LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

whom she had not set eyes on since that day in January, now well over two years ago, in the royal palace at Westminster. A face that haunted her sleeping and waking hours.

      Lord Richard Stafford. A supporter of the legitimate Lancastrian claim of King Henry VI. A man with a notable reputation for his skills as a knight, both in the mock warfare of the tournament and in the grim reality of the battlefield. Men spoke of his prowess at Ludford Bridge when the Lancastrians had swept all before them and the Duke of York had been driven into exile in Ireland. Lord Richard had become recognised as one of the foremost adherents to the Crown, close relative of that most powerful aristocrat the Duke of Buckingham, who was the Commander of the king’s armies.

      And now that Lord Richard stood before her, she was lost for words beyond the most distressingly mundane. At last, aware of some interested glances around her and through sheer force of will, she resorted to the polite smile and polished manners of the Lady of Great Houghton Hall.

      “Lord Richard. Welcome. Some ale, I think.”

      Whilst Lord Richard Stafford equally grasped at his disordered senses. With a perfectly bland expression he found enough presence of mind to execute a formal and graceful bow to the lady who had just dropped the tray on the table from unusually clumsy fingers. She was looking at him as if she were facing an other–worldly apparition in her home. He could not read the emotions that darkened her eyes and drained the delicate color from her skin.

      “My thanks, Lady Beatrice. Ale would be most acceptable.”

      Beatrice collected a jug of ale and a pewter cup. Then by common consent the lady and gentleman moved a little aside to the relative privacy of a window embrasure. The newly installed glass and enlarged openings, indicative of Sir William’s wealth and position in the locality, awarded them a most attractive view over the informal gardens that Beatrice loved and tended. The tumbling blooms of Rosa Mundi, the sweet upturned faces of the gillyflowers might waft their heady perfume, the lilies might flower with regal grace. But neither Lord Richard nor Lady Beatrice was aware. Neither did they so much as glance through the window at the tempting scene. She poured the ale and presented the goblet with lowered gaze. He accepted it, his eyes never leaving her face. If his hands should brush her fingers, the slightest of caresses in the acceptance, no one would notice or find room for comment. But Beatrice noticed, held her breath as the butterfly wings of physical awareness fluttered in her belly. For him the effect was a powerful blow to the gut. Desire for her, strong, unexpected, shuddered through him.

      “Beatrice,” he murmured after a gulp of ale to ease the dryness of his throat that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. “Are you well?”

      “Yes. And you?” Now she looked up. “As you see.”

      And he looked amazing. He filled her whole horizon so that she could not take her eyes from him, all other in the room fading into insignificance. Tall and loose–limbed with the well–toned muscles of a soldier, Richard stood before her with all the elegant grace she remembered as being so characteristic of this man whom she had met at a Twelfth Night celebration at the royal court. His hair was the same dark brown with rich glints of gold and russet when caught in the sun’s rays. It fell heavily to wave around a face not conventionally handsome. Narrow and austere with a straight nose and firm chin, it was the face of a man who would command his own destiny and who would command others. A face of sharp angles and flat planes. There was the touch of arrogance she recalled so well. The dominance and the aura of controlled male power. And also the carved aestheticism, almost the face of a scholar, but the body of a man of action. A lethal combination for those who would look and admire. Beatrice found her eyes drawn to his once more. Clear and piercing beneath dark brows, their depths, somewhere tantalisingly between grey and green, gleamed with golden lights. Ah, yes. Just as in her dreams. So fierce and direct as they were, guarded by slightly heavy lids. An arresting face, to be sure. To draw the eyes of any woman and make her wonder.

      “Are you happy?” His voice was also as she remembered. Cool and deep. Beautiful. Its silken tones stroked her senses so that memories shivered along the length of her spine to spin her back into the past. But this must not be! Shaking her head, she forced her mind to concentrate on the meaning of his words.

      “Are you happy, Beatrice?”

      She could not answer. Shook her head. Then, because honesty demanded it, replied, a little sharply because it touched on the heart of the matter between them. “I must not complain. Life is comfortable enough here. I have all I need and more. I lack for nothing of material wealth.”

      There was a little silence that hung in the warm air.

      “Have you married?” she found herself asking. His answer could not possibly have any bearing on her life, yet she found herself tensing against his reply.

      “No. I have not.” Then, “Your parents. Are they in good health?”

      “My father is dead, last year of one of the pestilent fevers. Ned, my brother, is now head of the family. He is settled at Mears Ashby with his wife and an infant son. My mother, Lady Margery, lives with them.” A deliberate hesitation to halt the rush of unimportant detail. Then in a low voice. “Ned would never have forced me to wed William Somerton just because his estate marched with ours.”

      There was nothing Richard could say. He stretched out one hand as if he would touch her cheek, then let it fall. He could not. Too public. Too compromising.

      “Does he—does Somerton treat you well?”

      “He does not beat me.” Which said it all. Beatrice raised her head. Pride stiffened her spine.

      “You deserve to be loved. Does he love you?” Richard persisted.

      “No. He acquired an excellent dowry. And the Hatton connection. That is all he wanted. He has no need of me.” She could not prevent her fingers linking together. They were white with pressure but she was careful that her face should express no emotion.

      Lord Richard knew he should not ask her—but equally knew that he must know the answer.

      “Does he treat you with consideration?”

      She looked up at him, taken aback at so forthright a demand. She knew his meaning, and answered with all her usual openness. She could not lie to 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

Скачать книгу