Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The court was back at Whitehall for the winter season, and a group of young English nobles clustered about, observing everyone at the evening's entertainment with a sharp eye.

"The queen has two new maids of honor, I'm told," remarked a young man with dark, saturnine good looks.

"One is a horse-faced heiress from Lincoln," replied another of the group, a large fellow with sandy hair. "Best leave her to our Scots compatriots. They'll marry anything English with a plump purse."

His friends chortled at this witticism.

"You seem to be the best informed of all of us, Henley," the dark gentleman, Lord North, said. "Tell us, who is the other new maid of honor?"

"The daughter of a Scots earl," came the reply.

"God's nightshirt!" exploded Lord North. "Is it not bad enough we are overrun by young, impoverished second sons out of Scotland seeking to marry our ladies? Eager, uncouth fellows pushing us from our own court! Now they are sending us their bold, freckle-faced women."

"Do not despair," Baron Henley told him. "This girl has an English mother, and frankly, my dear North, she is divine. Petite, skin like cream. Golden curls, and eyes so blue a man could drown in them. She is absolutely adorable. The Earl of Kempe is already making a fool of himself over her. She is the Earl of BrocCairn's only daughter, and the man absolutely dotes upon her. She'll have a fat dowry, you can be certain of it. Not only that," Baron Henley lowered his voice. "I am told she is the granddaughter of the Countess of Lundy."

"Who is the Countess of Lundy?" Lord North inquired, puzzled.

"God's foot, North! You really know nothing. The Countess of Lundy is the magnificent Skye O'Malley herself. She was old Bess's great rival, and was banned from court after her marriage to Lord de Marisco, the Earl of Lundy. They say she was the most beautiful woman in all the kingdom. Few, except her family, have seen her in years, if indeed she is even still alive. She is rich beyond all knowing, I am told. Why, you've met several of her children here at court. The Earl of Southwood is her son, and so is Lord Burke of Clearfields. The Countess of Alcester is her daughter. They say the mere mention of her name could infuriate old Bess."

"Why?"

Baron Henley looked confused. "Why?" he repeated. "I have absolutely no idea, North. It just could, I am told."

Lord North laughed. "Point out the little Scots girl to me, Henley," he said.

"There," his friend said, his finger delicately thrusting forth, "next to the queen herself upon a stool. The pretty girl in sky-blue velvet."

Lord North peered. "Very nice," he finally said. "Indeed, she is quite acceptable, Henley. Perhaps we should go over and encourage Anglo-Saxon relations. 'Twould surely please Old King Fool. While he is so generously handing out tokens of his friendship to all and sundry, why should we not be included amongst the fortunate?"

Just then the majordomo stationed at the entry of the hall banged his staff of office upon the floor and announced, "The Earl and Countess of Lundy. Mistress Jasmine de Marisco."

The large Baron Henley almost tangled himself in his storklike legs turning about to gape with surprise. "God's foot!" he said. "It cannot be, and yet … and yet it must be! Lord, how old Bess must hate it that her greatest rival has outlived her! And who is that spectacular creature with them! I have never seen such a beautiful woman in all my life. Look at the sapphires about her neck, North! They are surely worth a king's ransom! Ahhh, perhaps the winter will not be dull after all."

"How you spend your winter, my lord, is, of course, up to you," a voice murmured softly in his ear, "provided that you do not attempt to accost Mistress de Marisco. She is mine."

Startled, Baron Henley turned about to find himself face to face with the Marquess of Westleigh and his cousin, the Earl of Kempe.

"I believe," Tom Ashburne said, "that my cousin is warning you off, Henley. He staked his claim to Mistress de Marisco some six months ago when they first met. You would not, of course, want to hinder his courtship of the lady. And North, my dear fellow, the dainty Sybilla Gordon—for that is her name—is mine. You will do well to remember it lest I be forced to remind you."

"A cat may look at a king or a queen as the case may be," Baron Henley said with a weak smile.

"There are easier pickings to be had here," Lord North remarked, shrugging. "Usually an orphan or a girl without powerful connections is best, I have found. No need to distress yourselves, my lords." And arm in arm with Baron Henley, Lord North lost himself in the crowd of courtiers within the hall.

"As fine a pair of blackguards as I've ever seen," Rowan Lindley said, annoyed.

"But cowardly and easily dismissed," Tom Ashburne replied. His eyes turned to where the queen sat, Sybilla at her side. "Is not my darling the most precious creature you have ever seen, Cousin?"

The marquess laughed. "Tom, you are impossible. In all the time you've known that unbearable little chit, she has scarcely given you the time of day. She is determined to be the Countess of Glenkirk, but Glenkirk's eyes, I fear, stray in another direction. But now that Mistress Jasmine de Marisco has come to court, Cousin, I will redouble my efforts to make her my wife. I am not a man to give my heart easily, as you know."

The two gentlemen made their way through the crowds to the dais where the royal couple sat. They were just near enough to hear the conversation that ensued.

The de Mariscos made their obeisance to the king and the queen.

James Stuart smiled broadly. " 'Tis verra good to see ye, my lord and my lady. I am pleased that ye took my invitation to heart." He turned to the queen. "Annie, 'tis BrocCairn's in-laws and his stepdaughter, the Indian princess I hae told ye about."

The queen was staring hard at Jasmine's necklace. "I've never seen such beautiful sapphires in all my life," she said by way of greeting.

"They were a gift from my late husband, madame," Jasmine replied. "The stones in the necklace are called the ‘Stars of Kashmir.' " Then she proffered a small ivory box to the queen. "I am told that Your Majesty is fond of pearls. Will you accept this small token of my pleasure at being here in England?"

Sybilla Gordon, being nearest the queen, took the delicately carved box from her stepsister and handed it to her royal mistress.

The queen, with a childlike delight, opened the box and gasped, her large jaw falling slack with her surprise. There, nestled upon a pillow of black velvet, was a baroque pearl the size of a Seville orange. "Gracious!" she finally managed to say. Then she looked directly at Jasmine. "Mistress de Marisco, yours is truly a most magnificent gift. I've never received its like before."

"If I have pleased Your Majesty, then I am content," Jasmine answered with a smile and, knowing she was dismissed, she curtsied, backing away along with her grandparents.

"Nicely done, lass," the Earl of BrocCairn told her with a smile of approval as he joined his in-laws. In the months that Sybilla had been exiled to Dun Broc, he had come to know his stepdaughter Jasmine better. Although it was still hard for him to reconcile himself to the fact that his beloved wife had borne another man's child, her first child, he found he could not hold that fact against Jasmine. It was impossible not to like the girl. He fully approved the strong streak of good common sense she possessed and that he only wished his daughter would emulate. Although Sybilla no longer struck out at her stepsister, she was still not one bit won over by Jasmine; particularly as she was barred from staying at Greenwood when she was in London with the court. Greenwood would belong to Jasmine one day, as would Queen's Malvern. Had it not been for the kindness of Velvet's elder brother Robin, the Earl of Southwood, who allowed Sybilla to stay at Lynwood House when she was off duty with the queen, the girl would have had no place to live.

