Chapter 3
The next morning I awoke before dawn with the innkeeper standing over me holding a small lantern. It cast a weak light over the bed, but the innkeeper's scowl was clearly perceptible in the gloom. At his behest, I arose, dressed quickly and followed him into a dimly lit cellar filled with dusty books and crates of wine.
"There's yer answer ye've been seekin'" The innkeeper motioned broadly toward a bookcase on the south wall.
I could see that he meant I should read. "Is this ..." I paused, brushing dust off a volume in the middle of the shelf.
"The Chronicles of Warwick. It is. Ye'll be findin' everything that needs knowin' right through there."
"Oh? I turned to examine the books more clearly. They were not marked except for single numbers. Each page was filled with perfect hand lettering in an old-fashioned gothic script. Which books should I look at?" I turned, hoping my host would help me get my bearings.
But I got no answer. I was alone.
I sat the lantern down on a wide oak table and opened the book in my hand. It seemed to be a recording of the births, deaths, and marriages of Warwick. Though it was a historical novelty in itself, none of the names or dates meant anything to me. I returned it to the open space on the shelf and scanned the shelves. Most of the books there were just filled with facts and figures, dates, titles, and the like.
The more I looked over the shelves, the more I wondered what the innkeeper had expected me to find there. I had almost given up looking and resolved to call my host back for directions when I accidentally leaned into the bookcase and felt it move. It gave way, revealing another, smaller room behind it, lined with books floor to ceiling. Each leatherbound volume was titled The Chronicles of Warwick and numbered with a roman numeral at the top of the spine. The books were in order on the shelves, so I found Volume I quickly, returned to the oak table, and began reading.
The first few chapters I was already acquainted with. I thumbed through the pages slowly, admiring the meticulous penmanship and beautiful illumination of the manuscript. Throughout, someone had taken great pains to include lifelike illustrations of the high points of the tale. I was stricken with surprise and wonderment to see that the illustrator had depicted King Harold very nearly as I had envisioned him myself. My heart stopped, however, when I came across the image of a beautiful woman, and I felt strangely compelled to read her story.
"There's yer answer ye've been seekin'" The innkeeper motioned broadly toward a bookcase on the south wall.
I could see that he meant I should read. "Is this ..." I paused, brushing dust off a volume in the middle of the shelf.
"The Chronicles of Warwick. It is. Ye'll be findin' everything that needs knowin' right through there."
"Oh? I turned to examine the books more clearly. They were not marked except for single numbers. Each page was filled with perfect hand lettering in an old-fashioned gothic script. Which books should I look at?" I turned, hoping my host would help me get my bearings.
But I got no answer. I was alone.
I sat the lantern down on a wide oak table and opened the book in my hand. It seemed to be a recording of the births, deaths, and marriages of Warwick. Though it was a historical novelty in itself, none of the names or dates meant anything to me. I returned it to the open space on the shelf and scanned the shelves. Most of the books there were just filled with facts and figures, dates, titles, and the like.
The more I looked over the shelves, the more I wondered what the innkeeper had expected me to find there. I had almost given up looking and resolved to call my host back for directions when I accidentally leaned into the bookcase and felt it move. It gave way, revealing another, smaller room behind it, lined with books floor to ceiling. Each leatherbound volume was titled The Chronicles of Warwick and numbered with a roman numeral at the top of the spine. The books were in order on the shelves, so I found Volume I quickly, returned to the oak table, and began reading.
The first few chapters I was already acquainted with. I thumbed through the pages slowly, admiring the meticulous penmanship and beautiful illumination of the manuscript. Throughout, someone had taken great pains to include lifelike illustrations of the high points of the tale. I was stricken with surprise and wonderment to see that the illustrator had depicted King Harold very nearly as I had envisioned him myself. My heart stopped, however, when I came across the image of a beautiful woman, and I felt strangely compelled to read her story.
