My Lady's Favor

As he watched the dignified woman in green wend her way through the crowd to join Uncle Jacques, Conon knew he had to thank her even as he resented her. She might be effectively ending any hopes for inheritance, but she would also provide him with the only extended independence he’d ever known.

If he used that freedom wisely, perhaps he would be the one greeting a breathless bride on the chapel steps in a few years’ time.

Heaven help him, he hoped his bride welcomed him more warmly than the aloof Lady Elysia.

Heaven help her, Elysia hated being a bride.

The wedding had passed in a blur of Latin and rice, until at last she and the lord of Vannes were seated at their banquet table.

She perched beside her new husband in the glow of the evening’s torchlight and watched him down the contents of his cup for at least the tenth time. After he called for a refill, Elysia pretended not to notice as he pinched the wine bearer’s backside. Although she resented having to marry such an odious creature, Elysia would not allow her dignity to crumple because of him.

The count was a huge man. He was reputed to have been a formidable warrior in his day, but it had been many years since he gave a care to his health. His jeweled sword belt did nothing to hide his girth, one of many indications that he indulged himself too freely. His ruddy nose and the high color in his cheeks suggested that he consumed great amounts of wine along with his ravenous appetite for food.

For this, Elysia did not condemn him. His penchant for ogling every woman under fifty, however, gave her a sense of impending doom.

Shuddering, she turned away from him to sweep the great hall with her gaze. She tried to ignore her husband’s arrogant nephew. Conon St. Simeon sat at the table closest to the dais, a giggling beauty wrapped about him. The younger St. Simeon displayed none of the defects of the elder. Strong, handsome, articulate, he held the crowd at his table in thrall with some tale or another, his animated face and wild gestures bespeaking only good humor, not drunkenness.

Elysia knew from his behavior in the garden this morning that he was not the angel among men he appeared. His lingering kiss and forward manner proved his lack of chivalry.

She did not mention Conon’s behavior to the count. Nor did she have any intention of doing so. She spoke little to her husband, who seemed just as happy to immerse himself in good food and abundant wine.

Elysia’s overlord, the earl of Arundel, leaned close on her other side. “You must admit, Vannes Keep is far more sophisticated than your little stone tower at Nevering.” The earl smiled benevolently, as if ready to forgive her for not wanting to come to France.

“Nevering is far more than a little stone tower, my lord, and we are both well aware of it.” Elysia could not help the edge to her voice since she had striven for years to make Nevering a strong keep as well as a gracious home. Besides, fear about the night ahead knotted her belly.

“Ah, but here you will be a lady of leisure,” her former overlord countered. “The count will provide well for you, and you will not have the worries associated with the linen trade. You can rest easy knowing Sir Oliver Westmoor will take good care of Nevering and watch over your mother.”

He will soak up all the profits until he runs the holding into the ground. She mustered a tight smile that hurt her face to bestow. Did he expect her to thank him for reminding her of the greedy neighboring lord back home who coveted Nevering and its modest wealth?

A tall knight approached them, bowing deeply before the dais table. “My lord,” the newcomer addressed the count, though he wore Arundel’s colors on his sleeve. “Might I hope for an introduction to the bride?”

The count leaned close to Elysia. “My dear, this is Sir John Huntley, Arundel’s right arm in battle.”

Elysia took in the looming height of the tall knight, his angular features and sandy brown hair pleasant enough, though his eyes held a lingering familiarity that uneased her. Her new husband draped a heavy arm about Elysia’s shoulders to draw her near to him, his bejeweled surcoat scratching her skin through her fine silken garment. The informality of his manner announced his drunkenness to the entire hall while the attending knight bowed again.

Arundel leaned over to whisper, “He is as important to me on the field as Sir Oliver is to me back home.”

Even if John Huntley had not been looking at her as a cat eyes a caged bird, the comparison to Sir Oliver would have put her on guard.

“Huntley,” Jacques continued. “The new Countess of Vannes, Elysia St. Simeon.”

She had no choice but to offer her hand, which the well-favored warrior quickly kissed.