"Hae ye come to enjoy Robin's Twelfth Night fete?" Alex Gordon asked his in-laws.

"Aye," Skye told him. "With all these Scots newcomers, it is important that old English families like Robins' remain noticed. The queen loves masques and fetes. The more elaborate the better, I am told. When the king inherited the throne, Robin began at once again to celebrate Twelfth Night as lavishly as his father did in Elizabeth Tudor's time. The queen just loves it. She spends half a year, Robin says, preparing for it." Skye smiled wistfully. "Bess always loved Twelfth Night too," she said, allowing her memories to engulf her for a moment. Then she asked, "Will you go, Alex?"

"Aye, Velvet insists. Besides," he lowered his voice, " 'tis an excellent opportunity for us to present Sybilla to Glenkirk. She's behaved herself quite well, Madame Skye, and the queen is very fond of my lass."

At that moment Sybilla joined them. She ignored her grandparents and her stepsister, saying, "Did you see that vulgar pearl Jasmine gave the queen, Papa? I have never seen an uglier jewel."

Skye arched an elegant eyebrow. "Your father has been telling us, Sybilla, of how well you have been behaving. Yet you have no greeting for your grandfather, your stepsister, or me?"

Grudgingly, the girl curtsied first to Skye and then to Adam.

"What, Sybilla?" her father pressed her. "No greeting for Jasmine?" He glowered threateningly at his daughter.

"I will not curtsey to her," Sybilla snapped angrily.

"She is your stepsister, Sybilla," Skye said quietly. "You have had more than enough time to resolve your feelings in this matter."

"I will not like her," Sybilla said pettishly.

"Are you this rude to all those you dislike, Sybilla?" Skye queried. "Perhaps you are not as mature as we believed you. Perhaps you are not ready for marriage after all. If you continue to allow your emotions to overrule your good judgment, you shall remain an old maid forever, I fear. What a pity!"

Sybilla sighed with irritation, but she finally curtsied to Jasmine, who quickly curtsied back with great annoyance.

"There," Alex said. " 'Tis how I like to see my girls."

Sybilla gasped. "She is not your girl, Papa. I am! Ohhh, have I lost you to her as well as Mama?" Her eyes welled with tears.

"Your father is being kind to me, Sybilla," Jasmine quickly spoke. "You and only you are his daughter, although I do have the honor of being Lord Gordon's stepdaughter."

Before Sybilla might think on her stepsister's words, however, the Earl of Kempe arrived, sweeping his hat off in greeting to them all and then declaring, "Beauteous one, I have waited all evening to speak with you. But say a kind word to me, and I shall be satisfied."

"Go away!" Sybilla demanded of him. "Is there no place I may be safe from your silliness? Why will you not believe me when I tell you I will marry the Earl of Glenkirk or no one?"

"He is a cold, harsh fellow, my beauty," Tom Ashburne insisted. "He will freeze the blood in your veins, but I shall set you aflame with my passion and my love, I swear it! Just give me a chance, beauty!"

"God's foot!" Skye declared. "I am inclined to side with Sibby against you, my lord. You babble like an idiot!"

"Madame, you devastate me," the Earl of Kempe said, a twinkle in his eye. "I but seek to convince your granddaughter that I am the proper husband for her. Glenkirk cannot love her as I will love her, and my home, Swan Court, will be a fine setting for this beauteous jewel of a girl. My lord!" He turned to Alex. "Will you not reason with your daughter?"

Alex Gordon controlled his amusement. "My lord," he finally said, "I think you a most fitting suitor for my daughter, but it is the custom of this family to allow their daughters to choose their own husbands, provided they are acceptable to us. Both you and Lord Leslie are eminently proper candidates, but I must listen to Sibby first."

"Go away, Kempe!" Sybilla Gordon repeated.

"Nay, Sibby," he told her. "You are young, and you have no experience in matters of the heart. Glenkirk will disappoint you, but I will not. I will be here for you when you want me." Taking her dainty hand in his, he kissed it.

Sybilla snatched her hand away, glaring at Tom Ashburne as if he had done a terrible thing. "My lord! Cease, I beg you!"

Then suddenly into their midst came the Earl of Glenkirk. James Leslie was dressed in the height of fashion in very short, black velvet breeches, his dark stockings cross-gartered at the knee with cloth-of-silver bows. His tight, long-waisted doublet, embroidered with silver and small pearls, accentuated his elegant torso. The cuffs on the doublet were of the finest lace and matched the fraise that edged his standing collar. A short Spanish cape trimmed with marten completed his attire. About his neck he wore a heavy gold chain, but his long supple fingers were bereft of jewelry except for a single gold band. "My lord, my ladies," he said.

Sybilla almost swooned at his dark-haired good looks. His green-gold eyes fascinated her, but she was also distressed to find that he made her uncomfortable. There was something forbidding about James Leslie, unlike Thomas Ashburne, who never made her nervous. Surprised by her own thoughts, Sybilla quickly pushed them away. She meant to be James Leslie's wife. It was what she had always wanted.

"Mistress de Marisco," the Earl of Glenkirk said quietly, "there is to be dancing. Will you allow me to partner you?"

Sybilla grew pale with her frustration at his words.

"Thank you, my lord, but I have not yet learned your English dances," Jasmine responded politely. "It is not the custom of my native land for men and women to dance together as the English do. Please excuse me." She curtsied, keeping her eyes modestly lowered.

The Earl of Glenkirk bowed in return. Then with a nod to the others he moved away.

"Oh, bitch!" Sybilla hissed furiously, and, despite her best efforts to control them, tears slipped down her pink cheeks.

"Apologize to your stepsister, Sibby," her grandmother said furiously. "Jasmine dances our English dances quite well, as you would know had you not been sent home to Dun Broc last summer. She has done you a great kindness in refusing the earl so cleverly."

"Why did he not ask me?" Sybilla wailed softly. "Why her?"

"Who is to know why a man does anything?" Skye responded with a small laugh. She was most resplendent tonight in a midnight-blue velvet gown, the underskirt of which was fashioned from gold brocade designed in a pattern of swirls and decorated with tiny diamantés that sparkled with her every step. The neckline of the gown was square and low. Skye was quite proud of the fact that her bosom was still attractive despite her sixty-six years. The sleeves of her gown were leg-of-mutton, held by many narrow deep blue- and gold-striped ribbons. About her neck she wore a fine necklace of diamonds, while diamonds and rubies sparkled in her ears. Her hair was done in its usual chignon and dressed with hairpins studded with the same stones.

"Do not fret, Sybilla," Skye continued. "If it is meant that Lord Leslie marry you, he will."

