The Emerald Swan (36 page)

His eyes were shadowed now with anger, his mouth thinned to a bare line. God help them all if this man ever discovered the deception, Miranda thought with a little shiver.

“You’ve been married before, my lord?” she inquired, moving her head away from his hand, dropping her eyes to her lap. “I was unaware.”

“A man of thirty-nine summers,
ma chère
, does not come without a history,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders with an impatient gesture. This doublet fitted him too well, tight across the shoulders and chest, and the silk shirt beneath felt soft and clingy like a snake’s skin. He yearned for the easy comfort of his buff leather jerkin and the coarse linen shirt beneath.

“Are you uncomfortable, my lord?” Miranda looked at him in puzzlement. He had the pained air of a man sitting in a nettle bed.

“This damn doublet is too tight,” he muttered. Then realizing how inappropriate such a complaint must seem in the circumstances, he returned abruptly to the previous subject. “My wife died.”

The cynical lie was easily spoken. At this moment, Marguerite was probably locked in passion with one of her many paramours. But she’d give him her blessing on this endeavor. Marguerite, although loathing the match that her mother and brother had forced upon her, had not known she had been the bait for the massacre at their wedding. She had saved her husband’s life despite her unwillingness for the match and they had remained friends over the years. But she would be as
relieved to be rid of the burden of their marriage as he would. In fact, he thought, she would probably like this girl.

The demurely lowered eyes and protestations of dutiful obedience were a sham, he was convinced of it. There was a lot more to her character than she was letting him see. He had seen the way she moved when she thought she was unobserved, and he had noted the intriguing glint in the azure eyes. No complete innocent played the coquette with quite the skill of this lady, and he guessed he was being treated to another example of her skill. No, there was definitely something about her that would speak to Marguerite.

He took her hand, played with the fingers. He felt her stiffen and her hand lay limp and unresisting in his. “There’s no need to be afraid,” he reassured, willing to play the game for a while longer. He raised her fingers to his lips.

Miranda tried to withdraw her hand. There was only one person she could respond to as the duke of Roissy so clearly wished her to respond.

Henry felt a stab of impatience. His fingers closed more tightly over hers and he brought his other hand to her throat. He stroked with a fingertip down to the pulse. The skin of the finger was rough and callused against her flesh and she raised a hand in a fluttering gesture of protest. But he ignored it, moving the finger down over the soft white skin of her breasts. The décolletage was low, accentuated by the high collar of the ropa rising stiffly at the back.

His finger dipped into the cleft between the small mounds. Miranda moved abruptly, pushing aside the exploring finger. “My lord duke, you must not.”

“Is it too soon for a little loverly attention,
machère?”
He laughed. “But I know full well that you enjoy the game of coquette.” He had felt the quickening of her skin beneath his touch, the speeding of the pulse. A swift and delightfully passionate response.

“We have but newly met, sir,” Miranda offered.

“But of course, and you would be wooed and gentled as any maid,” he agreed with a bluff laugh. But the frown had returned to his eyes. Games were all very well if one had the time for leisurely wooing. He must be back in France within the month and he would have his future bride coming softly to hand before he left. He would be assured that this time he had no unwilling bride.

“Will you take me back to Lady Dufort, sir?” Never had Miranda expected to wish for Imogen’s company…

“I would take one small earnest of your consent first.” This time, the fingers on her chin were very firm as he turned her face up. She saw his eyes, dark, sharp, and keen as a falcon’s, coming closer. The thin-lipped mouth within its neat beard hovered above her. She steeled herself for the kiss, reminding herself that she was playing a part. She was Maude, a shy virgin, obedient to the dictates of her guardian, but not repelled by this suitor, not reluctant for such a marriage.

But when his lips brushed hers, she jumped, jerked her head away. “Your pardon, sir. I … I … am not accustomed…”

Henry stared at her in frustration. Certainly he was taking the game of flirtation a big step further, but the girl knew what was expected of her. And yet he had the feeling that her panicked response had not been feigned, was not part of a maidenly game of sham decorum.

