Battle-Torn Bride. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ this man who owned the very breath in her body.

      “He does not come to my bed, my lord.” Her voice was low so that none other might hear, but her reply was devastatingly clear to him.

      “Ah, Beatrice.” There were no words that could be said. Neither in pity for her caught in a loveless marriage, nor to explain the strange relief that relaxed the tension in his muscles.

      How beautiful she was. The years had given her a gloss of experience and maturity, polishing those immature charms that had first attracted him. As Lady of Great Houghton, her dark hair was drawn back from her forehead, to be confined under an elegant and most fashionable transparent veil. He knew that if she released it from its confines, it would curl, would reach well beyond her shoulders. Would wind around his fingers if he allowed it. Soft as satin, strong as silver thread. Her height he considered perfect, reaching just to his shoulder. Her head could rest so comfortably there, his arms fit so easily around her slender waist. Her innate quickness and agility had first caught his attention in the foolish and energetic games at Twelfth Night. Her fair skin, which he wished to touch, was now flushed with delicate rose. Those dark eyes, almost the deep purple of the stately monkshood, with their dark lashes could appear quiet and composed, until they flashed with temper or passion, as he knew to his cost. Until she stared down that straight nose, as she had only minutes ago, with an hauteur that could sit so strangely with her youthful years. Not a meek and mild lady, then. No gently charming heartsease. He found himself wondering how she had responded to Somerton as her husband. Not well, he thought. She would resist his attempts to curb her energies and her spirit, would kick against the traces. As long as Somerton did not choose to apply the whip … Lord Richard turned his uncomfortable thought from such a direction. Beatrice’s relationship with her lord, elderly and coldly self–interested as he was, was not his affair.

      He forced himself to focus on the lovely face turned up to his. A pretty mouth with a full bottom lip, quick to smile. To laugh. Her voice low and a little husky. The deep blue of her overgown caused her glorious coloring to glow.

      He had wanted her then; he wanted her now. His body was hard for her, forcing him to take a breath against the hot urgency. But matters had not changed between them in essence. Her father had rejected his offer of marriage. Now she was within the dominance of her husband. There was no future for them. He must not even contemplate it.

      “Beatrice. I must not speak what is within my heart. It would not be honorable.”

      “Then I will speak what is in mine.” There was the confidence he remembered, the spark of light in her eyes, the bright spirit that had charmed and intrigued him. She would not hesitate to declare her love. For a moment Beatrice glanced away across the garden. But when she turned back there was no pleasure, any love in her face obscured. Her lips were compressed into a thin line, her eyes full of pain and anger. Her reproachful words were as a sharp slap against his flesh.

      “I loved you. I looked for marriage with you. How could I have been so mistaken? You betrayed me, Richard. You betrayed our love.”

      “Betrayed? What is this …?”

      “I have had a long time to think about this—and I think you never loved me at all.” Her voice broke a little, then was quickly controlled. There were certainly no tears in those snapping eyes. “I think it was simply a Twelfth Night flirtation for you.”

      “Beatrice. How can you think that?” He was astounded. “My heart is yours—has always been yours.” He seized her hand, regardless of those who might see.

      The lady was unimpressed. The slap became a sharp blade twisted in his heart. “I expect you forgot me as soon I was out of sight. I expect my family was not sufficiently important for you to pursue the connection.”

      “Never that!”

      But she was implacable. Dragged her fingers from his clasp as if his touch burned. “My mother warned me that it would happen. I should have known that men are not to be trusted.”

      The blood ran as ice in his veins—over a shiver of righteous anger. “How can you make so outrageous a claim? How can you think so little of me?” He sought in his mind for something to say to prove his love, to extricate himself from this bottomless crevasse that had yawned before his feet without warning. Thrusting his hand within the furred neck of his tunic, he drew out a small velvet–wrapped package. He held it out, the velvet falling away.

      “If I did not love you, Beatrice, if I do not still love you, why would I carry this next to my heart? Why have I treasured it and kept it by me if the giver meant nothing to me?”

      It was a swan, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, large enough to see clearly the clever workmanship. It had been fashioned of ivory, now warm and cream with age. Its feathers on wing and breast had been carved by the hand of a master, a delight of soft curves and hard edges. A masterpiece of observation and skill. Gold had been used to pick out its beady eye, its beak and feet: its neb and claws were equally striking in black enamel. It was a Lancastrian piece, intended for one who would support his Majesty for the swan proudly bore around its neck a golden crown. Whilst attached to the crown was a heavy gold chain, perhaps a symbol of the binding of its wearer to the cause. The chain ended in a ring for securing to a garment with a pin, as a safety device.

      A wonderfully distinctive jewel, as suitable for a man as for a woman.

      “I remember the day you gave this to me. A Hatton legacy, you said, and yours to give. You gave it to me as a symbol of your love. I have kept it—a priceless keepsake from the lady who holds my heart in her hands.”

      “So do I remember. But I did not know that my devotion would outlive yours.”

      “Beatrice!” Lord Richard was astounded. “You are the light of my life. Do you not know that?”

      But Lady Beatrice Somerton would not be soothed. “No, Richard. What use in denial? If that is so—if you truly loved me—how could you abandon me to marriage with a man such as William Somerton? You promised that you would come for me—and yet you did not.”

      “No! That is not so …”

      But she would not listen, the misery of two years of blighted marriage a tight band around her chest. “You have broken my heart, Richard Stafford!”

      “Beatrice …”

      What more Lord Richard would have said in his own defense Beatrice was not to know for there was the sudden eruption of movement, the heavy impact of booted feet, of opening and closing doors, and then Lord Grey strode into the Hall already pulling on his gloves. His lips were tight–pressed, his spine rigid, his eyes alight with temper but he kept a grip on his words. His gaze searched the room.

      “Stafford!” He signaled Lord Richard to his side. “The horses. We leave immediately.”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      Lord Grey beckoned in impatience when Richard would have hesitated beside the lady, then turned to his host. “I must thank you for your hospitality, Sir William.” His voice denied his words.

      “It was my pleasure, my lord.” But anyone seeing Somerton’s expression would not think it. “I am sorry that my reply was not to your liking.” Stiff disapproval sat weightily on him.

      “No. It was not. I clearly misread the strength of your sentiments. I trust you will not come to regret your decision.”

      “My СКАЧАТЬ