"He does not even know I exist," Sybilla said with a trace of self-pity in her young voice. "Why does he see her, and not me?" she demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at Jasmine. "I see the way he looks at her. He hardly looks at me at all."

"You must know I am not encouraging him, Sybilla," Jasmine protested. "I am not in the least interested in Lord Leslie, or any other man for that matter. I wish to be left alone to mourn my husband, Jamal."

"You can hardly be said to look like a woman in mourning," Sybilla said dryly, looking with a jaundiced eye upon her stepsister's beautiful, rich burgundy velvet gown with its rose-colored ribbons and rose brocade underskirt.

"Jasmine's husband is dead almost two years," Skye quickly put in. "She is out of deep mourning and can certainly wear whatever she chooses, particularly here at court."

"I mourn Jamal in my heart, Sybilla," Jasmine said quietly. "The heart never really forgets."

For the briefest moment Sybilla Gordon allowed her own basically good heart to sympathize, but just as quickly she put the feelings aside. Jasmine was her enemy. She had taken her mother from her, and even her father was now supportive of the bitch. As for James Leslie's obvious interest, she would soon put a stop to it. Jasmine would regret coming to court!

With Christmas past, the entire court looked forward to the famous Revels and Fete to be held at the Earl of Lynmouth's magnificent house on the Strand. Twelfth Night at Lynmouth House was legend from the time of the current earl's father, and an invitation to the fete was eagerly looked forward to by all the courtiers. Even those who were not certain they would be invited had costumes at the ready. London's dressmakers were booked for months in advance, designing and executing their creations.

Skye and her family always kept a dressmaker on staff. Bonnie had traveled with the family down to the city from Queen's Malvern in late autumn, her materials and half-finished costumes, along with her young apprentice, Mary, snug in their own comfortable coach.

The gentlemen, of course, had complained bitterly, as they did each year, but they stood patiently for their fittings. Sandy and Charlie Gordon had been allowed to come to London for their first visit and would be allowed to go to their uncle Robin's party. Like their father and their grandfather, they would be garbed in scarlet and orange silks, representing flames of fire. Skye, Velvet, and Jasmine would be costumed as colorful moths. Sybilla had been invited to join them, but she preferred to be dressed as a perfect English rose.

"There will be at least two dozen English roses," Skye said, disgusted. "She will be disappointed, I guarantee it. Why could she not have chosen a more original idea? With her lovely coloring, she would make a perfect Dawn."

Sybilla, however, could not be moved in her intent, until two days before her uncle's fete when she learned from court gossip just how many perfect English roses would be represented at the party. "I am ruined!" she sobbed. "Glenkirk will not notice me at all, and I did so hope he would! What am I to do, Mama?"

They had been gathered at Lynmouth House for a family dinner.

"Wear my costume," Jasmine said generously. "You are smaller than I am in stature and have not as much bosom as I do, but there is time for Bonnie to alter the garment to suit you. I was to be the silver and gold moth. The colors will suit you as well in this instance."

"What will you wear?" Sibby demanded suspiciously. "Or do you intend drawing attention to yourself by your marked absence?"

Jasmine laughed. "I most certainly would not miss Uncle Robin's fete for you or anyone else, Sybilla. I, however, can wear my native garb. It will seem like a costume to the other guests."

"Well," Sybilla considered, and her family held its collective breath, not daring to encourage her lest she turn petulant. "Very well, I will take your costume, Jasmine," she finally decided.

"The wretched girl might have thanked you," Skye fussed at Jasmine afterward.

Jasmine laughed. "Now, Grandmama, 'twas very hard for Sibby to accept my offer of help. Under normal circumstances she would have sooner died, but her desire to attract Lord Leslie is paramount. She will do anything to capture his heart."

"The man is as cold as ice," Skye said, "although when he looks at you, my darling girl, I see fire in those eyes of his. Poor little Sibby does not have a chance, but you, I believe, do, if you would show just the slightest bit of interest. If you will not have Westleigh, then why not Glenkirk?"

Jasmine laughed, but it was a forced sound, and Skye noticed it immediately. "He is attractive," she said, "Glenkirk, I mean. But I am not ready to marry again quite yet. Besides, Sybilla Gordon would be driven to murder me if I stole the one man she desires."

Jasmine did not tell her grandmother that she had been walking in the gardens belonging to Greenwood one afternoon recently when the Earl of Glenkirk had arrived on his first of several impromptu visits, coming through the park that surrounded the house, mounted upon a large dappled gray stallion. He greeted her, and she curtsied politely.

"Have you come to see my stepfather?" she asked him politely.

He dismounted, and putting his arm through the reins, walked with her. "Nay. I have come to see you, Mistress de Marisco."

"We are barely acquainted, sir, and I mourn my husband," she answered him, her heart beating just a bit faster.

"We could be better acquainted, madame, if you would not work so hard to avoid me," came the amused answer. "As for mourning your husband, I respect you for it. I mourn my Isabelle and the children we lost. The sadness, I think, will remain with me my whole life."

"Aye," she said softly. "Your wife and sons, I am told, died needlessly. I understand your sadness. My husband was murdered also, but worse, my lord, he was murdered by my own brother."

"Ahhh, so that is a part of the mystery surrounding you, Mistress de Marisco," James Leslie said.

"There is no mystery, my lord. If you ask, I will tell you. But you should not, I think, be here," Jasmine told him. "It is an open secret my stepfather seeks to make a match between you and his daughter. Sybilla and I are not friends. She would be very distressed to learn that you were here with me."

"Then we will not tell her, Mistress de Marisco, will we?" he teased her.

She had sent him away, of course, but he had come again. Believing her widowed state a neutral ground, Jasmine had shared her memories of Jamal Khan with him, and he had proved sympathetic. James Leslie, in turn, had told her of his sweet and merry Bella, and their two little boys.

This common bond between them, at first comforting, was beginning to prove difficult. Now, as she dressed for her uncle's fete, Jasmine wondered if she would see James Leslie tonight. She was, to her deep distress, beginning to be attracted to him. She must put those feelings aside, she scolded herself. Alex Gordon had chosen this very night to speak with James Leslie. By morning a betrothal would be set between the Earl of Glenkirk and Lady Sybilla Gordon. It was how it should be, Jasmine thought reluctantly.

Toramalli poured jasmine oil in her mistress's bath the evening of the gala. Rohana had already washed her lady's hair, toweling it dry and brushing it with a boar's-bristle brush by the fire until it was free of dampness. The serving woman then polished the raven tresses with a silk cloth until they shone. During the summer past, the ladies had made good hard-milled soap, scenting it with jasmine for their princess, and damask rose for Skye. Jasmine's hair was carefully pinned atop her head so none of it would get wet. Settling herself in her tub, she sighed.

" 'Tis colder than Kashmir, these English winters," she said with a small smile at her servants.

