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Velvet Bond. Catherine Archer
Читать онлайн.Название Velvet Bond
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Автор произведения Catherine Archer
Издательство HarperCollins
The brown-eyed man looked around them with a frown. “I would rather not speak of the matter in the midst of so many. It is somewhat private.”
“I understand,” Stephen said. “Do you need to get in to see the king?” He nodded toward the closed door at the other end of the chamber. “I may be able to help you there.”
“My thanks,” the other man answered, “but King Edward has arranged this audience himself. Methinks he will see me as soon as he learns I am here.”
Stephen only nodded.
Elizabeth had had quite enough of this. She wanted to be introduced to this man Stephen had called Warwicke, and she meant to see that she was. “Stephen,” she said with a smile for her brother, “you do not behave very well. Where are your manners? You must introduce me.”
Both men looked down at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there.
Stephen hastened to do as she asked. “Lord Raynor Warwicke, let me present my sister, Lady Elizabeth.”
Her heart fluttered in her breast as his deep brown eyes settled upon her. “Lady Elizabeth.” This time there was a faint hint of recognition in them, but his gaze did not linger as most men’s were wont to do.
“My lord Warwicke,” she replied.
But he had already turned back to Stephen. “Mayhap you could help me by finding a cleric who could tell the king I am here?”
“Of a surety,” Stephen replied, and they moved off through the throng.
Elizabeth stood there in surprise. Then she looked down at herself, wondering if she might find the answer to Lord Warwicke’s rudeness in her mode of dress. But she could find no fault with the scarlet gown. The sides were slashed wide to show off the black tunic beneath, which fitted her narrow waist and gently curving breast and hips most becomingly. The sleeves of the tunic were fashionably wide and embroidered with a pattern of musical instruments in gold and scarlet threads. She ran her hand over her gold veil and found it to be securely in place.
No, it was not her attire that had caused Warwicke to look through her as if she had no more substance than the contents of an empty cup.
In her twenty years upon this earth, never had she been so summarily dismissed. He had completely failed to acknowledge her. Even her brother seemed to have forgotten her presence. And after she had come to the castle to help him.
But what made the insult doubly hard to take was the fact that never had she reacted to any man the way she had to Warwicke.
A deep flush stained her cheeks as she recalled her actions. Elizabeth had felt drawn to the man by some force outside herself, going to him without even pausing for thought. And had, in doing so, made a complete and utter fool of herself.
Surreptitiously she looked around the room, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Now that Warwicke had left with her brother, they seemed to have gone back to their own interests. Even Percy was busily fixing the string on his lute.
Then her gaze came to rest on Lady Helen, who was standing close by, with cruel amusement in her eyes.
Elizabeth flushed, but forced herself to raise her head high. She would not allow the other woman to think she had been bested.
Lady Helen smiled thinly. “He cuts quite a figure, does he not?”
Raising finely arched brows high, Elizabeth asked, “Who?”
But the other woman was clearly not fooled. “Why, my Lord Warwicke. I felt certain that you took particular notice of him, Elizabeth.”
She shrugged with as much indifference as she could summon. “Nay. I took no particular note of the man. He is my brother’s friend, as I'm sure you heard.”
“Oh, methinks there was more to it than that,” Helen countered.
The spite in Helen Denfield’s voice was discomfiting, even though Elizabeth sensed the cause behind it. She was not so simpleminded that she was unaware of the fact that most folk thought her beautiful. It was not her fault that her looks drew so much attention, but they had made her more than a few enemies. There were many who would be happy to hear of her embarrassment. Elizabeth was a very private individual and did not care for the idea that idle court gossip would be turned her way. This was one of the reasons she and Stephen had a house in the village instead of residing at the castle itself. If she did not do something to silence Helen now, her encounter with Lord Warwicke would likely have become an affair by nightfall. Court gossips never hesitated to embellish a story beyond recognition.
But Helen Denfield had her own vulnerability, in the form of Stephen, and Elizabeth wasn’t above reminding her of this.
Helen did not know her well enough, and so could not know Elizabeth would never actually spread tales. But Elizabeth was aware that most people were apt to judge others by themselves, and so Helen would likely believe otherwise. The widow would surely hold her tongue, if she thought Stephen’s sister might talk about her affair with him. Rumor of the liaison would not aid her in her quest for a husband.
Elizabeth said, “My dear Lady Helen, I'm most certain you misunderstood. After all, you seem too much fixed on the things my brother does and says to take note of aught else.”
Lady Denfield gasped, and raised her hand as if to slap Elizabeth. Then, as the younger woman continued to return her stare, the widow seemed to realize that her genteel pose would not be served by such an act. Helen turned and fled the room.
Elizabeth arched a brow, watching as the brown-haired beauty lifted a delicate hand to wipe away nonexistent tears, just in case someone had taken note of their exchange.
But Elizabeth didn’t really care. She had already forgotten Helen as she turned toward the other end of the room, where the door to the king’s audience chamber lay. There was no sign of her brother or the other two men, and she could only assume they had gone into the inner room.
Her mind was ablaze with unanswered questions concerning Raynor Warwicke. He was the most compelling man she had ever seen. Her lips tightened as she recalled the way he had barely acknowledged her presence. It simply would not do. Because of her own interest in him, Elizabeth felt a need for him to show some reaction to her.
Pensively she frowned. Not once in her life had Elizabeth been denied anything she wanted. And she did not mean to set a different precedent now.
She was not finished with Lord Warwicke yet.
* * *
The luxuriously appointed audience chamber left little impression on Lord Raynor Warwicke as he walked down the wide aisle at its center, leaving Stephen and Bronic waiting just inside the oaken door. He forced himself onward on legs that felt as stiff as tilting posts as he passed by the somberly dressed clergy and sumptuously dressed courtiers who stood at either side of him. All his attention was focused on his king, where he sat on a raised dais at the end of the audience chamber. Edward III was flanked by two of his knights, both members of the Order of the Garter. Roger Mortise and the earl of Caliber were men of exemplary character, and battle-hardened warriors loyal to the throne. Edward was a king who set such store by honor and chivalry that he had established the Order of the Garter in 1348 for the purpose of exalting those qualities.
The baron of Warwicke did his best to relax the rigid muscles in his face and shoulders. The king would not know that Raynor had come here fully prepared to forswear himself, nor that the very future of an innocent three-year-old child hinged upon his doing just that.
Raynor was totally aware of the tall, slim man who stood to the right of the dais. There was nothing in that one’s outward appearance to tell the world that he was the most despicable of men. He was dressed as the other courtiers were, in rich fabrics and colors, and his face was strongly made, his Viking heritage firmly stamped upon it. Harrington’s eyes were blue, the hair a deep golden-brown.