Free The Loves of Charles II by Jean Plaidy

quickly. She was a girl who was obviously ripe for marriage.
    There were local squires in the neighborhood of Haverfordwest and St. David’s who would have been ready enough to link their fortunes with those of the Waters, for Lucy’s mother was a niece of the Earl of Carbery, and her family was not without fortune. Moreover, Lucy was as luscious as a ripe peach and wherever she went men’s eyes followed her. Her voice had a soft lilting Welsh accent and it rose on a note of laughter at the end of her sentences; it was not that Lucy’s conversation was so very amusing and witty; it was merely that she appeared to be ready to enjoy life. She was aware of her ripe young body; she was aware of the ripe young bodies of others. Lucy was longing for amorous adventures; she would lie in the grass on the mound at the top of which stood Roch Castle, and dream of lovers.
    The war altered life at Roch Castle as it did everywhere else. Her father went off to fight for the Royalist cause, and Lucy remained at home—a girl of fourteen, restive, forced to sit at her needlework during long sunny afternoons, stitching reluctantly, the despair of her governess.
    There was continual talk of the war. Lucy rarely listened to it with any great attention. She was a fervent Royalist because the Cavaliers, in their dashing clothes, their curls falling about their shoulders and their jauntily feathered hats, pleased her; and the soberly clad soldiers of the Parliamentary forces, with their round cropped heads and their text-quoting, did not attract her at all.
    Lucy was filled with vague longings. She was not sure that she wanted to settle down to a married life. She had watched her mother looking afterthe servants, working in her still-room, arranging meals, having children. Such a life did not seem very attractive to Lucy. She had noticed at an early age how men’s eyes followed her, and that pleased her. She would sit before a mirror tying ribbons in her brown hair, arranging her curls, aware that she was very pretty and remembering how the men looked at her; but she was only vaguely aware of what she wanted. It was more than admiration, more than warm glances; yet she did not want to be the chatelaine of a castle like that of her parents, to have children, a still-room, servants to command.
    Lucy was lazy, it was agreed by all. She would not attend to her lessons; she could not even concentrate on her needlework. Her eyes would wander from her work, and her thoughts would wander too.
    Then Lucy suddenly discovered what she wanted from life.
    It was when a party of Royalists rode up to the Castle and asked for a night’s shelter. There was always food and shelter at Roch Castle for the Cavaliers. The Captain of the troop was young and handsome; he was the most elegant man Lucy had ever seen; his curled moustache was golden; so was his pointed beard; his fair hair fell to his shoulders; he was a dashing figure in his doublet with its wide sleeves and narrow sash; in his wide-brimmed hat was a curling feather. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and her eyes told him so.
    From the time the Cavaliers entered the house the Captain was aware of Lucy. She must wait on him at table because, said her mother, it was a symbol of loyalty to the cause that the daughter of the house should do this in place of the servants; and as she waited on him he took opportunities of touching her hand. Lucy’s large brown eyes glistened. She was ripe and very ready for seduction on that day; and the handsome Cavalier was well aware of this. He was young—not yet twenty—and life was adventurous in wartime. Any day might be his last; he was no canting Puritan to think longingly of the next world; he was a Cavalier determined to make the most of this one.
    They would stay the night at Roch Castle, these soldiers of the King, for Roch Castle was at the disposal of His Majesty’s friends; and during that evening the handsome Cavalier was not absent from