“I am pleased to meet you, sir.” She smiled so as not to offend her husband, but her fear and apprehension of the coming night grew to painful proportions as the count squeezed her to him in a proprietary gesture.

“It is the greatest of honors, my lady.” Huntley straightened. “I beg you to consider me your champion and protector should you ever be in need of one.”

“Gallant words, son.” The count laughed, allowing his touch to stray down Elysia’s hip. “But I daresay she has all the man she needs.”

The lavish jewels on the count’s fingers snagged in her gown. His rotund body radiated warmth as if she were seated near a brazier. Elysia tilted her head to one side to escape his pungent breath on her cheek.

Bowing, Huntley departed, though Elysia felt his eyes upon her at all times.

Through the count’s uproarious mirth, Elysia heard a persistent ringing in the hall. As others became aware of it and quieted to listen, all eyes turned to Conon St. Simeon, banging his knife against his silver cup for the guests’ attention. Elysia edged away from the count, eager to put as much distance between them as possible.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Conon called, rising to his feet as the hall paused in its merrymaking. “A toast to the count and his bride.”

“Conon is my nephew,” the count whispered, wrapping one heavy arm about her waist and pulling her close to him once again. Elysia tried to mask the shudder that went through her at his touch. His breath nauseated her while his sweaty hands left damp imprints on the silk layers of her gown’s overskirt. Apparently his drunken state had robbed him of all sense of propriety.

Conon approached the table and raised his glass to the new couple. Elysia found it impossible to meet his gaze, as if he might be able to guess she had been thinking about him all day.

Intellectually, Elysia knew it did not matter whether she wed a handsome young man or an elderly lord. Marriage signified the end of a woman’s limited freedom, and a lifetime of domination by a man. Yet she couldn’t help but look at the count and wish fate had presented her with a more desirable groom.

“I wish you health and happiness and many babes to share your joy.” Conon’s voice rumbled through the hall as he made his pledge.

Elysia’s face flamed.

“May you make our name one to be feared and respected,” he continued. “And may your children be stalwart guardians of Vannes for another generation. To that end, I will faithfully serve you and your family.”

For the first time since she and the count had exchanged vows, Jacques St. Simeon’s expression grew serious as he looked upon his nephew. “Thank you, son.”

Cheers went up all around and in that moment, she braved a glance at Conon to find his gaze upon her, serious and contemplative. Perhaps her attention called him from his thoughts, because a grin suddenly stole over his face.

“Lady.” He raised his cup to her alone, then downed the rest of his wine in her honor. After slamming the vessel on the table, he crossed the room as if he could not wait to put distance between them. He pulled his dining companion into his embrace and headed toward the gathering dancers.

Elysia found her gaze would not stray from him. He wrapped the other woman in strong arms outlined by his narrowly cut tunic. Although Conon possessed the broad shoulders of a warrior, his step was light as he whirled his partner around the floor. The woman tossed her head back and laughed.

What would it feel like to be so carefree?

Elysia’s fanciful thoughts scattered as the count attempted to lean close to her and lost his balance, pitching forward. She buoyed him up with her arms, but he remained oblivious to her effort. He gestured to the dancing couple. “They make a beautiful pair, do they not?”

Elysia affected a smile in response. She had never found much to recommend beauty.

“She is a widow, you know.” The count nodded in the direction of Conon’s companion. “In our country a widow is allowed a bit of freedom to seek what company she wishes.”

In my country, too, Elysia reflected, wondering if she would ever know a time in her life when she was not bound to answer to a man. For a moment, she envied the woman. But it was certainly because of the widow’s autonomy and not her proximity to the dynamic presence of Conon St. Simeon.

Her husband flashed her a knowing grin. “’Tis why my nephew seeks out the grieving widows. They are mistresses of their own hearts—and their own bedchambers.”

He gave a loud guffaw at his joke, his fit of laughter soon turning into a fit of coughing. When his face turned red, Elysia feared for him.

“My lord, perhaps you should rest.”

“Rest?” He spluttered, apparently incensed at her choice of words. After another round of coughing, he rose to his feet with slow deliberation. His eyes issued a distinct challenge.