"The summers are not too warm either," Rohana remarked dryly, taking up a cloth, soaping it, and then bathing her lady.

"You are both free now," Jasmine reminded them. "If at any time you desire to return to India, I will dower you and have you transported upon one of grandmother's ships. Her fleet will be leaving for the east next month. You must go then or wait another year."

"The cold will not kill either of us," Toramalli said, speaking for them both. "What would we do if we returned to India? There would be no one to arrange marriages for us. Even free, we have no caste. What if the emperor learned of our whereabouts? He has eyes and ears everywhere. Besides, our life is with you, my lady." She helped her mistress from her tub. "Come, Rohana, do not be so slow with the towel! The princess will catch a chill!"

Jasmine's costume lay upon her bed. It was a traditional Mughal jaguli. The beautiful high-waisted dress was made of turquoise-blue silk, which was shot through with threads of beaten gold. The long, tight-fitting sleeves had two-inch gold bands at the wrists which were sewn with tiny diamonds, pearls, and turquoise Persian lapis. The graceful, long-flowing skirt was edged with a band of gold, and the banding on the high, round neckline matched that upon the sleeves. The dress, although fastened with a large diamond button at both the neckline and the waist, had a narrow opening between that allowed a tantalizing glimpse of Jasmine's full breasts. Upon her feet she slipped dainty heelless slippers of kid that had been covered in thin sheets of beaten gold and sewn all over with little diamonds so that with every step she took, her feet appeared to twinkle with a thousand lights.

Rohana fastened the Stars of Kashmir necklace about her lady's neck. She attached ear bobs of sapphires and pearls to Jasmine's ears. Toramalli plaited the princess's hair into a single, thick, long braid which she interwove with strands of pearls and Persian lapis strung upon thin gold wires. Rohana knelt and clasped anklets of dainty gold bells about Jasmine's ankles while her sister pushed delicate bracelets of gold, silver, and costly jewels upon her mistress's arms. The princess herself touched the deliciously elusive jasmine perfume to her pulse points and watched in the mirror as Rohana carefully placed over her head a gossamer sheer turquoise-blue silk orhni embroidered with small gold stars.

"So this is what an Imperial Mughal princess looks like," Skye said, coming up behind her granddaughter.

"Wait until my eyes have been painted with kohl, Grandmama," Jasmine said, and sat to allow Toramalli to do it.

The serving woman worked skillfully and quickly, and when she had finished, Jasmine stood and faced Skye.

The older woman shook her head. "You are even more beautiful than I was at your age, my darling child," she said quietly. "Come, let us show your mother. Rohana, bring the fur-lined cloak for your lady. Even though we do nothing more than travel next door, the night is cold, and it has started to snow. I hope Robin's guests will be able to get here. The roads, I am told, are icy already."

Jasmine laughed. "Grandmama, there is no one in London in possession of an invitation to Uncle Robin's fete who would not freeze to death in the snow rather than miss the occasion."

Her grandmother chuckled. "You are probably correct, darling child."

Velvet gasped softly as they came down the main staircase of the house. "Oh my," she murmured. "You are every inch your father's daughter, Yasaman Kama Begum. In your Mughal garments you are so exotic and foreign-looking; yet this morning you appeared so English."

"Indeed, Jasmine, your transformation is quite amazing," agreed Lord Gordon. "Indian garb is very beautiful, I see, and far more graceful than our English clothing." He sighed. "Is it not possible for you to look less magnificent? Sibby will be quite put out, I fear. Pray God she will not cause a scene before I have had time to approach the Earl of Glenkirk, or after for that matter. It is not easy to maintain one's dignity and paternal authority while dressed as a flame of fire."

"Perhaps the flame should threaten to burn the moth if she does not behave." Jasmine giggled mischievously.

Alex Gordon chuckled. Yes, he thought, I like this girl, no matter her paternity. I could wish she were mine, but would she be the same girl if she were? Or would she be like my little Sibby?

Jasmine allowed her gaze to take in her relations in their costumes. Her mother and grandmother were garbed as moths, Velvet in blue-green silks with painted wings edged with gold paint. Skye, a mauve and purple moth, had wings edged with silver. Sandy and Charlie capered about in scarlet velvet breeches and doublets that were decorated in gold beads and small garnets. Their stockings were cross-gartered with cloth-of-gold bows, and they trailed orange, red, and yellow silks in imitation of flame. Their grandfather and father wore identical costumes.

"I feel like a bloody fool," grumbled Adam. "At my age I should be allowed to wear my good black velvet suit and white lace ruff."

"Why, my darling," Skye said, kissing his mouth softly, "I rather like being a moth to your flame. Have I not always been so?"

"Wanton," he murmured back, a twinkle in his deep blue eyes. "And at your age, too, madame, but do not change on me. I am too old now to sustain such a shock."

Jasmine watched her grandparents. She thought that one day she would like to find such a love as they obviously shared. For a moment she remembered Jamal and, in remembering, realized that theirs had not been such a passion, nor would it ever have been, she suspected. They had been a royal match. It was a marriage of convenience, and fortunately they had liked one another enough to make it work. Whether that friendship would have withstood the test of time she did not know. Nor would she ever know.

The guests were beginning to arrive at Lynmouth House despite the falling snow. Sybilla Gordon, greeting them, took one look at her stepsister and frowned, but wisely held her tongue. She was rewarded by lavish praise from her family for her own appearance. Indeed, Sibby was a most charming, petite moth in her silver and gold silks, her dainty cloth-of-gold wings fluttering with her every movement. Her younger half brothers, dancing about her, did most certainly give the flattering illusion of flames to her moth.

Lord Southwood and his beautiful wife Angel were costumed all in white velvet, their garb sparkling with crystals and pearls.

"We are the Winter King and his Queen," Robin announced. "What think you, Mama? Would my father have approved?"

"Most certainly he would have," Skye told her son, remembering Geoffrey Southwood, Robin's father. The "Angel Earl," they had called him, and he had been Elizabeth Tudor's favorite courtier. He was an elegant, golden creature of wit and style, with whom she had shared a great passion. Forty-five years ago this very Twelfth Night she had come to Lynmouth House for that first of many Twelfth Night fetes. She had been carrying the very son who now hosted this gala. She had been too proud to tell his father, but Geoffrey had learned of it and finally convinced her of his love that they might marry. Twelfth Night. It had always been such a magic night for her family ever since. She felt Adam squeeze her hand, and Skye smiled into his face. "I cannot help but remember," she said quietly.

"I don't want you ever to forget," her husband answered. "You loved him once, and Robin is proof of it, even as Velvet is proof of the love we share, little girl. I am far more fortunate than Geoffrey Southwood, or any of your other lovers for that matter. 'Tis I who have been the man lucky enough to be your husband all these years, Skye."

