Improbable Eden by Mary Daheim Page B

on the cluster of curls at her temple. “Truly? Who would do such a thing?” She knew, of course; her father had relentless adversaries.
    â€œ Whoever it is, I intend to find out,” Max assured her, giving the doorknob a twist. “By the way, are you wearing a wig? I hate wigs.”
    â€œ It’s my own hair! Master Clavell did it this afternoon.” Eden was defiant. “You sent for him, did you not?”
    Max shrugged, but came forward to study the hairdresser’s art more closely. It was his duty to approve her appearance, after all. “I sent for somebody. The name would mean nothing to me.” He tipped her chin up, then to one side. The shining curls smelled like honeysuckle, and Max was reminded of summer days on the Rhine. “Well. It’s rather becoming, if contrived. I’m not sure I didn’t like it better the other way.”
    â€œ Fashion demands artifice,” Eden averred, finding Max’s touch warm and not unwelcome. “Could a peasant seduce a King?”
    â€œ A number of them probably have,” Max replied, apparently still absorbed in the intricacies of Master Clavell’s creation. “Not William, but others. Such as Charles.” His hand fell away, and he shifted rather uncomfortably. “I must give Jack a favorable report. The swifter your progress, the sooner he will be free.”
    Eden’s ebony eyes were questioning. “You mean how quickly I can get the King to …?” She averted her gaze so abruptly that the gleaming curls bobbed on her shoulders. It was one thing to talk about seducing William in the abstract; it was quite another to contemplate the grim reality.
    â€œ Holy St. Hubert,” sighed Max, “don’t tell me you’ve suddenly gotten tongue-tied?” Grooming Eden for the royal boudoir was difficult at best, but it was certainly compounded by her reluctance and naïveté. How, Max wondered, could the wench provide companionship for a king when it was so obvious that she herself needed looking after? “The truth is,” he said in a rather uneasy voice, “I’m not much good at courtly manners myself.”
    â€œ But you’re a prince!” she protested, her hands nervously working to restore her coiffure to Master Clavell’s pristine perfection.
    â€œ A prince without a principality, a man without a home,” he replied with a wry expression. “Except for this house, which is leased from Lord Godolphin, to whom I owe the past three months’ rent. Stop that,” he exclaimed, grabbing Eden’s wrist, “you’ve got hairpins all but sticking from your ears!”
    Eden stood motionless while Max did his clumsy best to rearrange her hair. In truth, though she couldn’t see the results, she had the feeling that his efforts were no more efficacious than her own. She suffered his ministrations without protest, however, and discovered that she liked the tickling sensation of his fingers on her skin. Though he insisted she look straight ahead, Eden darted an occasional glance at his chiseled face and wondered what it would be like if Max leaned down and kissed her. Surely not like Charlie Crocker or Adam Young or the guard in the Tower.
    â€œ There.” Max nodded and stepped back. “Much better. Don’t let them put those silly patches on your face.”
    â€œ But they’re all the rage,” Eden declared, not wanting to admit that she, too, found them somewhat ridiculous, at least when used in profusion. “I thought you wanted me to be a proper courtesan.”
    â€œ What I want doesn’t matter!” Max exploded, shocking them both with his vehemence. He was standing stiff as an icon, fists clenched at his sides. Embarrassed, he looked away for a moment, struggled with his composure and finally brushed one sleeve across his forehead. “Why should it matter?” he muttered before regarding Eden with a