“Perhaps we should retire for the night and you will learn what your lord is made of.” His voice boomed with the complete lack of awareness of a drunkard. The entire hall stopped to turn wide eyes on the bridal couple.

“We retire!” the count shouted, yanking Elysia roughly to her feet beside him.

The crowd fell silent, until one lone clap broke the quiet. Elysia did not need to turn around to know which bold wedding guest instigated that noise. No matter how opposed Conon might be to his uncle’s wife, he supported the marriage in public. Elysia couldn’t deny a flicker of admiration for his family loyalty. Thunderous applause and whistles broke out amongst the well-wishers, who quickly followed Conon’s suit.

Fear, cold and still, choked her. She tripped behind the count as he pulled her through the hall, stumbling up the stairs leading to the sleeping quarters. She hadn’t prepared herself for this yet. Not that she would ever be fully prepared, but the count dragged her to bed hours before she’d thought they would retire.

Tomorrow she would wake up defiled by a lecherous old man, with nothing to look forward to in her life but more of the same, night after night. Arundel told her the count wanted to have another child, as his two children from his first marriage had died in infancy.

The fact that Elysia’s mother had told her exactly how babes were conceived only added to her anxiety. Knowing what her husband expected of her filled her with panic since Jacques St. Simeon did not seem to be a gentle man.

By the time they reached the lord’s chambers, Count Vannes appeared winded, his ire from the hall vanished in an effort to gasp for air. He looked much older than his fifty years. Elysia had a sixty-year-old tenant at Nevering who displayed twice the energy and health of her new husband.

Elysia watched his breathing slow, and he seemed to collect himself. Opening the chamber door, he smiled with some of the mocking self-deprecation she had seen in his nephew. “After you, beautiful one.”

Stepping hesitantly into the opulent chamber, she gasped when he wasted no time pulling her backward against him.

“After tonight, you will never again suggest your husband is some kind of invalid who needs to rest.” When he ran his hands possessively over her hips and down the fronts of her thighs, Elysia fought the urge to shove them away.

How would she get through the night? She was accustomed to being her own mistress, to managing her own life. How would she lie submissively beneath this drunken cad when she longed to run from him?

“There will be so much delight for you tonight, innocent one. I will be very gentle with you, I promise.” His words slurred together as he swayed on his feet and leaned against his wife, mashing her with his bulk.

Unable to support him for long, she stepped toward the room’s one chair, hoping to convince the count to sit down.

“Please, my lord.” She strained under his weight as she maneuvered him around the huge bed to the high-backed seat next to it.

Not in all her years as a starry-eyed girl did she envision this debacle for a wedding night. When she dared to dream of it, she imagined a man gazing upon her with adoring eyes as he initiated her into womanhood. An incredibly handsome man.

Like Conon.

Tripping over a protruding claw foot of the monstrous bed, Elysia lost her balance. The count fell into the linens, his arms still wrapped about her midsection, dragging her down with him.

The oaf.

“Please my lord, I—” Wriggling away from him, she stiffened when he seemed to regain control of himself.

“This is very nice, Lady Elysia.”

Pinning her body against his own, he rolled with her until he lay atop her. Her back bent at an awkward angle as her feet remained on the floor.

The count kissed her and ran groping fingers over her breasts. Elysia squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could close down all her other senses.

Muttering incoherent words in her ear, he pulled at her clothing in all directions—yanking her gown from one shoulder, tearing the fabric at her neck, hoisting up her skirt.

Elysia froze. The count grinned down at her, eyes glazed and unseeing. His hands fumbled with his clothing, pawing between their bodies to loosen his braies.

And then the pain came.

Sharp and heart-stopping it felt like a dagger, jabbing into her with considerable force. Her mother had said it would hurt but a moment….

“Damn!” The count looked down between their bodies in dismay. “I forgot to sheathe my eating knife, love.” With a tipsy lack of grace, he slid the blade clumsily from her thigh. “Does it hurt overmuch?”

Blood poured from the wound, staining her dress and the bedclothes.

“I will be fine.” Grateful for the reprieve despite the pain, Elysia pressed her kirtle to the wound. “I need some wine to bathe it, however, my lord.”