The Lady of Shropshire
The Lady of Shropshire was not born to wealthy or noble parentage. Upon her welcoming, she was named Maricela Nuit Pennett. Though her father was a gentleman and a Knight of the Realm, her home was humble and her prospects few. This was not owing to any fault of her own. In fact, it was quite the contrary. The simple trouble was that she had four older sisters who were in line to be courted before her. And Maricela learned at a very young age that she must sparkle to be noticed amidst the glittering jewels of her father's country estate. Her sisters were not cruel, but they frequently taunted her, as older sisters are often wont to do. From this, little Maricela learned that she must be very sweet and catch the eye of those in power who might save her from distress. As a little child, the nursery maid was the one held power, and Maricela became fast friends with her, and then as she grew with the maid's eldest daughter Sallia, who became her own personal servant when she came of age at twelve. By the age of eighteen, Maricela had grown into a beautiful young lady, one who many men wished to court. These affairs never progressed very far past the point whereupon it was discovered that Maricela had nothing to commend her but her dainty heart shaped face, her silken yellow locks, and her sweet manners. For as Maricela's sisters had all found well-suited matches in the surrounding counties, Sir Robert Pennett's fortunes were well depleted by the time Maricela was ready to wed. However, none of this mattered a great deal to young Henri Dernier, a gentleman who had risen from the merchant class, having made his fortune trading overseas for exotic spices and other delicacies. Though he received her at fortune's alms, the brazen young gentleman assured her father that he had enough wealth to support her, without a dowry. He often spoke of his ties to the King's son, the young Harold d'Againcourt. Some day, he assured Sir Robert, he would be a powerful influence in Haevinia. Sir Robert was uncertain of such a declaration, and believed he should not give his daughter away penniless. Good marriages, he believed, were built upon a solid foundation of mutual trust, sealed in a contractual agreement between level headed gentlemen. So, he put off the match, hoping to improve his fortunes and provide young Maricela a dowry befitting her station.
Some years passed in this fashion. The fortunes of Sir Robert did not alter for the better or worse, but true to his word, Henri Marchand's fortunes rose meteorically. Just after the coronation of His Majesty King Harold, Sir Dernier became Lord Marchand, the first Earl of Shropshire. And that is when Sir Robert finally assented to the marriage of his daughter to Henri Marchand. Maricella Pennett thus became the Lady of Shropshire at the tender age of twenty two.
Some months after her marriage, Lady Marchand sat at her window, her embroidery resting on her lap, and nursed her sore thumb. Through the glass she saw a robin perched in the elm tree. He ruffled his feathers and tucked his head to his breast. A cold breeze wafted gently through the window. Lady Marchand rubbed her forearms briskly and drew her cloak about her. The breeze was delicious, even if it was cold, and she hoped Anne wouldn't discover she had the window open again. She couldn't bear being told to sit in the drawing room in front of the fire on a sunny September afternoon. She was a grown woman now; she didn't need to have her servants controlling her. She drew her finger out of her mouth and examined the tip where a small bead of blood sat brightly. She touched her thumb to her lips and sucked it.
Some years passed in this fashion. The fortunes of Sir Robert did not alter for the better or worse, but true to his word, Henri Marchand's fortunes rose meteorically. Just after the coronation of His Majesty King Harold, Sir Dernier became Lord Marchand, the first Earl of Shropshire. And that is when Sir Robert finally assented to the marriage of his daughter to Henri Marchand. Maricella Pennett thus became the Lady of Shropshire at the tender age of twenty two.
Some months after her marriage, Lady Marchand sat at her window, her embroidery resting on her lap, and nursed her sore thumb. Through the glass she saw a robin perched in the elm tree. He ruffled his feathers and tucked his head to his breast. A cold breeze wafted gently through the window. Lady Marchand rubbed her forearms briskly and drew her cloak about her. The breeze was delicious, even if it was cold, and she hoped Anne wouldn't discover she had the window open again. She couldn't bear being told to sit in the drawing room in front of the fire on a sunny September afternoon. She was a grown woman now; she didn't need to have her servants controlling her. She drew her finger out of her mouth and examined the tip where a small bead of blood sat brightly. She touched her thumb to her lips and sucked it.
Embroidery was the worst thing for a lady's hands, but it was one of the few things she could be trusted to do alone, without any help or supervision. She thrust about her skirts for her thimble, which she'd dropped again, and after replacing it on her finger fumbled in her cloak for the needle she'd stowed there. Picking up a long strand of vermilion thread, she held her needle aloft to the light streaming through the open window. Well, they weren't really her servants, she mused. They were Lord Marchand's servants. She hadn't been able to keep any of her own servants from her father's house. She wondered what had become of them all, after she left. Especially Sallia. But she couldn't keep returning to that. She had to keep her chin up. She was a wife now. And soon, she'd be a mother. If, that is, she would stay away from open windows and cold blasts of fall air, which would dry up her organs of increase. She dropped her head and patted her firm, flat little belly. It felt as hard and settled as a stone in a creek bed. Would any baby ever grow there?
