This year would be the third time the Earl’s fete would be held,
and invitations were eagerly sought. Skye received her invitation on
the morning of New Year’s Day. Geoffrey Southwood came calling
and planned to deliver it himself. She had not seen him since that
mid-November night, but she had dreamed of his kisses ever since.
She hurried from her own apartments, where she had dressed, to the
second-floor receiving room. Her burgundy velvet gown was offset
by exquisite, delicate ecru lace along the sleeves. The square
neckline was low, and bordered by the same lace. A little above it
dangled a necklace of small rubies and pearls. Her midnight hair was
parted in the center and fell in soft curls, Italian fashion, about her
shoulders. It gave her a charmingly youthful appearance.

“My lord Earl! A happy New Year to you,” she cried gaily,
sweeping into the richly furnished receiving room. Dear Heaven, he
was so incredibly handsome, dressed all in black velvet trimmed
with sable, wearing a great heavy gold pendant about his neck.

“Mistress Goya del Fuentes, a happy year to you also.” His
gleaming green eyes swept over her. Christ’s bones, she was
beautiful! “I have brought you a small gift,” he said.

She colored becomingly. “My lord, it is not necessary, and I have
nothing for you.”

“I will take a kiss, sweetheart, for one of your kisses is worth
more than anything else.”

“Oh!” Before she could protest he swept her masterfully into his
arms, and took possession of her lips. The blood sang, roared, and
pounded in her ears and she matched him kiss for kiss until they
were both breathless. Her breasts began to swell with longing, the
nipples chafing against her silk chemise. His mouth scorched down
the side of her neck to her shoulder, then across the tops of her
breasts, which threatened to burst the confines of the burgundy gown.

“I want to make love to you,” he said softly.

“I know,” she answered breathlessly, “but I need more time. I
have known no man but my late husband, and I am confused. And
afraid.”

“I won’t force you, sweetheart. Rape holds no charm for me.”
He led her to the brocade settle and they sat together. He drew a
small jeweler’s box from his left pocket. “I have been on constant
call to Her Majesty,” he explained. “We kept Christmas at Hampton
Court, but the Queen is now at Whitehall, and I was able to get
away for a while. I have bought these because I thought they matched
your eyes.”

Skye took the proffered box. She opened it without taking her
eyes from him. Inside the box were a pair of round sapphire earrings
that dangled from two tiny gold beads. She lifted one up to the bright
morning sunlight and, like a prism, it caught the light and twinkled
a rainbow back at her. The sapphires were among the finest she’d
ever seen, and certainly Indian.

“My lord, I cannot. They are far too valuable,” she sighed regretfully.

“Geoffrey, sweetheart, and I beg you not to be silly. What harm
is there in two friends exchanging gifts on New Year’s Day?”

“But I have nothing for you,” she protested again.

“Nothing? Have you not given me the hope that someday we
might share love between us? And your sweet kisses are far more
precious to me than jewels. Come, love, let me fasten the sapphires
into your little ears.” His hands brushed her curls back, making her
shiver, and he carefully set the earrings in their places. “Perfection,”
he said.

Skye faced the pier glass, turning this way and that to admire the
sparkling, richly blue stones. “Damn you,” she said softly, “they’re
beautiful-and I love them!”

He chuckled. “I’m happy to see you exhibit even the tiniest bit
of greed, sweet Skye. Now, love, I’ve something else for you before I go. An invitation to my Twelfth Night masque. Will you come?
Perhaps Captain Small will escort you? The Queen will be there.
I have not yet broached the subject of a royal charter for your trading
company, but I shall do so before the ball, and I will endeavor to
present you to Her Majesty that evening.”

“Oh, Geoffrey, how lovely! Of course I shall come, and Robbie
shall be my escort, though I doubt I can get him into anything overly
elegant. Robbie takes no pleasure in lavish dressing.”

He nodded, satisfied. “I must get back to Whitehall now, sweet-
heart.” He rose and she moved toward him. He towered over her,
making Skye feel very small as she gazed up at him. His long fingers
trailed smoothly over her upturned face. “I’m a patient man as long
as the prize is worth the wait, my pet.”

