He looked back at Eleanor who gestured for him to approach the lady.
Wishing he had a name by which to call his future wife, he strode forward. As he neared, he studied her face in profile and revised his opinion. Given a choice, he would not make this lady’s acquaintance. Too much she resembled the first woman to whom he had been betrothed, albeit more mature. But he dare not further displease the queen, and he must wed a lady who brought a good dowry to the marriage.
He was several strides distant when she tapped the air between her and a nobleman of middling years and said, “Fie on you, Lord Benton.”
Now he had a name, one that stopped him and blew warm breath into his cold places. But it could not be her. She had no dowry, her father having disavowed her.
At what did the queen play? Eleanor had to know that once he had been betrothed to this lady. Might this be punishment for his defiance?
Feeling his chest and shoulders rise and fall, hearing blood thrum through his veins, he looked to the queen.
She raised her eyebrows, motioned for him to resume his approach.
Dear Lord, make me stone, he silently beseeched. Open wide a path to sooner see me away from here.
Continuing forward, he altered his course and inserted himself between Lord Benton and another nobleman. He had only a moment to take in the lady’s lovely face before shuttering his own against her gaze.
Lids fluttering, breath catching, she stumbled back and dropped her chin.
“Lady Laura?” Lord Benton gripped her arm.
“Forgive me! The heel of my slipper has failed.” She put its toe forward, providing no evidence of what remained hidden beneath the elaborately embroidered skirt of a gown that bore little resemblance to the simple gowns she had worn ten years past.
She sighed, looked up. As if Lothaire were not a flicker of the eyes away, she smiled at Lord Benton. “Pray, excuse me. I shall remedy the situation as soon as possible.”
“Do not forget your promise to sit with me at meal,” said a short, attractive man to Lothaire’s right.
“I shall not, Lord Gadot.” She swung away and, absent a hitch in her step, moved toward the stairs.
Lord Benton looked to Lothaire. “You are?”
“Baron Soames.”
The man’s brow lowered. “Another rival? Or just passing through?”
“Rival?”
“For the lady’s hand,” Lord Gadot said and winked. “Quite the surprise she is so lovely, hmm? I was certain she must be the freckled one, else the lady nearing the end of her child-bearing years, but the Lord is kind. I would very much like Lady Laura in my bed.”
For a moment, Lothaire did not know himself. But a reminder of who the lady was—a Jezebel from the top to the bottom of her—kept his hand from his dagger.
“Ah, but whoever wins her must needs watch her closely,” said the third nobleman who, were he capable of wielding a sword, would find his swing hindered by excessive weight. “I have no wish to be made a cuckold.”
As the others murmured agreement over the comment surely meant to discourage the other suitors, Lothaire ached that Laura’s sin should be so well known. And resented her for it. Blessedly, none looked upon him in any way to indicate they knew he was a victim of her cuckolding.
“Are you a rival, Baron Soames?” Lord Benton asked again.
“Just passing through.” Lothaire pivoted away from the three who sought to wed the woman he had once wanted. But no more. Not ever again. As soon as he gained an audience with the queen, he would make it known Laura Middleton was unacceptable. If Eleanor insisted on finding him a wife, it would have to be another.
Upon reaching a sideboard, he accepted a goblet of wine from a servant. Once his face was composed as much as possible, he turned.
Though the queen remained seated and conversed with one of her ladies, her eyes were on him.
She liked this game—wanted to watch the players dance on their twisted and knotted strings. But he would not, and eventually she would weary of her sport and summon him.
Unless she had another lady able to raise Lexeter out of its financial difficulties, he would depart on the morrow, ride for Wulfen, and make good out of bad by sharpening his sword skill with the anger coursing his veins.
Abel Wulfrith’s opponent would prove worthier yet. Mayhap near deadly.
Chapter 4
Blinded by tears, she knew not how she made it to her chamber. But it was the one given her, as evidenced by Tina who leapt to her feet in response to the door’s slam.
“What has happened?” the maid exclaimed as she hastened to where her lady pressed herself back against the door. “Ye have displeased the queen?”
Though Laura knew Eleanor would be unhappy with her departure, she shook her head. Panting so deeply her laces strained, she choked, “He is here,” and the face of the man who had once called her Laura love rose before her—more weathered than she would have expected, and more fit with condemnation than the last time she had looked upon it. Though a goodly distance had separated them ten years past, his judgment then had been tempered by hurt.
“Who is here, milady?”
“Lo—” She whimpered. She had thought his name a thousand times, but it had not passed her lips for longer than she could recall.
Tina gasped. “Tell me ye do not mean Lothaire Soames.”
The maid did not know the exact circumstances that led to the dissolution of Laura’s betrothal, but all of Owen and many beyond knew that once the two were to have wed. And Clarice was the reason they had not.
“Aye, Tina.” She saw him again, from wheat-colored hair springing back from his brow to tall leather boots encasing muscled calves and large feet. “Him.”
“Mercy, such ill timing! Or do ye think…? Nay, he cannot be amongst those seeking yer hand.”
Laura startled so hard her head knocked against the door. That had not occurred. Though Eleanor said she had four noblemen prepared to vie for her, what had not needed to be told was they were in such desperate need of funds they would accept as wife and mother of their children one whose taint was all the more visible in the misbegotten daughter who would also share hearth and home.
But Lothaire could not be that desperate. At worst, he had been summoned to allow the queen to test Laura’s claim she was lady enough not to succumb to the carnal outside of marriage and that her love for Lothaire had been too complete to make a cuckold of him.
“Milady, ye are twisting yer skirt into a mess, makin’ wrinkles I shall have to smooth again.” Tina closed her hands over Laura’s and gently pried them open. “And yer face!”
A sharp knock sounded, and Laura lurched away from the door. If not for Tina’s sturdy build, the two might have tumbled to the floor.
“Lady Laura, the queen approaches,” a voice called and knocked again.