Just an old wives' tale, she told herself, the sort of thing old women like Anne busied themselves with at their spinning wheels. Such a delicious, bracing little breeze! Lady Marchand shivered and drew her cloak tighter about her bosom. She admired her perky little breasts peeping up through the Egyptian cotton bodice. All her life she'd dreamed of being married, of having her own house to run, her own servants to command. She never knew it would feel so much like being a prisoner. She punched her needle through the linen and drew it down, savoring the warm, scratchy hum of the thread traveling through the fabric. It was her favorite sound in the world, since nothing else reminded her so much of her mother. She couldn't remember her mother's face, but she remembered her warmth, and the dry, faint scent of pears and cloves that hung about her skirts, and that sound--the sound of her embroidery. It was the only way to feel close to her now that she was the wife of a Lord. The Lord's Wife! She drunk it in. She was married to the Earl of Shropshire. The daughter of a commoner. It was more than she had ever hoped for.
She steadied her work between her thumb and forefinger. If only she enjoyed needlework. Her husband was a powerful and important man. She smiled, feeling for the proper place to make the next stitch. He had risen above his station, too, since his own father was a simple Baron. But he, Lord Marchand, had won the favor of the King and been named Earl. She loved him, with all her heart, and prayed sincerely that she could give him a son. As the breeze wafted across her face, she thought perhaps she really might close the window, after all. A starling landed on the stone sill, changing her mind abruptly.
"Ouch!" She couldn't help saying it out loud.
She held her thumb up to inspection. The needle had traveled a fair distance up under the nail, leaving a small trail of blood.
"Od's Bodkin!" she cursed under her breath.
Just an old wives' tale, she told herself, the sort of thing old women like Anne busied themselves with at their spinning wheels. Such a delicious, bracing little breeze! Lady Marchand shivered and drew her cloak tighter about her bosom. She admired her perky little breasts peeping up through the Egyptian cotton bodice. All her life she'd dreamed of being married, of having her own house to run, her own servants to command. She never knew it would feel so much like being a prisoner. She punched her needle through the linen and drew it down, savoring the warm, scratchy hum of the thread traveling through the fabric. It was her favorite sound in the world, since nothing else reminded her so much of her mother. She couldn't remember her mother's face, but she remembered her warmth, and the dry, faint scent of pears and cloves that hung about her skirts, and that sound--the sound of her embroidery. It was the only way to feel close to her now that she was the wife of a Lord. The Lord's Wife! She drunk it in. She was married to the Earl of Shropshire. The daughter of a commoner. It was more than she had ever hoped for.
She steadied her work between her thumb and forefinger. If only she enjoyed needlework. Her husband was a powerful and important man. She smiled, feeling for the proper place to make the next stitch. He had risen above his station, too, since his own father was a simple Baron. But he, Lord Marchand, had won the favor of the King and been named Earl. She loved him, with all her heart, and prayed sincerely that she could give him a son. As the breeze wafted across her face, she thought perhaps she really might close the window, after all. A starling landed on the stone sill, changing her mind abruptly.
"Ouch!" She couldn't help saying it out loud.
She held her thumb up to inspection. The needle had traveled a fair distance up under the nail, leaving a small trail of blood.
"Od's Bodkin!" she cursed under her breath.
The starling hadn't moved, even with her outburst.
"You're quite the fellow then, aren't you?"
She turned to the starling and held out her hand. The bird chirped loudly. Lady Marchand reached into her skirt pocket and drew out a soda cracker.
"It's all I have, friend."
She laid the cracker on the window sill. With two large gulps, the cracker disappeared. The starling chirped.
"I told you, it's all I have. I wasn't even supposed to have that," she added ruefully.
The starling edged closer to the window. Lady Marchand held her hand out, but he declined politely, hopping several paces away.
"Not that I'd expect you to trust me," she thought to herself.