“I could disappoint you, Geoffrey,” she frowned up at him, her
face intent.

“I think not, Skye. I think not.” He brushed her lips lightly with
his. “What would you like for Twelfth Night?”

“My lord! You must not spoil me!”

“Sweetheart, I’ve not even begun to, but I shall. Until Twelfth
Night.” She hadn’t time to reply before he nodded and, turning, left
the room without another word.

Geoffrey Southwood strode down to the river bank and hailed a
waterman to take him the short distance back to the palace. “White-
hall,” he said, climbing into the little boat and seating himself.

“Aye, me lord,” the waterman said as he pushed off into the
stream. “I’m going to enjoy de Grenville’s barge very much,” the
Earl said softly to himself. Then he grew somber. It was no longer
a game. To his surprise, his heart had become deeply involved. He
had not been entirely truthful in letting Skye believe that the Queen
had kept him at Hampton Court. There had been several occasions
over the past few weeks when he might have returned home. But
he had chosen not to because he had wanted time to think.

She had been so very vulnerable that November night, and he
could have taken her easily. She was young. She had known a great
love. Widowed two years, she was now obviously ready for a man.
His bet with de Grenville might have been won then and there. But
she had trembled faintly in his arms, and somehow he couldn’t
dishonor her. Geoffrey was amazed at himself, for he had never
been soft, or overly concerned with the feelings of others.

When he had returned to his house that night he had found a
plump little maid bringing wood to his bedchamber. His green eyes
narrowed speculatively for desire rode him fiercely. He slid an arm
about her little waist, and she giggled.

“What’s your name, lass?”

“Poll, m’lud.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen, St. Thomas’s Day past, m’lud.”

“Are you willing?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“Nay, sir,” she said as she shed her blouse, revealing breasts
generous for one so young. Her skirts and petticoats rapidly fol-
lowed, and she was naked.

There were no preliminaries. He loosened his codpiece and, pull-
ing her to the bed, pushed her down and fell on her. He pumped
into her methodically until she cried her pleasure. The ache in his
manhood was finally soothed. Rolling off her, he lay quietly for a
moment and then rose from the bed. Drawing a gold piece from his
purse, he gave it to her. “Run along now. Poll.” The girl gathered
up her garments and, giving him a saucy smile, ran from the bedroom.

He sighed now with the memory. He had been physically ap-
peased, but by no means satisfied. It was Skye he had wanted. There
was an innocence about her, though she had been married, widowed,
and was a mother. That innocence made him want to love Skye, not
betray her.

There was no doubt about it, the Earl of Lynmouth was feeling
the pangs of real love for the first time in his life.

Robert Small was not thrilled by the invitation to the masque.
”Dammit, Skye, I’m no gallant to be escorting you.”

“Now, Robbie, stop grumbling. Geoffrey suggested it himself,
though I warned him you’d fuss. The Queen will be there, and he
has promised to present us.”

His weathered face softened a little. “Well, I’d like to meet Young
Bess, I would. What must I wear?”

“Nothing overly ornate. I promise. I have decided to go as
’Night.’ Your costume will match mine. I’ll have them done, so you
need go only for one or two fittings with the tailor.”

“Very well, poppet. I can’t let you go alone else those elegant
Court popinjays overwhelm you.”

She kept her word, and on the night of the masque Robert Small
found himself dressed quite simply though very elegantly indeed in
a black velvet doublet sewn with tiny silver brilliants, and edged in
silver lace at the neck and sleeves. The short round black breeches
were lined in stiff horsehair to puff them out. He wore black silk
stockings and thick-soled black leather shoes with silver rosettes.
His short cape was also of black velvet, lined in cloth of silver and
trimmed in sable.

Skye presented him with a beautiful golden sword, its handle
sprinkled with small sapphires, rubies, and diamonds. To her vast
amusement he swaggered before the receiving-room pier glass, a
little smile playing across his lips.

