"Point taken." She smiled. "I suppose the time has come for both of us to abandon logic and listen to our hearts."
"Does that mean I'm forgiven?"
"Let us say that... I understand."
"Can we forget about the past"—Andrew kissed her parted lips gently—"and make a fresh beginning?"
"Yes, Lord Sandhurst, I think we can."
His arms encircled her body with tantalizing slowness, until they were embracing. Micheline moaned with a mixture of relief and desire as their mouths came together. The past few hours she had felt like a ship cut loose from its mooring, but now she was home again.
"Madame?" A knock sounded at the door.
Sighing in frustration, Sandhurst got up to answer it. "Yes, Throgmorton, what is it?"
"Oh, excuse me, my lord, I didn't know you were here!" The old man actually appeared to blush. "It's just that—dinner is served... and Master Topping has arrived. He's already taken a place at the table."
Chapter 22
April 4, 1533
"First Iris and now Rupert!" Sandhurst exclaimed incredulously, throwing up his hands. "Why don't we just have a ball and invite the whole of London?"
Throgmorton coughed, uncertain whether a response was desired by the marquess. "I—uh..."
"Never mind, Throgmorton. It's certainly not your fault and I appreciate the warning. We shall be down presently."
"Yes, my lord. Thank you."
When the door was closed, Andrew rubbed tense fingers over his face. "Argh!"
Micheline couldn't help smiling. "Didn't you say that Rupert is a twit? Poor thing. He probably worships you."
Rolling his eyes, Sandhurst returned to the bed and threw himself across it. "You don't know the half of it."
"You ought to make an effort to be kind to him."
"Don't say things like that until you've spent an hour in Rupert's company. He's absolutely—" He searched in vain for a word to describe his half brother.
The sight of him sprawled on his back across the sun-drenched bed was more temptation than Micheline could resist. Mischievously she hitched up her skirts and crawled over to rest her face against his neck, breathing in the clean scent of his pleated white fraise. His arm rounded her back, drawing her near until her breasts pressed his ribs.
"I don't want to go downstairs," Sandhurst stated flatly.
"We must." Micheline caressed the soft camlet doublet that covered his chest.
"I have all the sustenance I need right here." Turning on his side to face her, he slowly ran his right hand down Micheline's spine, then explored the curve of her derriere through the fabric of her gown and petticoats.
They shared a sweet, lingering kiss.
"You have a guest, my lord," she reminded him, even as arousal coursed through her veins.
"The devil take my guest," he muttered. He kissed her again, then a third time. "As for dinner, you are infinitely more delicious than mere food."
Micheline pushed weakly at his chest. "I thought you said that we would not make love again until we were married."
"I've reconsidered my position on that matter."
His mouth seemed to scorch her throat, and her breasts were already tingling within her bodice, but Micheline summoned all her powers of resistance. "I would rather stay here with you, Andrew, but this is my first day in your home, and the impression I make could be lasting. I really think that we ought to go downstairs before your staff—and your half brother—form a poor opinion of me."
Sandhurst sighed heavily and released her, sitting up. "You're right, of course." He shook his head dazedly. "I must be going mad."
Crossing to the mirror, Micheline laughed and surveyed her radiant reflection. A quick application of her brush tamed the few wayward curls that flowed loose down her back. Andrew was waiting in the doorway.
"After you," he said with an ironic flourish, following Micheline into the corridor.
Downstairs Andrew tucked her hand around the crook of his arm and led her into the parlor, where Rupert Topping sat alone at a long table set for three.
Micheline smiled with an effort, for she was more inclined to gape. Was it possible that this thin, pasty, ferret-faced person could be a blood relation of Andrew's? The young man who approached them, smiling madly, was barely taller than she, with lank brown hair, small nervous eyes, long teeth, and a receding chin. He wore a doublet of apple-green satin, rings, neck chains, sleeve brooches, and garters set with rubies below bony knees. His large feet, encased in spade-shaped shoes, pointed outward when he walked.
"Sandhurst! You're home! Everyone's been so worried about you! Where've you been?" he exclaimed loudly, arms outstretched.