The king and queen arrived. James, who disliked costumes, had not worn one. The queen, however, was garbed in a grass-green velvet gown, sewn all over with multicolored silk flowers. Atop her grizzled blond head was a golden sunburst. She beamed coquettishly at her host, and Robin smiled back, bowing over Anne of Denmark's plump hand.

Straightening himself, the Earl of Lynmouth said, "Why certainly Your Majesty is the fairest springtime I have ever seen."

"You see, James," the queen crowed triumphantly. "I knew that Robin would understand my costume at once, even if you did not."

James Stuart snorted irritably. He hated parties, and this one was known to go on until dawn. If he left much before, he would spoil everyone's fun, and they would complain about it behind their hands for the next two months. He was their king, and he shouldn't care, but he did. "And what do I represent, my lord of Lynmouth," he groused at Robin, peering at him sharply for the answer.

"England, my lord, and may God bless and save Your Majesty," Robin Southwood said quickly.

"Hah!" The king barked a single laugh. "You are a silver-tongued serpent, my lord earl. I thank God you prefer to spend your time in the country and out of politics."

"Politics, Your Majesty, is for kings and fools, I think," Lord Southwood replied, his lime-green eyes twinkling. "Kings are born to it and cannot help themselves. Fools involve themselves because they think that they can change the world. There is, however, one exception to my rule, sire."

"And what is that?" the king demanded, very amused by the Earl of Lynmouth's swift repartee.

"Cecils, Your Majesty. They, too, seem to be born to politics, and England is the richer for it, I think," was the clever reply.

James Stuart chortled with laughter. "You are right, my lord of Lynmouth, absolutely right!" He turned and poked Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley, the Secretary of State, with a sharp finger. "What think you, little beagle? Lord Southwood is quite correct! Hah! Ah-hah! Hah! Hah!"

"He is as clever as his father when he chooses to be," Skye murmured softly to her husband. There was a hint of pride in her tone.

The musicians in the minstrel's gallery played throughout the evening and well into the night. There were tableaus done by the various costumed guests. Skye and her family received much applause for their "Moths to the Flames." Charlie and Sandy were ecstatic with their success at their first adult party.

Jasmine was presented in simple tableau, a turbaned Adali on one knee by her side, the magnificent blue and gold macaw, Hiraman, perched upon his raised white-coated arm. The guests gasped with amazement as the bird, looking directly at the king, said in a clear, if raspy, voice, "God save the king! God save the king!" There was much enthusiastic clapping, and James, fascinated, was shown how to offer Hiraman a piece of cake.

The bird took the cake from him, bobbing his head in a bow and telling James, "Thank you, sire."

The king stepped back nervously. " 'Tis witchcraft?" he said softly, obviously quite uncomfortable.

"Nay, my good lord," Jasmine swiftly assured him, for she knew the king was most superstitious. "In my land there are many birds who speak as does Hiraman. Among God's creatures, parrots have the reputation of being very intelligent, my lord."

"Oh," the king said, feeling less threatened. Nonetheless, he did not offer the bird any more treats.

Jasmine scratched Hiraman's neck affectionately and then said quietly to Adali, "Return him home quickly, lest someone try to steal him. Take several of my uncle's footmen with you across the garden."

"Yes, my princess," Adali replied.

"How clever of you to amuse the king so well," the Marquess of Westleigh murmured, coming up next to Jasmine.

She turned her turquoise eyes upon him. "I was born knowing how to entertain kings," she teased him. "It is in my blood."

"Dance with me," he begged her, smiling.

"I do not know if I should encourage you so, my lord. You insist upon calling upon me, and my grandmother, even though you know I do not wish it."

"You cannot mourn forever, my love," Rowan Lindley said wisely, and he held out his hand to Jasmine.

She laughed, for his charm was almost impossible to resist. Taking the proferred hand, she allowed him to lead her to the floor.

While the guests had been distracted by Jasmine and her parrot, Alex Gordon had taken the opportunity to gain James Leslie's attention. Together the two men adjourned to Robin Southwood's library, where they might speak in private. Seated comfortably before the blazing fire, large goblets of rich Burgundy wine by their sides, they remained silent for a long moment, and then Alex Gordon spoke.

"I am nae a man to dissemble, Jemmie. I prefer to come straight to the point. I would like to propose a match between you and my daughter Sybilla. Isabelle is dead almost five years. You hae no legitimate heirs of your own body. I realize that your brothers have sons, but do you really want Glenkirk given to one of them and not to your own son? I know your brothers would nae be unhappy should you remarry. Surely you dinna intend to spend your life alone and bereft of a wife and children?

"Sybilla is my only daughter. Legitimatized to be certain, for Velvet is nae her natural mother. Sibby's ma is an English silversmith's wench, Alanna Wythe. Alanna is now married to Ranald Torc. Velvet hae raised my daughter, and she is a fine young lady now, Jemmie. She'll come to ye wia verra generous dowry, I promise you. Property as well as gold and plate. I'll nae stint wi her, and 'tis nae secret I want ye for her husband."

James Leslie, the Earl of Glenkirk, sighed deeply. He had known for months that BrocCairn would eventually approach him. If he had not heard it from others, the girl herself would have given it away. She had mooned after him quite openly since the day she had come to court as a maid of honor to Queen Anne. There were few secrets at Whitehall. Indeed, a lady of his acquaintance who was also in the queen's service told him one evening as they spent a relaxed hour together that Sybilla Gordon had bragged so openly in the queen's chambers of how she would be the next Countess of Glenkirk that the queen had finally bidden her hold her foolish tongue.

James Leslie did not know if he would ever be of a mind to marry again, but if and when he did remarry, it would not be Lady Sybilla Gordon he took to wife. Oh, she was pretty enough, if that had been all he was seeking in a wife; and he had no doubt Alex Gordon would dower the girl magnificently; and the fact that she was Scots-born could not be discounted, despite her English mother. The circumstances of the girl's birth were of no bother to him either. But the girl herself did not attract him one whit. She was obviously spoiled, quite spiteful, and had all the charm of a lump of suet pudding, as far as he was concerned.

"Do you love your wife, Alex?" he asked the Earl of BrocCairn.

"Aye!"

"From the beginning?"

"Aye!"

"I do not love Sybilla, Alex. I fear I am nae in the least attracted to her. I never will be." Then, to end any future discussion of the matter, he told Alex Gordon a small lie. "I dinna like blondes."

Alex Gordon drank down his wine in three gulps and nodded. "I canna change the color of the lass's hair," he answered. "A man could learn to like blondes if he so chose, but if ye dinna love my Sibby or believe ye can love her, 'tis better we end this discussion now. I dinna want my little lass unhappy. Ye'll understand if ye ever hae a lass of yer own."

"Aye, perhaps I will," James Leslie agreed, relieved to have escaped the matter so easily. "There are nae hard feelings, Alex Gordon, are there? I would keep your friendship."