She returned to her work, carefully adjusting the thimble on her thumb. Ever since she'd become Lady Marchand, Mari couldn't help wondering when she'd feel more like a matron than a maid. When would she be able to command respect and have it? From what she could tell so far, being a wife was not much different than being a girl, except that she had her own living quarters and bed chamber. But, she loved her bathing chambers most of all. There was nothing better than a hot bath with gardenia water. She remembered the first time she had bathed in Lord Marchand's manor eight long months ago. But that was an ordeal she didn't like to think about. Thankfully, she'd managed to convince Anne that she didn't need help to bathe, and now she kept only her personal servant, Janine, in attendance. And Janine, a young girl of twelve, could easily be sent away when she wasn't wanted.
Below, a bell rang. Dinner would be served soon. Lady Marchand realized she needed to dress soon. She rose hurriedly, stowing her embroidery in the basket and descended to her sleeping chamber. Where was that child Janine? If she didn't come soon, she would have to let Anne corset her. That would never do--even though Anne's brawny arms were certainly more suited to the task than Janine's soft willowy limbs. Anne gave her the proper shape, though she always felt faint when Anne dressed her. And it meant being unable to eat and going hungry the rest of the evening. Unless, that is, she could catch His Lordship's eye, and perhaps spend the night in his chambers where Lawrence would bring a sumptuous feast of dainty meats and sweet treats to nibble on. She drew a deep breath. It was Anne's firm tread on the top stair that she heard approaching her door. For a brief moment, she thought she might melt into the wall and not be seen, or worse, perhaps she'd run and hide, and make Anne believe she'd left for a walk to the village unescorted. The first choice wasn't much of an option since she wasn't a witch, and the second choice was far too dangerous to consider seriously. She knew Lord Marchand was a liberal man, but he would never allow her to leave unescorted, and it would do no one any good to give Anne the impression that she, the Lady of the house, was a free spirit. It was better to stay put and look the part of Lady Marchand when she entered.
A single, firm tap broke the silence. Lady Marchand waited the briefest of pauses, just long enough to let the reverberation die.
"Enter," she spoke in what she hoped was a hushed, but commanding tone.
Anne Chetwold entered the room, her bearing erect and her gait light. She sank into a curtsy, waiting for her mistress' acknowledgment.
She was a beautiful woman, Mari realized. Her arched cheek bones and high forehead were all that were left of her father's fortune, but Anne's pride was well-preserved in her tiny hands and perfect grace.
Lady Marchand dropped her chin slightly, not allowing her gaze to waver from Anne's eyes. It was the silent language of mistress and servant that she was striving to learn quickly. Such formalities were not exercised between her and Sallia, but they were of vital necessity to earning Anne's respect.
Anne rose, and traversed the room in several swift movements that seemed to far a distance for her slight stature to carry her in so few steps. Everything about her was hushed, from the muted blue kirtle she wore to her white linen cap that hid her fine, silky hair. Her walk was dampened to a dull swish. It seemed that Anne did not move; she simply appeared. No one ever spoke of her husband, and Lady Marchand was burning with curiosity to know who, or what, he had been. As the Lady of the house, she had felt it her duty to acquaint herself familiarly with all of the occupants of the house, and her Lady's maid was the first intimacy she had tried to acquire. Though she had had passing success with Lawrence and Duff, Anne's sons, Anne remained distant and aloof. And as such, she was an enigma, void of personality, absent of charm. She was her position, nothing more.
Lady Marchand allowed herself to be undressed and sat obediently while Anne's fingers moved nimbly through her wavy hair, first brushing it swiftly, then sweeping it up with her firm, dry hands, and finally pinning it deftly to the sides of her head, so that not a single strand of hair was unaccounted for.
Lady Marchand winced at her reflection in the looking glass. How could she possibly catch His Lordship's eye if there were no disorder in her? She turned her head, and pried several strands loose from behind her ears, watching herself in the glass. In Shropshire, the looking glass was an oddity. But Lord Marchand had procured it for her, saints undertake it to know how! Though Anne warned her constantly of the sin of vanity, Lord Marchand had encouraged her to seek her reflection. "We never know ourselves till we see ourself seen," he had said confidentially to her, caressing her cheek. Lady Marchand smiled, admiring her small ears peeking out between falling tresses.
"Now Anne, I shall have the indigo this evening."
"Yes, mi'lady." Anne curtsied and moved away slowly.
Anne never spoke more than two words together, Lady Marchand thought. And her way of refusal was a reserved, "Yes, mi'lady." But she always proceeded to do what she thought best anyway. It required a great deal of finesse to get what was wanted.