“I am so sorry.” Like a chastened young squire, Count Vannes hurried across the room to retrieve the flagon.

“Damn clumsy of me.”

After cleaning and bandaging the small gash, Elysia helped Vannes remove his eating knife from its place at his waist.

“Perhaps I have gone about this all wrong, my dear.” Grinning sheepishly, he tugged her torn tunic sleeve back over her shoulder. “I think instead, you should disrobe for me.”

He cannot be serious.

“A sweet young girl like you is unused to the careless hands of a man. It will go easier for you if you do it.”

I pray he is not this careless all the time. His conquests must be fortunate to survive the night in one piece.

He settled himself upon the bed, glassy eyes looking close to sleep. Perhaps if she took her time about it, he would pass out before she finished.

Heartened by her new plan, Elysia pulled her slippers from her feet, then slowly ungartered her hose and slid them from her legs.

Still awake.

Unwinding the ties from each sleeve was a painstaking job, but it did not take long enough to lull the count into unconsciousness. In fact, his eyes widened in anticipation.

Elysia slipped the gown from her shoulders and it pooled at her feet, leaving her clad in only her sheer linen tunic.

The count’s eyes grew huge. Elysia thought it peculiar she would engender such a response. The man surely had vast experience with women. Did he find her so terribly different? Fear and embarrassment gripped her, but it was now or never.

Lifting the hem, she pulled the slim-fitting tunic over her head, baring her body to a man for the first time.

Shyly, she glanced up to see his face…convulsed in agony.

Chapter Three

“M y lord?” Panicked, Elysia rushed to the count’s side where he sat, his body twisted to one side and frozen in place. “Are you all right?”

His glazed eyes were unseeing. He did not breathe.

Her heart dropped in her chest.

“Please, my lord, you must lie down. Catch your breath.” She eased him back to recline on the bed. “I will get help.” Yanking the linen duvet from the bed, she clutched it to her breast and ran to the door.

“Help!” she shouted the plea, but she need not have yelled. Conon St. Simeon strolled down the corridor, the voluptuous widow from dinner still clinging to his arm.

Elysia reached for him, needing him far more than the widow did. “Your uncle is unwell, sir. Please—”

Conon shoved past her into the bedroom without hesitation. “Wait for me down the hall, Marguerite,” he called over his shoulder.

For good measure, Elysia shut the door to the young woman, not wanting anyone else to witness the shambles of her wedding night.

“Unwell?” Conon turned accusing eyes to her from the count’s bedside, where he clutched his uncle’s wrist. “He is dead.”

“My God.” The room swirled, and for a moment she thought she would faint. She gripped the blanket to her like a lifeline.

“What happened?” His harsh tone forced her to think clearly.

“I do not know.” Still reeling, she sank into the chair beside the bed, recalling how she had struggled an hour ago to help the count into that very seat. “He seemed out of breath all evening, but I assumed it was because of the wine. He drank so much at dinner—”

“What happened after he brought you up here?”

Elysia felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but she knew it was sinful to think of her modesty at a time like this.

“I helped him to the bed and then…” She could not tell him about the incident with the knife. It was too embarrassing and had no bearing on the count’s death anyway. “And we…lay together until he bade me to rise and disrobe.”

“And?” His face betrayed no hint of the charm she’d spied at the wedding feast. Blue eyes bored into hers in their search for the truth.

Her face flamed. She prayed she did not have to relate the details of this night to anyone else.

“And he grew…amorous. His eyes widened and—” This was awful. “I thought…well never mind what I thought. I did not realize he was unwell at first. Feeling a bit shy, I could not meet his gaze again until it was too late. When I glanced back up at him he seemed frozen, like that.” She nodded to the still form of the count.

Conon wiped a gentle hand over his uncle’s face, shuttering the dead man’s vacant stare. Closing his own eyes at the same time, Conon kneeled beside the bed for a long moment, whispering words of prayer.

The scene, so gentle, flooded Elysia with guilt. It had not occurred to her to pray, and she was the count’s widow. She should be on her knees begging God for forgiveness that she had not saved her husband, that she had come to the marriage bed full of dread and selfishly pining for a husband who wanted more in a marriage than a house full of heirs.

