It occurred to Eleanor as she curtsied goodbye that Squire Thestle's smile seemed to indicate hope that his son would make an advantageous match. With herself. She felt a bit more sober at the thought.
"A lute, for God's sake," Anne said, falling into the seat next to Eleanor that Roland had deserted.
"Your medieval lover is far too passionate for me. I feel as if I'm caught in some sort of Shakespearean nightmare."
"A glass of anisette?" Popper said, offering a tray of small glasses.
"If I drink that I'll fall asleep in public," Anne said, pulling herself upright. "No, I'm for bed." She looked down at Eleanor, a wry smile on her lips. "How complicated is the game of love, wouldn't you say?"
"Shakespeare?" Eleanor inquired.
"I haven't the faintest," Anne said, taking herself off to bed.
Chapter Thirteen
"Oh lovely, all the old people are gone," Lisette said gaily. "Let's sing outside, on the terrace."
"Won't we keep people awake?" Eleanor asked, sipping her anisette. It tasted like distilled licorice root, strong and sweet, with a sensual promise.
There was no gainsaying Lisette, of course. A moment later the four of them were outside. Light streamed from the library, but the terrace itself was in shadow. The air was warm and fragrant, like evening primroses.
Lisette had brought out another lute and she and Roland were seated together, so Eleanor made for the settee where she and Anne had sat that afternoon.
Villiers had been leaning against the stone railing, but when Lisette and Roland began to sing, he joined her.
For a few moments they just listened. The lutes had a tremulous sound, as if notes were barely shaped before they slipped away. "Who spoke to death?" Lisette sang, high and clear and beautiful.
"Let no one speak of death," Roland answered her. His voice was a si Iky honey-smooth tenor that wove around hers. "What should death do in such a merry house?" they sang together.
Eleanor took another sip of her anisette and leaned her head back. Far above their heads the stars shone like silver buttons on a dandy's waistcoat.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" she said to Villiers.
"Pearls," he said laconically. "Crushed to make Stardust."
She turned to meet his eyes and choked back a laugh.
"Let death go elsewhere—" Lisette sang, and broke off at Roland's impatient gesture. "You have the fingering wrong again. Listen." He played the refrain again. And again. "You look extremely beautiful tonight," Villiers said suddenly. "Me?" Then she remembered that Anne had painted her beautiful and smiled. "Thank you."
"You are driving the poor poet mad with desire."
Villiers was looking at her so coolly that she didn't know what he thought of Roland's admiration. Perhaps he was suggesting that she might like to marry Roland instead of himself? She took another drink and the liqueur burned down her throat. It sang to her of confidence and passion, of men who would never leave her.
"I'd like to kiss Roland," she said, "before I make a final decision."
It was only when he made a small incredulous noise in the back of his throat that she realized she had been less than clear. "Before I decide whether to marry him instead of you," she clarified.
"You'll decide on the basis of a kiss? His kiss?" A strand or two of Villiers's hair had fallen from its ribbon and swung near the curve of his jaw. It wasn't a poet's jaw. It was a harsh, male jaw, the kind belonging to a man likely to issue decrees. And feel that women should pay attention to his proclamations.
Roland and Lisette had started singing again, something about love this time." I made the prince my slave," they sang together. "He was my lord for the space of a moon."
"The space of a moon, my arse," Villiers said into her ear.
Eleanor started. She hadn't realized he'd moved close to her.
"Why don't they just sing what they mean: I tupped him for a month?"
She gave him a frown.
"You'll decide whether to marry me on the basis of his kiss?" His words were a low growl, and hung on the air.
"I put a ring on his finger and brought him to my house," Lisette sang, and Roland joined in: "7
clothed him in hyacinth and fed him honey-berries."
Eleanor let her head fall back and examined the hyacinth-colored sky. Villiers made a small movement next to her, and she felt a surge of power. She knew exactly what to do. She turned her head, just slightly. She didn't even smile at him; she just allowed the invitation to be in her eyes.
"Are you playing the siren with me?" he asked, his voice low, almost incredulous.
"Only for the space of the moon."