The Earl of BrocCairn offered the Earl of Glenkirk his hand. "Of course there are nae hard feelings, Jemmie. I am a doting father, I fear, and Sibby fancies herself in love wi ye. I wanted to make her happy, but now I shall consider an offer I hae had for the lass and try to convince her to accept the gentleman."

The two men shook hands and, after a few more minutes of conversation, returned to the party.

"You will keep this to yourself, won't you?" Alex Gordon said, thinking that he would not tell his daughter until the morrow. Let her enjoy the fete tonight. Tomorrow was time enough for a broken heart.

"Aye," the Earl of Glenkirk agreed, his eyes already sweeping the room for Jasmine de Marisco. Now that this business with Sybilla Gordon was settled, he was free to pursue other delights. Then he saw Jasmine dancing a graceful lavolta with her grandfather, and his green-gold eyes lit with pleasure. She was certainly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, although he knew that the standard of beauty was very different for each man. When the dance was over, he approached her and bowed.

"Will you take supper with me, Mistress de Marisco?" he asked.

The elderly Earl of Lundy grinned, pleased, and said, "Aye, she will, my lord." Then he kissed Jasmine upon the forehead. "Run along now, my girl, and enjoy yourself. I thank you for the dance."

Jasmine laughed. "I can scarce refuse you now, can I? My grandfather has made it quite impossible, and I expect he knew just what he was doing. Grandmama says he was quite a wicked rogue in his youth. He possessed an island called Lundy, and being the last of his line, and with few funds, he pirated, she says."

The Earl of Glenkirk tucked her hand in his arm and they walked slowly toward the buffet.

"Your heritage fascinates me, madame. The daughter of a king, the granddaughter of a pirate. And how quickly you have become proficient in our English dances. You grow more intriguing by the minute."

"You should not be with me, I suspect," Jasmine said, ignoring his teasing. "I saw my stepfather spirit you off before while the rest of the guests were overwhelmed by my parrot. Fortunately, Sybilla was not aware that you had gone, for Lord Ashburne was doing his best to amuse her."

"I can trust you, I know," James Leslie told her, and his voice was low. "There will be no marriage between Sybilla Gordon and myself, madame. Her father, however, will nae speak of it until tomorrow."

"Poor Sybilla," Jasmine said honestly. "She did have her heart set on you. She will certainly find a way to blame me for this turn of events, and particularly if she sees us together having supper."

"I want to be with you, Jasmine de Marisco," he said.

"My lord," she answered him, "what is it that you want of me? You seek me out constantly, even knowing the distress it causes my stepsister, who, as you know, is not very fond of me.

"I do not know what I want of you. I only know," James Leslie said, "that I would be with you. I would know you better. There must be someplace that we might escape prying eyes. Let us find our cloaks and walk together in the gardens. You do not mind the snow, do you?"

She half laughed. "You are mad, my lord. Besides, I have not the footwear for such a stroll. Diamonds are not particularly warm."

I am mad, he thought. He could feel a rashness sweeping over him, and though unfamiliar, the sensation was not unpleasant. "There must be somewhere we may be alone, Jasmine de Marisco," he told her. "Think quickly, or I may be forced to cause a scene."

"We cannot leave before the king and queen," she protested. "My grandmother told me that just this very evening."

"Jamie and Anne will nae miss us. There must be over three hundred people here. Did you know that you have a mouth that I suspect was just made for kissing? I would like to kiss it very much."

She stared at him, surprised, but at the same time she thought that she might like to kiss him too. How long had it been since she had been kissed? she wondered. When was the last time Jamal had kissed her? She could not remember, and felt a burst of sadness with the realization. Jasmine turned away from Glenkirk that he might not see the tears that sprang into her eyes.

James Leslie, however, had seen the change as it appeared upon her beautiful face. "Were you thinking of your husband?" he asked her with unfailing intuition. "You have not kissed a man since his death, have you, Jasmine de Marisco? I did not mean to make you sad."

Wordlessly she shook her head at him.

The Earl of Glenkirk steered her away from the rooms where the Twelfth Night fete was in progress and led her up the staircase of Lynmouth House.

Halfway up the second flight of steps, Jasmine regained her senses and asked, "Where are you taking me, my Lord?"

"To my apartments," he said bluntly. "I am staying here as your uncle's guest."

Jasmine stopped. "I do not believe it is wise that I continue to accompany you, my lord," she told him. "In fact, I think it most unwise for me to accompany you."

James Leslie said nothing. Instead he tipped her face to his with a strangely gentle hand and kissed her mouth with a deep, passionate kiss. Her lips yielded beneath his instinctively, and their breaths mingled sweetly. He lifted his mouth from hers just slightly, his green-gold eyes looking deeply into her magnificent turquoise ones.

"We are both very lonely, Jasmine de Marisco, yet neither of us is ready yet to remarry. Let us share our loneliness tonight. I want to make love to you, madame. Nothing more. Nothing less. I believe that you want to make love with me. If I am wrong, then you have but to turn about and go down the stairs. I will nae follow you, nor force you to my desire."

She stared at him, speechless. How dare he presume. How dare he even suggest such a thing.… Then he touched her face with the back of his hand, gently stroking it from the jawbone up, and with his touch Jasmine realized, to her shock, that she did indeed want to make love with him. She was no stranger to passion, and her young body was at this very moment crying out to her for surcease.

"We are both free to indulge our desires," James Leslie said quietly. "You are so beautiful, I cannot help myself. I know that you are no wanton and have been sheltered, but you are a woman, no maid, else I should not even suggest such a liaison, madame."

She nodded, unable to find the right words. Then he took her hand again and began to lead her up the staircase once more. She followed mutely, knowing that there was now no turning back. Nor did she want to turn back. She did not believe herself in love with James Leslie, but she longed for the intimacy that could be shared by two lovers.

They entered his apartments, and a small man hurried forward. James Leslie said, "Go discreetly, Fergus More, and fetch us some supper. Leave it upon the board in the day room and then go to bed." Drawing her along, he entered the bedchamber. It was a square room of medium size with paneled walls, A fire burned brightly in the fireplace. A great oak bedstead hung with crimson velvet took up almost an entire wall. He closed the door behind them firmly and, turning, took her in his arms.

"I think I must be mad," Jasmine said, finally finding her voice. "This cannot be right, my lord."

"Are you afraid?" he asked her, and he undid the diamond button on her jaguli, bending and leaning forward to kiss the erratic pulse at the base of her slender throat.

"Nay," she whispered, enjoying the sensation of his warm mouth on her skin. "I have never been afraid of what men and women do together."

In answer he slipped the second diamond button open, and her gown was opened from neck to waist. James Leslie pushed the fabric off her shoulders, his hands sliding slowly down her torso until the jaguli slithered into a silken puddle about her ankles. "Do not move!" he ordered her harshly, and literally tore his own garments off until he was as naked as she.