“I am so sorry.”

As she intoned her own supplication for the count’s soul, Conon found his feet once again, detached and matter-of-fact.

“The union was consummated then?” He did not look at her as he asked, thank goodness, but appeared to focus on the bloodstains on the bed.

The creak of the chamber door startled them before she could speak.

“You did not lock it?” Conon rushed toward the entry, but not before his widow friend stepped through the portal.

And screamed Vannes Keep to the ground. “He’s dead!” she shrieked.

Answering footsteps resounded in the hall.

The woman stared at Elysia in openmouthed horror. “You killed him, you greedy witch.”

Conon wrapped restraining arms about his paramour and covered her mouth with his hand, speaking softly into her ear. “No one has killed anyone, Marguerite.”

Elysia’s maid appeared at the door amid a growing number of curious wedding guests. Every avid gaze fixed upon her deceased lord, and beside him, the bloodstained sheets.

“Belle, take your mistress to her chamber and help her dress.” Conon’s brusque tone rang with authority.

“Dear God!” Arundel burst through the small crowd to gape at the dead man before Elysia could escape the scene. “What has happened here?

He turned accusing eyes to Elysia.

With shock, she noticed everyone else in the room shifted their attention to her in that same, peculiar way. Awkward and self-conscious, wrapped in the bed linen, Elysia wished she could disappear.

Conon stepped in front of her, shielding her from the chamber full of wedding guests with his body. “My uncle is dead, Arundel. No doubt helped to his grave by his foolish notion to take a young bride and start another family.” Conon did nothing to hide his frustration, though he directed it more toward the earl than Elysia at the moment. “His health proved too weak to support his fancies, I fear.”

“Hah!” The woman called Marguerite stepped forward. “She probably hastened him to his death.” The widow nodded in Elysia’s direction. “I hear she stands to inherit her own lands whether or not she bears an heir.”

“I do not need anything from the count,” Elysia murmured, pulling the duvet more tightly around her. “I never have.”

“Though you will benefit.” Conon turned to glare at her, still blocking her body from the view of the rest of the room. “As my uncle thought he would from this marriage.”

“It was your uncle’s idea to wed, Conon.” The earl’s voice held a note of warning. “He came to me with the notion.”

Elysia grew more uncomfortable by the moment.

“After you paraded your prize morsel before his nose when he came to England last fall,” Conon muttered darkly.

“He fell in love with her,” the earl countered.

Conon made no response, and it seemed to Elysia that every observer heard the false ring of the words.

“He wanted her,” the earl amended. “Who am I to say nay to the girl for making a good marriage?”

“I’ll say it was a good marriage,” Marguerite huffed. “The English heiress has but to spread her legs once and—”

Elysia flinched, not so much from the woman’s crude accusation, but from the fury that came to life in Conon’s expression.

“Get out, Marguerite.”

“But it is true—”

Seeing Conon’s rigid stance, Elysia silently urged the woman out the door.

“Out.” The word was not shouted, but the fierceness of it sent the young widow hurrying from the bridal chamber.

Arundel wandered over to the count as she left, peering at the man’s body and the bedclothes. Elysia gauged the distance to the door and wondered if she could sneak out before the conversation turned back to her. She wanted to wash and dress and escape the nightmarish scene.

“Too bad the marriage was consummated,” the earl observed.

“But—” Elysia intervened, preparing to explain the matter, no matter how embarrassing it might be. With no consummation, she could not call herself a true widow.

Either Arundel ignored his former ward, or else he did not hear her, for he continued to speak. “She would bring more wealth as a virgin.”

His words shut her mouth. For him to speak of her as if she were no more than an object for sale to the highest bidder…the notion galled her.

How could he think about marrying her off to someone else already? Was he that unfeeling? She had yet to bury this husband.

Perhaps Conon had heard Elysia’s attempt to speak, for he suddenly looked hard upon her. “It was consummated, was it not, Lady Elysia?”

If it had been consummated, she would be considered a true widow to the count, and safe from marriage for at least another year. Maybe longer.