“Oh, indeed not… my fault I’m certain… how could Your Majesty ever be clumsy? It was my fault, most certainly my fault!” Anthony exclaimed. The men around the table exchanged contemptuous smiles. Servants busied themselves cleaning the table, fetching new cards, refilling the king’s goblet.
The king thrust his hand negligently into his pocket and leaned back while the cleanup was completed. Then he leaned forward for the new pack, breaking it deftly.
“Shall we resume, gentlemen?” He cut to his opponents.
Anthony felt Olivia’s arrival before he saw her. It was as if there had been a change in the air.
No other woman had had this effect on him… and no other woman had accused him of dishonor. No other woman was so damned fickle, he thought savagely. Loving with such warmth and passion one minute, and the next prating about moral failings and pushing him away as if he were some loathsome beetle.
“Your bid, Mr. Caxton,” the king prompted.
Anthony forced his attention back to the cards in his hand. “Two spades, gentlemen.” He took up his wine goblet and glanced with seeming idleness around the hall.
She was wearing the orange gown again, and again he thought she looked like some flaming orchid with her pale coloring and her glossy dark hair massed at her nape against the brilliant glow of the gown.
She looked directly at him as she stood between Lady Granville and Lady Rothbury. There was no mistaking the message in those velvet eyes. It was a penetrating demand for his attention. There was nothing sensual about the look, none of the luminous promise, the flickering embers of desire, the wicked mischief that her eyes so often revealed.
He gave an infinitesimal nod and turned back to his cards.
Olivia was satisfied. He would come to her.
She turned to Mistress Hammond with a demure inquiry about one of the tapestries on the walls of the great hall. Mistress Hammond launched instantly into an elaborate description that reduced her audience to glassy-eyed boredom but gave Olivia at least the opportunity to prepare her message to Anthony. She would have little time to pass it on. It would have to be succinct.
Anthony played his card, neatly destroying his game, and endured the angrily derisive complaints of his partner, who had lost five guineas on Caxton’s poor play.
“So sorry… so sorry… of course, I yield my place.” Anthony fluttered his hands in distress. “I fear my lord Daubney has had ill luck with his partners this evening. But I am such a poor cardplayer. Mr. Taunton, perhaps you can compensate for me?” He gestured to the gentleman who was standing at the king’s elbow.
“Yes, yes, if you wish it,” the man said eagerly. “I own I have long wished for the honor of playing with His Majesty.”
Charles smiled faintly. Candlelight set the rings on his white hand sparkling as he indicated that this other esquire hungry for royal notice should take Anthony’s seat.
Anthony bowed to his sovereign and melted into the throng. Olivia was still in the knot of people around Mistress Hammond. She was clearly restless, shifting from foot to foot, opening and closing her fan, but he noticed with a touch of bitterness that she had learned from their clandestine love enough of conspiracy to keep her eyes from wandering, seeking him out, now that she’d signaled her message.
“Lady Granville… Lady Rothbury. How delightful to see you here. I hardly dared hope that I would have the honor of meeting with you again.” He simpered as he bowed to the two married women.
“The honor, Mr. Caxton, is all ours,” Portia said with a distinctly ironic flash of her green eyes.
Anthony caught the flash, but he turned to greet Olivia. “Lady Olivia. I am so happy to see that your gown suffered no ill effects from my clumsiness.”
“We were fortunate, Mr. Caxton.” She curtsied, her eyes demurely lowered. “But if you would make recompense…”
“Anything, dear madam. Anything I can do to make you think well of me again.” He raised her hand to his lips. As he did so, he caught the faintest glimmer of appreciative amusement on Lady Rothbury’s countenance, another flash of those green eyes. He glanced at Lady Granville and she averted her gaze with that slight touch of hauteur he’d noticed before.
So Olivia had confided in her friends.
“My shawl,” Olivia said. “I find myself a little chilly and I wonder if you would escort me to the carriage so that I may retrieve it.”
“It will be my pleasure, Lady Olivia.” His tone was noncommittal as he gave her his arm.
Olivia laid a hand on his arm and felt the muscles beneath the dark blue silk immediately harden beneath her fingers. Just touching him in this way brought a wave of heat flooding her skin, setting her head spinning. Her grip tightened, her fingers involuntarily biting into his arm, as he led her from the hall.
The courtyard was bustling with soldiers as the watch was changed on the battlements. “What is it?” Anthony demanded quietly. “I assume you’re not seeking a lovers’ tryst.”
He sounded so cold, so hard.
“May we walk in the privy garden?” Olivia whispered. His bitterness was only to be expected-she had caused it-but it hurt most dreadfully. She wanted to scream at him that it was as hard for her as for him. Demand that he understand how she felt. But if ever there had been a moment for that kind of revelation, it had passed.
Anthony without comment directed their steps across the courtyard to the chapel and the garden beyond it.
There were a few couples taking the evening air in the walled garden, and no one looked curiously at the new arrivals.
“So, what is it you wish to say to me?” His voice was low but curt.
Olivia kept her eyes on the gravel path. “You have fallen under suspicion,” she murmured. “I wanted to warn you. They are saying you’re not what you seem.”
She felt the muscle in his arm jump beneath her hand, but his step didn’t falter. He glanced around once, quickly, as if assessing the situation, then said, “So you let something slip.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “Of course I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t break a promise.”
“Hush,” he commanded. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Tell me what you know.”
In soft, rushed tones Olivia related the supper table conversation. “My father said it was just a whisper.”
“And where did the whisper come from? If not from you, then from one of the friends in whom you confided my secrets?” His tone was harsh.
“No,” Olivia repeated firmly, but her hurt was clear in her voice despite its strength. “I needed their help to get here tonight without causing comment. They knew of nothing until now… when it didn’t matter anymore. You’re already under suspicion. No one I know has betrayed you. My friends would not betray a friend of mine. Friends don’t betray friends.”
He glanced down at her. She met his gaze steadily, although he could read the pain in her eyes at his accusation.
“I came to warn you,” she repeated.
Slowly he nodded. “In friendship?”
No, in love. Olivia hesitated, then she said, “If you like.”
He gave a short laugh. “Well, I thank you for your friendship, my flower. I’m sure it’s more than a dishonorable man deserves. Now I must go before they set the dogs on me. I will leave you at the hall. If I leave you here alone, it will draw attention.” He strode with her across the courtyard, then moved his arm from beneath her hand.
He looked down into her pale face in bleak silence for a minute, then as if he couldn’t help himself he slowly raised a hand and cupped the curve of her cheek before saying with quiet finality, “Goodbye, Olivia.” He turned on his heel and strode towards the gatehouse.
Olivia stood in the light from the open doorway. She struggled to compose her expression. She could not go back inside, into that noisy oblivious throng, with tears clogging her throat, pricking behind her eyes. She felt as if she had lost all touch with herself, her knowledge of who and what she was. She would never see him again. He would be gone from the island before they caught him, and she would never see him again. It was what had to be and yet her heart wept in protest.