Trapped at the Altar

And he could never hope to stand where they stood now, in the King’s intimate presence. Ari was talking so easily to his majesty, a dog cradled naturally in her arms, one hand—oh, how he remembered her hands, so strong, so sensitive, so quick to arouse him—pulling at the animal’s ears as she talked to the King with as much ease as if she were talking to a close friend.

Gabriel burned with longing and with resentment. This was not how it was supposed to be. He was here to rescue her from a forced marriage, to take her away to live the life they had promised each other. And for the first time since their parting, he wondered if she had forgotten about him.

He pushed his way out of the pit, out of the theatre, into the brisk, cold night air. He would wait for them to come out.

? ? ?

Ari’s head was beginning to ache with the heat in the box from the many candles and the heavy perfumes worn by both men and women, which barely disguised the musky smell of overheated flesh in the richly elaborate damasks and velvets. Her gown seemed suddenly too heavy and constricting, but she managed to keep a smile on her face as she set Miss Sarah back on her chair.

“Madam, I will ensure that the Queen sends you an invitation to attend her,” Charles said again, in a tone that contained dismissal as he held out his hand. “And I shall much look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”

Ari curtsied deeply over the royal hand and rose slowly as he turned his attention to her husband. “We shall see you at court, Sir Ivor. Attend one of my morning receptions.”

Ivor bowed his appreciation of the order and backed out of the box. Ari followed suit, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

“Your direction, Sir Ivor?” The flunky intercepted them as they moved away.

“Dacre Street,” Ivor responded, aware suddenly that Ari was leaning heavily on his arm. He looked sharply at her. She was very pale. “You don’t look well, Ari. Do you want to stay for the rest of the play?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I can take any more of this noise and crowd and heat. I need air.”

He said nothing, merely steered her down the corridor and back into the foyer. It was as noisy and crowded as it had been before the play, but outside on the steps, the cold winter air was instantly reviving.

“I think I’m hungry,” Ari decided as she took a deep, cold breath. “The meat pie was a long time ago, and the tartlets weren’t substantial enough for a kitten.”

He laughed, relieved to hear her sound like herself again. “Come, then, there’s a good hostelry in the piazza where we can sup.”

Ari revived with scalloped oysters and veal cutlets in a small back room of the Queen’s Head on Charlotte Street. “So I’m to attend Queen Catherine’s audience,” she said after a moment, playing with the stem of her wine cup. “Alone, I assume.”

“We’ll see when you receive a summons. In any case, you will take Tilly. You cannot go out unattended. But I must attend the King’s reception tomorrow.” He helped himself to another cutlet. “I suspect, however, that his majesty’s interest really lies with you.”

“Well, I’m not about to join the ranks of royal mistresses,” Ari declared. “I’ll go back to Somerset sooner than do that.”

“I trust that won’t be necessary,” Ivor responded drily. He was wondering whether Ari would be able to steer her way through the maze of court diplomacy, keeping the King amused while also keeping him at bay. Apart from the fact that she had no experience to prepare her, her nature was so open and straightforward that playing the royal game while keeping her true feelings hidden would not be easy for her.

After a moment, he said, “I think it would make sense for you to cultivate the Duchess and Mistress Gwyn. I doubt they’ll welcome another rival. It’s said they have enough trouble with their own competition, and I’m sure they’d do anything possible to protect you from the King’s favors, for their own sakes as much as yours.”

“Mmm.” Ari considered this. “So, if I appear to be a country-bred innocent, eager for their advice and guidance, they would be only too happy to offer it?”

Ivor laughed. “I’m sure they would. If you think you can play such a part.”

“But of course I can. ’Tis but the truth, after all,” she said with an innocent smile. “I am as country-bred as any milkmaid.”

? ? ?

Gabriel stood in the doorway of a tavern in the piazza, a tankard of porter in his hand, his eyes on the door to the Queen’s Head. It had been easy enough to follow Ariadne and her husband from the theatre, as they’d left early, before the full audience had poured through the doors into the piazza. He assumed they were having supper and had taken up his position opposite, with porter and a venison pasty to sustain him. He wasn’t sure what he was to do when they emerged, whether he should try to attract Ariadne’s attention. If she knew he was there, she would find a way to speak with him.

But he could not risk drawing the attention of her husband. Sir Ivor couldn’t know anything about himself and Ariadne, about their shared past. He wouldn’t be suspicious, looking for anything untoward. And Gabriel was certain that Ari would not betray herself or him, even if surprised. She was far too quick a thinker.

But they seemed to be spending a damnably long time over their supper.

He was almost ready to give up when they emerged from the Queen’s Head. Ari was laughing, her hand resting on her husband’s forearm, and he was smiling down at her in a proprietorial manner that made Gabriel feel slightly sick. He moved out of the doorway and approached them.

As he did so, a sedan chair came between himself and his quarry, the chairmen setting it down in front of the inn. Gabriel ducked around the poles and moved into Ari’s view just as she was stepping up into the sedan chair, her hand resting on Ivor’s forearm as he handed her in. For a second, her eyes widened, shocked recognition flashing across the gray surface of her gaze, and she became motionless, her foot suspended a few inches from the ground. And then her expression was wiped clean, her foot continued its progression, and she climbed into the sedan chair, settling her skirts around her.

Ivor frowned at her. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” he remarked, looking around him. But he could see nothing unusual amid the general throng. A man was walking away, pushing through the crowd, and a group of whores called out a bawdy invitation when they saw him looking in their direction. He turned back to Ari, but she was calmly sitting back in the chair, her hands clasped over the folded fan in her lap.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, looking at her closely.

“Yes, of course.” She smiled. “Why shouldn’t it be? That was a lovely evening.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I’m glad you found it so.” He gestured to the chairmen that they should move on, and they hoisted the poles.

Ivor kept pace beside them. Now what was the matter? He could feel Ari’s discomposure as if it were a physical manifestation. Smile as she would, nod and reassure him that nothing could possibly have disturbed her peace of mind as much as she wished, she could not fool him. He’d known her far too long.

Gabriel doubled back through the crowd and walked behind the sedan chair, just one of any number of strolling revelers in the piazza where all London came to play. He kept himself in the crowd, indistinguishable from any other young buck on the lookout for a little amusement. And he followed them to Dacre Street. He watched from the shadows as Ariadne descended from the chair and entered the house, escorted by her husband, and then he slipped away, satisfied that he had done all he could for one evening.