"Anne?" She raised her chin imperceptibly.
"Yes? Mi'lady." She curtsied once more.
Lady Marchand noticed she held the crimson gown.
"The indigo gown?" She gestured to the folds of crimson spilling out of Anne's hands.
"Your figure is better suited to the crimson, Madam."
It was true. The crimson gown certainly added a bit of girth to her, made her look richer and plumper. But it didn't show off her breasts to Lady Marchand's satisfaction.
"Very Well," she assented.
She watched silently as Anne moved purposively, brushing the yards of soft velvet so that they drank in the afternoon sun. She couldn't help but ache for the indigo gown. It was much better at giving her a healthy glow, even if it did make her look thin. Well, she was thin, and that was not her fault. She tried to eat, but these dratted corsets kept her from keeping anything down. She braced herself on the bed frame as Anne steadied her knee against the small of her back and pulled the lacing of the corset. The strings sang as they tightened and Lady Marchand caught her breath and blew up her belly as big as she could. She would need some room for food if she wasn't going to go to bed hungry.
She sank into a chair to keep from swooning.
"Will His Lordship be to dinner this evening?"
"Yes, Madam."
She rose to allow Anne to drop the gown over her bare shoulders. She loved the soft crushed velvet against her bare skin, and really the crimson was the right choice for her figure. Her small breasts peeked demurely out over the top of her bodice. She pinched them slightly to make them pink and bright. Perhaps if she looked healthy and robust, the cold drafts wouldn't matter so much after all.
Lady Marchand entered the drawing room where her husband stood in front of the fire, a brandy in his hands.
"You are ravishing, my Lady Marchand."
Lady Marchand dropped her chin slightly, not allowing her gaze to waver from Anne's eyes. It was the silent language of mistress and servant that she was striving to learn quickly. Such formalities were not exercised between her and Sallia, but they were of vital necessity to earning Anne's respect.
Anne rose, and traversed the room in several swift movements that seemed to far a distance for her slight stature to carry her in so few steps. Everything about her was hushed, from the muted blue kirtle she wore to her white linen cap that hid her fine, silky hair. Her walk was dampened to a dull swish. It seemed that Anne did not move; she simply appeared. No one ever spoke of her husband, and Lady Marchand was burning with curiosity to know who, or what, he had been. As the Lady of the house, she had felt it her duty to acquaint herself familiarly with all of the occupants of the house, and her Lady's maid was the first intimacy she had tried to acquire. Though she had had passing success with Lawrence and Duff, Anne's sons, Anne remained distant and aloof. And as such, she was an enigma, void of personality, absent of charm. She was her position, nothing more.
Lady Marchand allowed herself to be undressed and sat obediently while Anne's fingers moved nimbly through her wavy hair, first brushing it swiftly, then sweeping it up with her firm, dry hands, and finally pinning it deftly to the sides of her head, so that not a single strand of hair was unaccounted for.
Lady Marchand winced at her reflection in the looking glass. How could she possibly catch His Lordship's eye if there were no disorder in her? She turned her head, and pried several strands loose from behind her ears, watching herself in the glass. In Shropshire, the looking glass was an oddity. But Lord Marchand had procured it for her, saints undertake it to know how! Though Anne warned her constantly of the sin of vanity, Lord Marchand had encouraged her to seek her reflection. "We never know ourselves till we see ourself seen," he had said confidentially to her, caressing her cheek. Lady Marchand smiled, admiring her small ears peeking out between falling tresses.
"Now Anne, I shall have the indigo this evening."
"Yes, mi'lady." Anne curtsied and moved away slowly.
Anne never spoke more than two words together, Lady Marchand thought. And her way of refusal was a reserved, "Yes, mi'lady." But she always proceeded to do what she thought best anyway. It required a great deal of finesse to get what was wanted.
"Anne?" She raised her chin imperceptibly.
"Yes? Mi'lady." She curtsied once more.
Lady Marchand noticed she held the crimson gown.
"The indigo gown?" She gestured to the folds of crimson spilling out of Anne's hands.
"Your figure is better suited to the crimson, Madam."
It was true. The crimson gown certainly added a bit of girth to her, made her look richer and plumper. But it didn't show off her breasts to Lady Marchand's satisfaction.
