a jealous rage. I think he was afraid his Grace intended to follow in his father’s footsteps.”
It was notorious gossip in both kingdoms that the first Buckingham had been the lover of beautiful Anne of Austria, who was now Louis XIV’s fat and old and ill-tempered mother. And his son had made no secret of his violent admiration for Minette.
“It would have been a pleasure,” said Buckingham, and made the King a half-mocking bow.
“Shall we go into the drawing-room?” asked Barbara then, and as they walked toward it she looked up at Charles, her face appealing, soft and almost childish. “Your Majesty, I’m in a most embarrassing position. There’s no host for the supper tonight.”
“No host? Where’s—You mean he didn’t care to come?”
