Winsor, Kathleen by Forever Amber

that the women had! But still she could not resist sneaking them another
slow cautious glance—and her eyes met once more the full stare of the handsomer
one. Swiftly she glanced away. And yet—there was no doubt it did not seem so
insulting, coming from a man.
    Bruce
finally turned back, spoke to the driver and got in, sitting down beside her as
the coach gave a jog and started to move. He took one of her hands in his.
"You've set the town by its ears. That was my Lord Buckhurst and he says
you're far more beautiful than Barbara Palmer."
    "You
mean the King's mistress?"
    "Yes.
How the devil do you manage to get all the current gossip?" He looked down
at her, amused as though she were a pretty doll or a plaything.
    "The
dressmaker told me about her. Bruce—who were those two ladies? The ones in the
next box that waved to you?"
    "Wives
of friends of mine. Why?"
    She
looked down at her fan, frowning, counting the sticks. "Did you see how
they looked at me? Like this—" She pulled her face into a sudden grimace,
a perfect though somewhat exaggerated and malicious imitation of the stares
they had given her. "They think I'm a harlot—I know they do!"
    Bruce
gave her a look of surprise and then, to her astonishment, threw back his head
and laughed.
    "Well!"
she cried, offended. "What the devil is there to laugh at, pray?"
    She
was beginning already to pick up some of his expressions, words and phrases
Matt Goodegroome would never have allowed even his sons to use. It seemed to
Amber that all fine persons swore and that it was a mark of good breeding.
    "I'm
sorry, Amber. I wasn't laughing at you. But to tell you the truth I think they
glared at you for another reason—jealousy, no doubt. Certainly neither of them
has any reason to have an ill opinion of another woman's character. Between 'em I think they've
laid with most of the men who went to France."
    "But
you said they're married!"
    "So
they are. If they weren't they might have been more discreet."
    She
was relieved, but at the same time a quick suspicion entered her mind. Could he have been one of those men? But she promptly decided that if he had been he
would never have mentioned the matter at all—and she thrust that thought aside.
She began to feel happy again, and eager for the next adventure.
    "Where
are we going now?"
    "I
thought you might like to have supper at a tavern."
    Back
in the City they stopped in New Street before a building which bore the sign of
a great golden eagle. When she stepped down Amber lifted her skirts high to
show her black lace garters, just as she had seen several ladies do outside the
theatre. Then, as they were about to go in the door, they heard a loud shout in
a familiar masculine voice.
    "Hey!
Carlton!"
    Curiously
they looked around. It was Almsbury, riding by in a hackney jammed with several
other men, and as the coach pulled up he jumped out, waved his companions
goodbye and came toward them at a run. He blinked his eyes twice as he saw
Amber and then swept off his hat in a deep bow.
    "Holy
Christ, sweetheart! Damn me if you aren't as beautiful as a Venetian
whore!"
    The
delightful smile froze on Amber's face.
    Well!
So that was what he thought of her too! Her eyebrows drew together in a
furious scowl, but at a glance from Bruce the Earl hastened to repair his
breach. He shrugged his shoulders and made a comical face.
    "Well—after
all, you know, Venetian prostitutes are the prettiest women in Europe. But
then, I suppose if you—"
    He
paused, watching her with an ingratiating grin and Amber slowly raised her eyes
to his again. She could not resist his friendliness and all of a sudden she
smiled. He took her arm. "Lord, sweetheart, you know I wouldn't offend you
for anything on earth." The three of them went inside and, at Bruce's
request, were shown upstairs to a private room.
    After
the men had ordered, the waiter brought them a small barrelful of oysters and
they began cracking them open, eating them raw with a sprinkle of salt