"Very Well," she assented.
She watched silently as Anne moved purposively, brushing the yards of soft velvet so that they drank in the afternoon sun. She couldn't help but ache for the indigo gown. It was much better at giving her a healthy glow, even if it did make her look thin. Well, she was thin, and that was not her fault. She tried to eat, but these dratted corsets kept her from keeping anything down. She braced herself on the bed frame as Anne steadied her knee against the small of her back and pulled the lacing of the corset. The strings sang as they tightened and Lady Marchand caught her breath and blew up her belly as big as she could. She would need some room for food if she wasn't going to go to bed hungry.
She sank into a chair to keep from swooning.
"Will His Lordship be to dinner this evening?"
"Yes, Madam."
She rose to allow Anne to drop the gown over her bare shoulders. She loved the soft crushed velvet against her bare skin, and really the crimson was the right choice for her figure. Her small breasts peeked demurely out over the top of her bodice. She pinched them slightly to make them pink and bright. Perhaps if she looked healthy and robust, the cold drafts wouldn't matter so much after all.
Lady Marchand entered the drawing room where her husband stood in front of the fire, a brandy in his hands.
"You are ravishing, my Lady Marchand."
Lord Marchand took her hand and pressed his warm lips to it. She sincerely hoped he wouldn't notice the deep scratches from her needle. She really would have to perfect her needlework skills. She declined her head, her breath coming in short bursts, "Your Grace." It was the corset more than anything which caused her to pant, but Lord Marchand took it as a sign of his virility. That sort of miscommunication between husband and wife was necessary for a healthy marriage, she reasoned, and allowed him to guide her to the sofa, where she gladly accepted a brandy of her own.
"My fairest, brightest love," he breathed as she sipped the brandy. "I have regretful news," he smiled lasciviously as she arranged herself on the sofa, taking care to prop her back so that her breasts tilted slightly toward His Lordship.
"News, my Lord?"
"Yes, my love. I shall be away the next few days. To Shropshire," he added. He kissed her neck, trailing his tongue under her ear.
"Wherefore to Shropshire, my Lord?"
"There is to be a meeting of the Merchants Guild."
Merchants. She took another sip of the brandy, leaning into his arm as he settled himself beside her on the sofa. She loved his strength and his warmth, his solid flesh that pressed into her. Lady Marchand found any sort of talk outside her range of experience to be boring. And very little was within her range of experience. Lord Marchand took her silence as an invitation to continue.
"His Majesty has appointed me to his Interior Cabinet. I am to be the Secretary of Commerce."
Lady Marchand nuzzled her head on her husband's shoulder. The King trusted him. That was good.
"What is your regret, my Lord?"
"Oh, I did have to go and say that, didn't I?" He kissed the top of her head. "The Merchants Guild meeting is to take place in Shropshire, three days ride from here. I shall be away this next week." He cradled her waist in the palm of his hand, "thinking of you, my love. And waiting to taste your sweet kisses more."
"And I shall be desiring your swift return, my Lord."
Lawrence appeared out of nowhere and refilled the Lord's snifter. He took a sip of the brandy and set the snifter on the table. Then, reaching for his wife's waist, he drew his arm around her and let his face drop into her bosom.
"My fairest, brightest love," he breathed as she sipped the brandy. "I have regretful news," he smiled lasciviously as she arranged herself on the sofa, taking care to prop her back so that her breasts tilted slightly toward His Lordship.
"News, my Lord?"
"Yes, my love. I shall be away the next few days. To Shropshire," he added. He kissed her neck, trailing his tongue under her ear.
"Wherefore to Shropshire, my Lord?"
"There is to be a meeting of the Merchants Guild."
Merchants. She took another sip of the brandy, leaning into his arm as he settled himself beside her on the sofa. She loved his strength and his warmth, his solid flesh that pressed into her. Lady Marchand found any sort of talk outside her range of experience to be boring. And very little was within her range of experience. Lord Marchand took her silence as an invitation to continue.
"His Majesty has appointed me to his Interior Cabinet. I am to be the Secretary of Commerce."
Lady Marchand nuzzled her head on her husband's shoulder. The King trusted him. That was good.
"What is your regret, my Lord?"
