Battle-Torn Bride. Anne O'Brien
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Название: Battle-Torn Bride
Автор: Anne O'Brien
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
isbn: 9781408937594
isbn:
Now as he rode from Great Houghton, Lord Richard found himself remembering her as she had sat between her smiling mother and glowering father, watching the dancing, her desire to participate clear in every line of her body, the tapping of her foot against the tiled floor. She had been wearing, he recalled, a high–waisted gown of figured silk trimmed with fur at hem and low neckline. The full skirt, which flowed into a train, would not make dancing an easy task but that would not hinder her with her gifts of grace and agility. Her hair had been covered by a long veil secured by a jeweled band, that did everything to emphasise the lovely clear oval of her face as the pale silk drew attention to her glorious eyes.
Then the music from flutes and horns and drums had struck up a popular tune and Richard had known that he must dance with her. So he had approached Sir Walter Hatton, stern and forbidding despite the lighthearted occasion.
“I would ask your daughter to partner me in this dance, Sir Walter. With your permission.”
Sir Walter had frowned, pursed his lips in sour thought, misliking the smooth elegance of the young courtier who bowed so gracefully toward Beatrice. But he could not so openly refuse without comment. Stafford had powerful connections. Besides, Lady Margery smiled her agreement and Beatrice gave a little tug to her father’s sleeve. So he would comply, if grudgingly.
Sir Walter hunched his shoulders. “If she wishes it, sir.”
Of course she did. Her face was alight with it. She was on her feet before her father could change his mind, her hand in Richard’s as he led her to join the other dancers.
“Did you think I would refuse?” Her fingers curled into his, her teeth glinted in a smile of sheer delight.
“No, lady. But I thought your father might.”
She glanced over to where her father continued to grimace at the merriment in general and at her and her partner in particular. “He has no love for the Court. He is here out of duty only, and in loyalty to the king. He suspects all courtiers of empty smiles and false words. But why would he refuse something so trivial as a dance?”
“He might have other ideas for his beautiful daughter.”
Her brow furrowed in a little frown. “I do not take your meaning, my lord. Ideas other than what?”
“Of you being my lover. Of being my wife.”
Her eyes flew to his face. Her pretty lips opened in a perfect O of shock.
“My lord … Indeed …”
“I would never have believed it possible for me to fall hopelessly, helplessly in love with you—with any woman—with so little acquaintance. But now I do, Mistress Hatton. What do you think? Can such a thing as love at first meeting exist?”
“I … I think you flatter me, my lord.” She turned away from him in the dance, only to return a moment later, to put her hand trustingly into his.
“Of course I flatter you,” he continued, noting the deepening color in her cheeks with appreciation. “How could I not flatter so lovely a lady? But it comes from a heart which you hold within these pretty fingers.” He tightened his clasp on her hand as they moved closer together in the dance.
“Lord Richard!”
“Mistress Hatton!”
Perforce they separated again. But she never took her eyes from him. And then they were together once more, one of his arms firmly around her waist as they trod the lively steps.
“I think I have fallen in love with you. What do you think?” He whispered the words against her ear.
She glanced up. “Is your heart beating as fast as mine, my lord?”
“Undoubtedly, lady. It beats for you.”
“Then I think you could very well be right.”
And he had been. Somewhere between the festive carol–dance and the intricate steps of the sprightly pavane, he had fallen in love. As effortlessly and completely as that.
It had presented a soldier adept in military tactics with no difficulty at all to organise any number of private meetings with the lady. Where eventually he could persuade her compliance in a kiss, a close embrace. Although, as he recalled, she had needed little persuasion, only reassurance for her innocence. Her emotions were as engaged as his and they had yearned for more than a stolen kiss. He had wanted marriage, and so had she.
They had discovered one particular gallery, little more than a corridor between one reception room and another in the vast Palace of Westminster. But it was blessed with window seats, and too cold for most to brave except through necessity. It had been witness to their exchanged vows of love. When she had shivered in a brisk draft he had taken off his fur–lined cloak to wrap it round her, to envelop her in its heavy warmth. She had sighed with pleasure and leaned in to him. Until a lady and gentleman had walked past, with slanted glances, knowing smiles.
“We must go. I think I should not be alone here with you. My mother would not approve.” She had tightened nervous fingers on his arm.
“And your father would probably have me whipped from the palace!” He had smiled his understanding. “My lovely Beatrice—will you grant me one privilege before we go?”
“I might.” Her teeth gleamed in the shadows.
“Your hair, lady. Will you let me unpin your hair?”
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