“Do you think you might crow?” she teased.

He reddened. “Ah, give over, Skye. But damned if I don’t look
as good as any dandy.”

“You do. I only wish Dame Cecily could see you.”

“Thank God she can’t! I’d never hear the end of it. She’s always
trying to rig me out for some party or other, but I’ve avoided her
so far. Now don’t you tell on me.”

Skye laughed. “All right, Robbie I’ll keep this a secret.”

He sighed, turned from the mirror, then eyed her critically. “Isn’t
your neckline a bit low?”

“No, Robbie, it isn’t,” she said softly, “it’s the height of fashion.
Now let me have the mirror, if you can tear yourself away.” He
sniffed in mock offense and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“I’ll see the coach is ready, Mistress Peacock,” he said, striding
grandly from the room.

Skye stood quietly gazing at her image. Her black velvet dress
was magnificent, and she knew she should eclipse every woman at
the masque. The low, square neckline was unrelieved by any lace
at all, but offered a very daring show of white breasts instead. The
sleeves, full to just below the elbow, were slashed to show silver
lace inserts. The silver lace was repeated at her wrists. The black
velvet bell-shaped skirt parted to reveal a black brocade underskirt
which had moons, stars, planets, and comets embroidered on it in
silver, pearls, and diamonds. Her black silk stockings with their
silver lace rosette garters were sewn with tiny diamond brilliants,
as were her narrow, pointed, high-heeled black silk shoes.

Her hair, parted in the center, was arranged in a soft chignon at
the nape of her neck. This new French fashion would also set her
apart from the other women at the masque. They would still be
wearing their hair puffed out at each side. Her pearl-and-diamond
hair ornaments were shaped like stars and tiny crescent moons.

Her necklace was a magnificently opulent display of blue-white
diamonds. There was a matching bracelet. And in her ears were
pear-shaped diamonds that fell from baroque pearls. On the fingers
of her left hand she wore rings set with a great flashing round
diamond, a heart-shaped ruby, and a sapphire. On her right hand
was a large, irregularly shaped baroque pearl, and a square-cut em-
erald.

Her eyes were highlighted with just a touch of blue kohl, but her
cheeks were pink with excitement and needed no artifice. Her perfume had been made this past summer from the damask roses at
Wren Court, and sent up to London by Dame Cecily at Christmas.
Her mirror told her she was perfection, and for the first time in
months Skye felt completely confident despite the fact that tonight,
when she arrived at the Earl’s house, she would be entering a new
and alien world.

“Ready, lass?”

She whirled around and, picking up her silver mask, said brightly,
”I’m ready, Robbie.” He carefully draped a sable-lined and -trimmed
long cape about her shoulders, and descending the stairs together
they walked swiftly from the house to the coach. “How silly,” re-
marked Skye, “when I live so nearby to have to take my coach.”

“You could hardly walk. That wouldn’t make a grand entrance
at all, now would it? The beautiful, mysterious, Senora Goya del
Fuentes should make a good first impression. I can guarantee that
within the next half-hour every noble popinjay at Court will be
falling over himself to meet you.”

“Oh, Robbie,” she laughed, “you sound like a suspicious father.”

The coach quickly reached the gates of Lynmouth House and
drove up the drive to the brightly lit palace. Arriving at the front
door Skye became aware, for the first time, of the grandeur of the
building. The dark-red brick palace stood four stories high, towering
over the river and its own beautiful, carefully designed gardens.
Built early in the reign of Henry VIII, it had all the sprawling,
boisterous magnificence of the monarch himself. It was considered
a perfect example of Tudor architecture. Footmen in the azure and
gold colors of the Southwood family ran to open the carriage door
and help the occupants out. Skye took Robbie’s arm and entered the
big marble foyer where a footman hurried forward to take Skye’s
cloak. Several women guests were standing nearby and as her gown
was revealed, they gasped. The corners of her mouth twitched, but
she feigned indifference. Slipping her hand through Robbie’s arm
again, they began to ascend the wide staircase.