"Oh, I did have to go and say that, didn't I?" He kissed the top of her head. "The Merchants Guild meeting is to take place in Shropshire, three days ride from here. I shall be away this next week." He cradled her waist in the palm of his hand, "thinking of you, my love. And waiting to taste your sweet kisses more."
"And I shall be desiring your swift return, my Lord."
Lawrence appeared out of nowhere and refilled the Lord's snifter. He took a sip of the brandy and set the snifter on the table. Then, reaching for his wife's waist, he drew his arm around her and let his face drop into her bosom.
It didn't seem to matter to him that she was thin. He drew a deep breath, kissing the tops of her breasts. She giggled, feeling the warmth of the brandy trickle down her throat. So much for worrying that she wouldn't catch His Lordship's eye. She closed her eyes and tried to get a solid breath. It was no use. The corset was a bone prison and prevent anything but the smallest puffs of air. She felt faint, and a small coo escaped her parted lips, which Lord Marchand took to be a sign of encouragement.
Lawrence appeared in the nick of time--for really, she felt that if His Lordship did not stop and allow her to breathe she must certainly faint dead away in his arms.
"Your Grace." He waited, bowing.
"Lawrence."
"My Lord Vichy is arrived."
"Send him in."
Anne appeared, and Lady Marchand instinctively rose.
"No. She stays." Lord Marchand interceded.
"Your Grace." Lord Vichy bowed.
"Your Grace," Lord Marchand returned. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"His Majesty has requested that I attend the Merchant's Guild meeting, Your Grace."
Lord Marchand let the words sink in.
"Has he."
Lord Vichy nodded with a slow smile.
"Well, we shan't disappoint His Majesty, will we? My Lord Vichy, I do not think you've had the pleasure of making my wife's acquaintance."
"Indeed. I have not."
Lord Vichy took Lady Marchand's hand and kissed it lightly, letting his mouth linger for a brief moment. "Your Ladyship, the pleasure is mine."
Lady Marchand accepted the Duke's introduction with more quiet grace than she'd ever exhibited in her 22 years. His demeanor brought out in her a natural nobility that she'd never felt before. She instantly adored him.
Through dinner that evening, Lady Marchand reveled in the fact that His Grace, the Lord Vichy, refused any discussion of dull unpleasantries such as business or politics, though Lord Marchand frequently returned to these topics in earnest. Somehow Lord Vichy always managed to include her in the discussion, bringing the banality of business back to the fine pleasures of art, music and literature. He excelled in every grace, it seemed to her, and she found she loved his minute attentions to her, though they were always befitting a perfect gentleman.
That night as she crept into bed, she found herself wishing that she could attend the Merchants Guild meeting, if only to have the pleasure of His Lordship's company once more.
Lawrence appeared in the nick of time--for really, she felt that if His Lordship did not stop and allow her to breathe she must certainly faint dead away in his arms.
"Your Grace." He waited, bowing.
"Lawrence."
"My Lord Vichy is arrived."
"Send him in."
Anne appeared, and Lady Marchand instinctively rose.
"No. She stays." Lord Marchand interceded.
"Your Grace." Lord Vichy bowed.
"Your Grace," Lord Marchand returned. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"His Majesty has requested that I attend the Merchant's Guild meeting, Your Grace."
Lord Marchand let the words sink in.
"Has he."
Lord Vichy nodded with a slow smile.
"Well, we shan't disappoint His Majesty, will we? My Lord Vichy, I do not think you've had the pleasure of making my wife's acquaintance."
"Indeed. I have not."
Lord Vichy took Lady Marchand's hand and kissed it lightly, letting his mouth linger for a brief moment. "Your Ladyship, the pleasure is mine."
Lady Marchand accepted the Duke's introduction with more quiet grace than she'd ever exhibited in her 22 years. His demeanor brought out in her a natural nobility that she'd never felt before. She instantly adored him.
Through dinner that evening, Lady Marchand reveled in the fact that His Grace, the Lord Vichy, refused any discussion of dull unpleasantries such as business or politics, though Lord Marchand frequently returned to these topics in earnest. Somehow Lord Vichy always managed to include her in the discussion, bringing the banality of business back to the fine pleasures of art, music and literature. He excelled in every grace, it seemed to her, and she found she loved his minute attentions to her, though they were always befitting a perfect gentleman.
That night as she crept into bed, she found herself wishing that she could attend the Merchants Guild meeting, if only to have the pleasure of His Lordship's company once more.