“Very well,” he said, not troubling to disguise his disappointment. “Come, I will return you to your chaperon. We shall have other opportunities in the next few days to get to know each other better.” He rose to his feet and offered her his arm.

Gareth had watched their disappearance behind the arras and despite all his efforts to absorb himself in the conversations around him could think only of what was happening between Miranda and Henry.

“By God, Gareth, you’re as distracted as a moonstruck calf!” Brian Rossiter boomed in his usual larger-than-life fashion. “Come to the card room.”

“Your young cousin seems to please the duke of Roissy,” Kip observed. “The queen likes the marriage?”

“Very much.” Gareth’s eyes returned to the arras. Henry had made it clear he had little time to spend on this wooing. He would not linger over the niceties of courtship if he didn’t have to.

“Then what’s worrying you, dear fellow?” demanded Brian. “The wench is willing and able, Roissy is willing and able. The queen smiles. All’s right with the world, seems to me.”

“Maude is new to court life,” Gareth offered. It sounded inadequate even to his own ears. He excused himself and moved away, aware of Kip’s eyes resting on his back.

Miranda moved out from behind the arras as Henry held it aside for her. Gareth felt it like a blow to his chest. What had they been doing behind the arras? Had Henry been touching her, making whispered love to her? Had he kissed her? And why did it matter so much to him?

Miranda stood still, her eyes darting around the room, searching for him. And his own eyes pulled her gaze to him. He could do nothing to prevent it. The connection between them was suddenly as vibrant and palpable as a fine chain of spun gold.

Gareth turned on his heel and stalked away through the crowd.

Chapter Nineteen

L
ADY
D
UFORT
staggered up the stairs to her own bedchamber, almost blinded by her headache, and if she was aware of Miranda’s steadying hand on her elbow she gave no sign of it.

Miranda saw her into her bedchamber and into the hands of the rat-faced maid, then made her way to Maude’s bedchamber. Chip greeted her with his usual passion, as if welcoming her back from the dead. However many times she left him with Maude and returned, he could not get used to it, and each time his welcome was one of ecstatic relief.

“So, tell me all.” Maude put aside her embroidery needle with an air of expectancy. She was in her usual place on the settle, but these days she had largely abandoned the shawls and rugs, and instead of lying back with lavender-soaked handkerchiefs and burned feathers to hand, she tended to sit upright, busy with some employment. Reading, sketching, or as in this case, working on a large tapestry.

“You’re really getting on with that,” Miranda observed, teasing Maude with the delay. She peered at the canvas on the frame. It was of a pastoral scene, with shepherds and shepherdesses gamboling beside a broad green river among the lambs.

“I’ve been working on it for five years,” Maude said with a grimace. “But I do believe I’ve done more in the last weeks than in the whole previous time.”

“It’s a very boring scene.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Maude’s small nose wrinkled. “Perhaps I should start another. A battle or a hunt or something a bit more exciting.”

Miranda shook her head. “It’s always better to finish what you start, otherwise you get into the habit of leaving things half-done, I find. It’s not at all tidy.”

Maude shrugged, accepting this piece of wisdom as she did most of Miranda’s pronouncements. Anyone who had lived Miranda’s life had to know what she was talking about. Which reminded her. She reached to the end of the settle. “See the clothes I have for Robbie. Do you think he’ll like them? They’ll fit him, I believe.” She held up for Miranda’s inspection nankeen britches, a linen shirt, holland drawers, and a pair of striped socks. “I didn’t know what to do about boots. Because of his poor foot.”

“I’m going to have a special pair of boots made for him as soon as milord pays me my fifty rose nobles,” Miranda said, examining the garments. “These are wonderful.”

“Oh, and best of all, there’s a jerkin. It’ll keep him warm.” Maude proudly displayed the dark woolen jerkin. “It’s practically new. They’re the cook’s nephew’s Sunday clothes, but she was very pleased to take five shillings for them.”

