Trapped at the Altar by Jane Feather Page A

finding perfection where their king finds it.” Charles laughed and drew her to the fire. “We must have wine . . . and I dare swear, my love, that you are frozen to the bone. Sunderland, dear fellow, ring for wine.” He gestured with a beringed hand to one of the courtiers. “And a bumper or two of sack . . . indeed, I’ve a mind for a bumper or two of sack.”
    He deposited himself in a gilt armchair and drew his mistress onto his knee. “And what of you, Fubbs, what will tempt you?”
    â€œJust these, sire.” Louise pressed her full red lips against his. “That is all I desire.” She stroked his cheek with a fingertip, nothing in the adoring sensuality of her expression revealing how she hated the nickname. It was an ugly sound, for all that it celebrated her plump and luscious figure, and not even the knowledge that the King had named one of his yachts HMS Fubbs in her honor could resign her to it. Irrationally, she always felt as if he were poking fun. But she leaned against him, moved her hips in an infinitesimal and invisible rhythm, and felt him grow hard beneath her.
    Servants came in with jugs of wine and sack, trays of pasties and sweetmeats and tiny songbirds in aspic. The dogs howled at the smell of food, and Charles, with a languid wave of his hand, instructed, “Bring them bones, and make sure there’s much meat on them. They’ve been running hard since dawn.”
    The servants came back with thick, meaty, marrow-filled bones and, without expression, tossed them into the pack of circling dogs. The hounds fell on them, snapping and snarling in competition. The King smiled with benign satisfaction and patted Fubbs’s rounded bottom as he eased her off his knee. He bit deep into a meat pasty and followed it with a draught of sack.
    â€œHis grace the Duke of York,” a footman announced from the double doors, bowing as the heir to the throne stepped into the room.
    James looked around the noisy room, at the greasy-mouthed courtiers, now hastily bowing, the rapidly emptying tankards, the pieces of flesh and bone scattered onthe rich Turkey carpets, the snapping dogs. Louise was perched on the arm of the King’s chair, delicately gnawing the flesh of a tiny thrush, but she rose instantly to curtsy. A flicker of disdain touched the corners of the Duke’s mouth.
    Charles saw his brother’s expression and felt a familiar surge of irritation. His brother’s pious asceticism annoyed him. “Greetings, brother.” He spoke through a mouthful of pasty and took a deep gulp from his tankard. “We missed you at the hunt this morning.”
    â€œI was attending early mass in the chapel with my wife,” James responded with a dour smile. “I trust you enjoyed the chase, sir.”
    â€œImmensely . . . immensely.” Charles flung out a hand in an exuberant gesture and rose to his feet. “You wish private speech with me, brother?”
    The Duke of York merely bowed his assent, glancing pointedly once again at the crowd of sweat-rank huntsmen, the pack of slavering dogs. His gaze flicked across the King’s mistress, a woman he wouldn’t trust any farther than he could throw her. It was well-known that Louise had her own political purposes, not necessarily in her royal lover’s best interest.
    â€œCome to my privy chamber, James.” The King strode to a far door. “I bid you good day, gentlemen. Portsmouth, come to me in two hours.”
    The Duchess of Portsmouth curtsied and flicked the tiny bones onto a footman’s passing tray. With the King retired to his bedchamber, she had no reason to stay in the antechamber, and with a stately rustle of her richdamask skirts, she moved to the double doors. The courtiers bowed as she passed, and she inclined her head in acknowledgment. She was the King’s favorite, at present even surpassing her rival, Nell Gwyn, in his favors,