Jasmine struggled for breath. She was simply burning with sudden and overwhelming desire. Her eyes took him in as he pulled his clothing away. He was so fair in comparison to Jamal. His body was tall and hard-looking, his shoulders broad, and a tangled mat of dark hair lay upon his chest. Indeed, his long, sturdy legs were covered in dark hair, as was the triangle between his legs where his manhood lay, already half rampant. She had never seen a man with so much hair! The men of her country had only hair upon their heads. At least the men she had known. James Leslie pulled her roughly against him, and the first impression she had had of hardness was at once borne out. He was hard. There seemed to be no fat upon him at all. The look in his eyes, however, was both admiring and tender.

She needed to touch him. Reaching up, she caressed his face, feeling the faint stubble of whiskers beneath her fingertips. His dark eyebrows were an unruly mass, and she smoothed them, but they immediately sprang back to their original disorder. Jasmine laughed softly, and he smiled down at her. Then, picking her up, he carried her across the room to where the large bed awaited them. He placed her gently upon it and followed, his own body sinking into the feather bed next to hers.

He cradled her in the curve of an arm, a hand reaching out to touch her breasts. Fingers lightly caressed her nipples, setting them aquiver with arousal. Bending his head, he took first one nipple and then the other within the warmth of his mouth, suckling upon them and tonguing them while she murmured with pleasure. She caressed the graceful back of his neck, feeling the hairs erecting themselves beneath her touch.

His lips found their way into the cleft between her breasts. Pressing kisses upon the soft flesh, he murmured, "What is that intoxicating scent you wear, my love? It is so deliciously elusive, but most wonderfully seductive. I have never smelled its fragrance before."

"I am named for that fragrance, my lord," she told him. "It is the perfume of the night-blooming jasmine flower."

"Then you are well named, for you are exactly as you have described it, Jasmine, although surely your mama could not have known that when she named you." He placed another warm kiss upon her skin and then looked into her eyes. "My friends call me Jemmie. You and I would not be here in this bed, Jasmine, were we not friends, would we?"

She smiled back at him. "Nay, Jemmie, we would not."

He bent his head once more to kiss her, the pressure of his mouth parting her lips, his tongue slipping between her lips to meet with her tongue. She shivered with delight at the intimacy of the embrace. When he had sated himself with the nectar of her tongue, he began a slow, leisurely exploration of her body with his kisses. Fascinated, she watched his deliberate progress as his skilled lips warmed her, moving over her breasts, her torso, her belly, her right thigh, knee, and from her shin to her foot. With a chuckle, he removed her right slipper, then transferring his attention to her left side, he removed that slipper also before continuing his progress back up her body to her mouth again.

Placing a playful kiss upon her lips, he said, "Delicious!" And then to her surprise he turned her over. Warm kisses played across her shoulders and down her spine, while ahead of them raced a series of very pleasurable shivers preceding his lips, right to the soles of her feet. Relaxed and emboldened by his love play, she rolled away from him with a laugh.

"You shall not have all the fun, Jemmie Leslie," she said, and pushed him, surprised, upon his back.

The Earl of Glenkirk had enjoyed a loving marriage, but neither Isabelle nor the few women he had taken to his bed after her death had ever really made love to him as this beautiful girl was now doing. She covered his body with kisses and nibbles, and then taking his lance within her mouth, she drove him to near madness before mounting him and sheathing him within her wonderful young body. With a groan of pleasure greater than he had ever known, he rolled her onto her back, pumping himself into her over, and over, and over again. He could not seem to get enough of her, and for a moment he believed himself incapable of release until he realized that he had been waiting for her to find her own pleasure.

Beneath him Jasmine writhed frantically. Dear God! It had been so long since she had felt a man's passion. It had been so long since she had allowed her own passions to run wild as they were now doing. She had honestly forgotten how sweet the conjunction of two hungry bodies could be. She had forgotten until now. She could feel his hard thighs pressing against her, could feel the urgency in his manhood's desire communicating itself to her by its insistent throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. With a cry of pleasure, she found her heaven, and in the misty satisfaction that followed and suffused her entire being, she heard him cry out his delight as well.

Afterward they lay together, holding hands, and he finally said, "I do not think I have ever known a woman like you, Jasmine de Marisco. No woman has ever been so free with me."

She laughed softly. "I told you I was not afraid of what transpired between a man and a woman. In my land we are taught that such things are God-given and good. There is no wantonness, you understand, but passion is not thought of as wrong or wicked."

"Stay with me tonight," he begged her, and Jasmine agreed, feeling less on edge than she had felt in months, and realizing, to her amusement, what had been missing from her life. She knew now that once a girl becomes a woman, there could be no going back. Fearful and in mourning, she had come to England a year ago. She had reveled in the love of her grandparents and her mother. She had allowed herself to be a child again, but the truth of the matter was that she was not a child. She was a woman, and she had a woman's needs. There was only one person who would understand that. Her grandmother. She would speak with Skye tomorrow about this turn of events.

They slept and awoke to make love again. They ate the food that had been placed upon the sideboard in the day room by the discreet Fergus More and made love again. They fell back asleep, only to be awakened by the sound of a woman's outraged screams pealing over and over again in their brains until Jemmie Leslie and Jasmine de Marisco sat up in bed to find themselves facing a furious Lady Sybilla Gordon.

"Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!" Sybilla shrieked, tears pouring down her face. "You had to steal him from me, didn't you? First my mother, then Papa, and now the only man I have ever loved, or will love! I will never forgive you! I will kill you!" and so saying, Sybilla Gordon threw herself at Jasmine.

James Leslie leapt from the bed in an attempt to protect his lover, and, seeing a man stark naked for the first time in her entire life, Sybilla's eyes grew wide with shock. She gasped and backed away. A hand flew to her throat and then, with another great cry, she fainted, even as her family, drawn by her screams, poured into the bedchamber. Jasmine, a coverlet clutched to her bosom in an attempt at modesty, did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Her eyes met those of her grandmother's, and she would have sworn that Skye found herself in a similar predicament.

For a moment all was silence, and then Alex Gordon, the Earl of BrocCairn, demanded furiously, "What the hell is going on here?"

There were several snickers from among the people crowding into the room, and then Skye said dryly, "God's nightshirt, Alex, is it not obvious? Sybilla has caught Lord Leslie and Jasmine in what can most certainly be called a very compromising situation. Velvet, see to Sybilla! James Leslie, either get back into bed, or put on your breeches. We've seen quite enough!"

The Earl of Glenkirk had the good grace to flush, and reaching for his breeches, drew them quickly on.

Skye turned about. "The rest of you go to bed! I can but thank God the guests are all gone and a serious scandal has been averted. Not one word of this is to be spoken of by any of you. Do you understand?" They nodded and departed.