“I’ll pay you back as soon as I have money.” Miranda folded the clothes neatly.

“No, they’re my gift to Robbie,” Maude said. “I only wish I could do more for him.” She leaned back against the cushions again with the air of one settling in for a chat. “So, tell me about the duke. Is he personable?”

Miranda hooked a stool over and sat facing Maude
at a reasonable distance from the fire’s blaze. “Yes, very. I think you would like him very much. He’s not elegant, the way milord is. He’s rather rough in his ways, I think. He says so himself. It comes from having been a soldier all his life.” She paused, frowning, tickling Chip’s neck so that he rolled his head in bliss.

“I have the feeling, though, that he’s not a man one would want to cross.”

“But you liked him?”

“Mmm.” Miranda nodded, a slight flush mantling her cheeks. “Most of the time I found him very pleasant.”

“Why only most of the time?” Maude’s eyes sharpened and she leaned forward.

“He tried to kiss me,” Miranda said candidly. “And I didn’t care for it. I’ll have to find a way to persuade him to keep his distance.”

“But I believe kissing and suchlike is part of courtship,” Maude said with a little frown. “When you read the lays of the minstrels they’re very detailed about the little games of courtship. There’s always kissing and sweet words.”

“Mmm, maybe so,” Miranda agreed vaguely. “But then it’s not really me he’s courting. Perhaps it would be different for you. You might find it quite pleasant. I’m sure you’ll like him—”

“Miranda, I am not going to marry him!” Maude interrupted, leaping up with an agitated shake of her head. “I don’t know what Lord Harcourt’s intentions are, but I will not marry the duke. I will not marry anyone!” She began to pace the room in increased agitation. “I am going into a convent with Berthe.” But even as she made this declaration something felt wrong with the words. She’d spoken them many, many times before, so why didn’t they sound right now?

Maude flung herself onto the settle again and stared fiercely into the fire. Everything seemed muddled suddenly. She knew she didn’t want to get married. She knew she couldn’t marry a Protestant. She knew she wanted to enter a convent, to give her life to Christ. She did know that, didn’t she?

“What’s bothering you?” Miranda asked.

“I’m not sure,” Maude replied. “Everything seems so confused since you arrived.”

“Your pardon, madam,” Miranda said dryly.

Maude shook her head. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing necessarily. Maybe I’m too young to have settled my future so completely. What do you think?”

“You mean you don’t want to go into a convent?”

“I don’t know what I mean,” Maude said on a note of despair. “But I do know that I’m not going to marry the duke of Roissy.”

“You don’t think it would be a good idea just to meet him before you make up your mind?” Miranda suggested.

“What possible good would that do anyone?” Maude reached out to a side table for a chased silver basket of sweetmeats. She settled the basket on her stomach and selected a marzipan comfit, popping it into her mouth.

“I think you’re afraid to,” Miranda stated. “And your teeth will go black if you eat so many sweets.” Nevertheless she reached for the basket herself, her fingertips trawling the contents until she found a honeyed raisin. Chip chattered, extended his palm. Miranda gave him the sweet.

“Why would I be afraid to meet the duke?” Maude demanded crossly.

“Because you might like him.” Miranda jumped up.
“Isn’t there anything else to eat? I’m hungry for more than sweetmeats. There’s never anything at court.” She went to the door. “I’ll go to the kitchen and fetch something. What would you like?”

“You can’t go to the kitchen. Ring the bell.” Maude was scandalized.

Miranda just chuckled and whisked herself out of the room, Chip bounding at her side.

Maude leaned back again, idly popping sugared almonds into her mouth as she stared into the fire. Was Miranda right? Was she afraid to meet the duke? Afraid to put her convictions to the test? What if she did like him? What would it be like to be duchess of Roissy? Her own household; her own place at court; no one to interfere with her or tell her what to do. She’d be subject to her husband’s authority, of course, but as long as he wasn’t a tyrant, it needn’t be too much of an imposition.