My Lord of Pembroke gave him a push from behind.
“To it, Tom, or I’ll convert her myself!”
“My Lord Cardinal, I am ready to abdicate in your favor.”
“Sophist! Kiss her, and have done.”
Tom Temple looked at Barbara and found his expiring impudence unequal to the task. A breeze of cynical laughter swept the room. The three girls had left the card-table, and were standing huddled together, giggling and glancing from Barbara to the gentlemen. Hortense and Anne Purcell had drawn aside toward the harpsichord, while the sentimental widow seemed scared.
“The church militant must intervene!”
My Lord of Pembroke jostled the mock churchman aside and faced Barbara. She had risen and was standing at her full height, an angry color flooding into her face. The peer and the lady looked each other in the eyes.
The man’s cynical yet malicious stare humiliated her, despite her wrath and her defiance. Her glance travelled over the faces that seemed to fill the room. Nowhere did she find a glimmer of pity or resentment. She was just a silly, prudish girl to them; a sulky child to be teased; a thing that piqued their cynical curiosity.
My Lord of Pembroke made her a curt bow.
“You will permit me to receive you into the bosom of our church,” he said.