Sybilla was regaining consciousness. "Mama!" she whimpered piteously. "Ohhhhh, Mama!"

"There, my darling, 'tis all right," Velvet soothed the girl, stroking her blond head.

"It will never be all right again," Sybilla sobbed. "She has stolen my betrothed husband from me! Ohhhhh, I shall die!"

Velvet patted her stepdaughter's hand sympathetically and helped her up and into a chair. "Do not weep, Sibby. No man is worth that many tears. Jasmine has not stolen Lord Leslie from you. He was never really yours, dear heart." She hugged the girl comfortingly.

"We were to be married! Papa promised!" Sybilla wailed, pulling away from Velvet.

"Alex!" Velvet looked to her husband. "Tell her the truth!"

Alex Gordon knelt beside his daughter's chair. "He'll nae hae ye, Sibby," he began. "We spoke last night, but I didna want to tell ye until this morning. Ye were having such a good time at your uncle's fete."

"He'll not have me?" Sybilla Gordon's tone implied that such a thing could absolutely not be possible. "Why not? It is the bitch! He would have her instead of me! Is that it?"

"Nay," her father answered.

"Then why?" Sybilla demanded. "Why will he not have me?"

"He doesna fancy blondes," Alex replied helplessly. He would not hurt his daughter with the rest of Glenkirk's answer.

"He does not fancy blondes?" Sybilla echoed her father's words. She jumped to her feet, fully recovered, and stalked across the room to where James Leslie stood. "What, my lord," she shouted at him, poking a sharp finger into his bare chest, "what do you mean you do not like blondes? What a ridiculous excuse! I am the only daughter of the Earl of BrocCairn. I am related to the king himself! How dare you refuse me!" She stamped her small foot, and her visage was crimson with her fury. No one in her family could ever remember seeing Sybilla so enraged.

"Very well then, Lady Gordon," the Earl of Glenkirk said coldly. He, too, was angry. He had been publicly embarrassed by this irritating girl, as had Jasmine. He no longer felt the need for tact. "If it is the truth you want, 'tis the truth you'll get. I do not like you. I find you spoiled and mean-spirited. I could not possibly ever love you, and I would not marry you if you were the last female on the face of the earth! Do you understand now?"

"I suppose you would prefer to wed with your whore?" Sybilla said acidly, casting a scathing glance at Jasmine and struggling to hold back her tears. She would not let him see her cry. She would never cry over a man again. Her mother was right. Men were not worth a woman's tears. But God, her heart ached so from the blow he had delivered with his hard, unfeeling words! How had she ever believed herself to be in love with James Leslie? He was a terrible man!

"My daughter brings up an interesting point, my lord," Alex Gordon said quietly. "You have most certainly compromised my stepdaughter. I think perhaps you must marry her now if the wrong is to be righted. We want no scandal."

"But I do not want to many him," Jasmine spoke up quickly.

"This is not your decision!" Alex Gordon snapped at her. He was angry at the girl, and yet he had no right to be. James Leslie had been quite honest in his refusal of Sybilla last evening. He should be angry with Sybilla for causing all this furor. What the hell was she doing creeping about the Earl of Glenkirk's bedchamber in the first place?

"It most certainly is my decision," Jasmine told him. "I am not your daughter."

"Nay, you are not," the Earl of BrocCairn said. "But you are my wife's daughter, and as such, you are legally in my charge. This man has seduced you. He can only restore your honor by marrying you."

"You are wrong, my lord," Jasmine told him with a little laugh. "Jemmie did not seduce me. We seduced each other. I am a widow, no virgin. We were lonely last night and but sought to comfort each other. I will not be forced into a marriage for such a trifle. I do not choose to marry Lord Leslie, and he, I am quite certain, does not wish to marry me."

If Jasmine had fascinated James Leslie before, she fascinated him even more now. Any other woman of his acquaintance would have jumped at the chance to marry him. For his part, he said nothing, but his silence was far more eloquent than anything he might have said.

"Velvet, Alex," Skye said, "take Sybilla to her room and put her to bed. Jasmine, get dressed and come home."

"Yes, Grandmama," was the obedient reply, but Jasmine's eyes twinkled mischievously, even as did her grandmother's.

The room emptied, but for the Earl of Glenkirk and Jasmine de Marisco. She stepped naked from the bed and began to quickly dress herself, for the room was cold and the fire had burned itself to embers.

"Why do you not wish to marry me?" he asked her, curious.

"There are several very good reasons, Jemmie," she replied, buttoning her jaguli. "First, I am not yet ready to marry. Nor, I believe, are you. My family tells me there is no other life for a woman but marriage. I will accept their wisdom in the matter, but not quite yet. I am sure your family wants you to remarry and sire sons, do they not?"

"Aye," he nodded. "They do. Isabelle and our lads will be dead five years this spring." His handsome face was suddenly sad.

"Neither of us should be forced into another union for the sake of others, Jemmie," Jasmine said wisely. "When we wed again, it should be because we want it. For me, I must be in love! Perhaps I am a fool, but I do not believe I can be happy without love. I did, in my own way, love Jamal, but 'twas not, I think, a deep and abiding love. That is what I want next time. Every woman, I think, deserves that kind of love!"

"If you have not had it, how can you know of such love?" he asked her. He picked up the strings of Persian lapis and pearls that had been entwined in her hair and handed them to her. Her long, dark tresses had come undone during one of their love bouts, and the thin gold strands with their beads had become entangled with the sheets.

"My grandparents have such a love. Can you not see it? I can! I will have that kind of love when I wed again, and so should you, dear Jemmie! Do not settle for any less!" Jasmine slipped her slender feet into her diamond-studded slippers and smiled at him. "I have enjoyed our time together very much," she said quietly, and then, blowing him a kiss, she left the room.

He felt strangely bereft at her departure. She was a most intriguing woman. He had been drawn to her from the first moment he had laid eyes upon her. He thought, perhaps, that he should get to know her better, and then he smiled at himself. After last night he knew her quite well. It was time, as his relations were forever reminding him, that he remarry. Jasmine de Marisco would certainly make a very elegant Countess of Glenkirk, but he would need, he realized from her words, time in which to court her, time to convince her that her place was by his side.

My God!he thought. Am I falling in love with her? It would certainly not be hard to fall in love with her. Yet she was so very different from Isabelle. His marriage to Isabelle had been a carefully arranged one, and although they had liked one another, there had been no great passion between them. Bella had been more like one of his sisters, but for the children they shared. Still, he would have remained faithful to her had she not died.

Unlike his father, who had a roving eye, James Patrick Charles Adam Leslie was a one-woman man. Jasmine de Marisco would like that, he realized. Her involvement with him last night had not really been a casual one. She would not have given herself to him lightly. She would be, he instinctively knew, a one-man woman when she found the right man. He knew now it was up to him to convince her that he might be that one man who could make her happy. She would not have him otherwise.