Trapped at the Altar

? ? ?

Ariadne wondered how long this interminable service in the chapel could possibly continue. The incense was making her head ache, and the monotonous chanting made her want to sleep where she stood, shifting from one foot to the other. But finally, it came to an end, and the Duke and his wife moved out of their box and processed, their retinue behind them, out of the chapel. The rest of the congregation followed suit, all as relieved as Ariadne, as far as she could tell from the renewed buzz of conversation and the haste with which they pushed through the chapel doors.

The crowd crossed the large central courtyard to the Banqueting Hall. The brisk chill air awoke Ari and banished her headache. A young woman came up beside her and said, “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“No.” Ari turned swiftly. “I am but recently arrived in London.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Indeed, I know no one but my husband.”

“Oh, you know his majesty well enough to receive one of his prized puppies as a gift, and you know her grace of Portsmouth, it seems, which means you have made your curtsy to her majesty,” the young woman responded. “I would say you’ve done rather well for such a newcomer.”

Ari looked for the sting but couldn’t find it. She laughed. “If you put it like that, madam, then I would have to agree with you. But in truth, it doesn’t feel like it.” She tilted her head in inquiry. “I am Ariadne Chalfont . . .” The question mark hung in her voice.

“Madeleine Covington, a very junior lady of the bedchamber to her grace the Duchess of York.” The girl grimaced. “A very junior attendant on her grace.”

“A thankless task?” Ari hazarded, reading between the lines. Ladies of the royal bedchambers were always of noble families, but the younger ones were often treated worse than lowly kitchen maids.

Her companion laughed. “You could say that, but you’ll keep it to yourself if you’re wise. I am to count my blessings and hope for a rich and noble husband.”

Ari smiled her comprehension as they entered the vast Banqueting Hall. The King and his consort were already seated on a raised dais at the far end, and the Duke and Duchess took their places with them. Musicians played in the galleries above, and the long tables in the body of the hall were piled with platters of roast meats and baskets of bread.

Ari looked around for her husband, but it was almost impossible to see anything in the crowd. Velvet, damask, silk, fur brushed past her as she stood at a loss, once more alone. She managed to make out Madeleine Covington standing behind the Duchess of York’s chair, but there were no other familiar faces. People were surging to the long benches at the tables, somehow seeming to know where they should sit. Ariadne knew there would be a hierarchy; the salt cellars were very prominently displayed two-thirds of the way down the table. Was she elevated sufficiently to sit above the salt?

Fortunately, before she had to think about testing her position, she felt Ivor behind her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, murmuring into her ear, “Come, we have done sufficient duty for today. No one will look for us in this mob. Let us go home to our own table.”

“Oh, can we?” She looked over her shoulder at him, relief clear in her eyes. “I don’t think I can bear another minute of this.”

For answer, he cupped her elbow and eased her out through the clamoring throng to the doors. They edged through the constant stream of servers bearing huge silver platters above their heads, as they dodged and weaved through the crowd to the tables, and finally reached the blessed cool air of the courtyard.

“What a nightmare,” Ari breathed. “I don’t think I could face coming back here, Ivor.”

“You can, and you must,” he responded steadily. “But enough for one day. We’re going home.”





TWENTY-SIX





Ariadne went into her bedchamber as soon as they reached home and discarded her cloak, gloves, and muff, dropping them on the bed. “Ivor . . . Ivor, could you help me, please?” she called over her shoulder through the open bedchamber door.

Ivor came in at once, unclasping his sword belt. “What do you need?”

“Unlace me and help me out of this gown, please. Tilly will be busy in the kitchen.” She tugged at the front lacing of her bodice. “We’re not going out again, and I can’t eat in these clothes.”

He laughed. “It would be a pity to drop goose grease on them, I agree.” He moved her hands aside and unlaced her bodice. She shrugged her shoulders, shaking her arms, and the overgown fell to the floor, the rich emerald damask puddling at her feet. She stepped away from it, kicking off her heeled sandals as she turned to give him her back so that he could unlace the underdress.

Ivor took his time, unthreading the laces one by one, enjoying the way her body seemed to slip from its casing, her pale skin with its faint pink tone glowing beneath the fine muslin of her chemise as he eased the apple-green silk underdress away from her. He placed his hands on the rounded tips of her shoulders, feeling the warmth of the flesh beneath, then moved his hands down, molding the fine material to her shape so that her body was clearly outlined.

“We don’t have time for this, Ivor,” she murmured in faint and unconvincing protest as his flattened palms pushed up beneath the chemise to caress the smooth, silky roundness of her bottom.

For answer, he propelled her two steps forwards to the bed, bending her at the waist so that her hands were flat upon the coverlet. Ari felt cool air laving her heated skin as he pushed the chemise up beyond her waist, moving a knowing hand around to caress her sex, a finger slipping into the warm and moistening cleft. His free hand released his penis from the laces of his britches, and his loins pressed hard against her as she thrust her hips back, her thighs parted to receive his length.

He drove deep and fast, and her hips moved with him, her breath coming in gasps, her head thrown back as the speed and power of his thrusts brought them to an orgasmic peak that made her cry out as her head fell forward. She felt his teeth graze her bared nape in a little nibbling kiss of possession that brought a soft moan of pleasure to her lips, and she slid forward until she was lying half on and half off the bed, her chemise rucked up around her waist, her bare legs dangling in an abandoned sprawl.

Ivor looked down at her, his eyes filled with a deep masculine satisfaction, born from his own fulfillment and the knowledge of hers. “What a glorious wanton I have taken to wife,” he declared, bending over her to turn her onto her back, taking her hands and hoisting her to her feet. He kissed her mouth, hard and then gently, his lips lightly brushing hers, his tongue dipping into the corners in a warm, moist caress.

“Come, now, that little exercise has left me sharp-set, and I can smell roast goose from here.”

Ari laughed, an exultant laugh redolent of the heated excitement of the last minutes. She shook down her chemise and went to the armoire for a lavender velvet morning gown edged with Brussels lace. It was a comfortable garment for wearing in private, fastened down the front with pearl buttons in black velvet loops, but it was certainly elegant enough for receiving visitors, not that they were expecting any this Christmas Day. She sat at the dresser to tidy her hair.

Ivor refastened his britches and glanced at his image in the mirror, standing behind his wife. His hands rested for a moment on her shoulders. “Happy?”