My Lady's Favor

Thrusting aside disturbing thoughts of the enigmatic new count, she hurried to Vannes and found Belle tidying her large wardrobe. The maid curtsied when Elysia arrived.

“Morning, mistress. Perhaps you would like to change?” Belle’s pointed look at Elysia’s dusty clothes conveyed her disapproval.

“Aye.” Elysia sighed. “I do not know what I was thinking to work in the garden this morning, Belle. The count’s nephew is annoyed about it.”

“’Tis easy for a girl to forget what is expected of her when she has been through all that you have, my lady.”

Elysia shook her head sadly as she finished washing with the fresh, cold water Belle brought. “My husband has not even been properly buried. I must plan a mass for him. It was selfish for me to think of my own needs at such a time. My mother taught me better than this.”

With quick efficiency, Belle had Elysia dried, dressed and seated, ready to begin the monotonous task of brushing and braiding her hair.

“You miss your mother then, my lady?”

“Aye.” Elysia thought of Lady Daria Rougemont at Nevering. Was her mother immersed in sewing and stitching to keep up with the linen orders? Or was she reveling in the freedom of escaping from her taskmaster daughter who had ensured everyone at Nevering did their share of work? “She and I grew close when my father died. Closer still when my brother, Robin, died. It hurt very much to leave her.”

“Does she tend your linens now that you are gone?”

Elysia smiled at her thoughtful maid. “I do not know if she will try to run things or not. She does not like to be plagued by details. My mother’s greatest contribution has always been her fine needlework.” Much as Elysia adored her mother, Lady Daria made no pretense that she enjoyed the labor involved in maintaining Nevering’s trade.

“If your mother does not oversee the business, who will?”

Who indeed? That very question had been the biggest deterrent to Elysia’s marriage. Of course the earl had not cared. He did not understand the finer points of the linen trade, and assumed that anyone, even his dolt of a vassal, Sir Oliver, could take the reins once Elysia left.

“Our esteemed neighbor to the north, Sir Oliver Westmoor.”

“You do not care for this man, Countess?” Belle pulled one braid over the crown of Elysia’s head and fashioned it into a slender circlet.

“Envision a less bulky, more insipid version of Sir Huntley.”

“Not a pleasing picture.” Belle secured the final braid and stood back to admire her handiwork. “How will your mother handle such a man?”

“I admit the thought has frightened me.” Stepping to the window, Elysia looked down into the courtyard to watch the latest wedding guests depart. “She should be fine until I return. Oliver cannot possibly have found reason to interfere in the scant moon since I left.”

“What if you cannot return, Countess? If you are with child, my lord Conon will not permit you to leave.”

Guilt nipped her once again, a familiar companion since the moment the whole household assumed she was no longer a maiden.

“I am not with child,” she whispered, more to herself than to Belle. Elysia’s hand strayed to her flat belly, and for the first time wondered what it would be like to carry a babe.

The thought held appeal if only she could wed an honorable man who was interested in a true partnership between husband and wife. Did such a man even exist?

Elysia warmed at the vision of herself cradling an infant with an impish twinkle in its bright blue eyes. Realizing with dismay that she’d given her baby Conon’s eyes, she turned away from the window view and tamped down the yearning for things that could never be.

For the next several days, Elysia did little more than think and brood in the confines of her room. Although Conon encouraged her to enjoy the weather and roam about the keep after the wedding guests departed, Elysia felt cruel and uncaring to go on with daily life as if nothing had happened.

Her husband was dead.

At least he had been honored and buried now. She saw to every detail of his mass and memorial gathering.

“My lady?” Belle called to her through the fog of her gloomy reverie.

“Aye?” Elysia turned from her needlework, an elaborate tunic she planned to give Belle with an embroidered bee hovering over a delicate flower.

“Your guardian is at the door, my lady. He wishes to see you.”

She had not even heard Sir Huntley knock. It was past nightfall, an unseemly hour for her to receive guests in her solar. “He must know better than to—”

“Good evening, Countess.” He suddenly stood in the middle of the solar floor, not appearing to mind that no one had admitted him. He wore a surcoat trimmed with ermine and a weighty gold medallion adorning his thick neck. A lock of damp hair fell across his forehead, suggesting he had recently bathed.

He was handsome enough, Elysia supposed, but his looks did nothing to mitigate her impression of him as a cruel man.

“Sir Huntley, really, I beg your pardon, but—”

“Nay, lady.” He bowed, smiling wolfishly. “It is I who should be begging yours for intruding so late, but I could find no other way to speak with you. You have been a bit of a recluse this past sennight.”

“I am in mourning.” What coarse manners to intrude upon a widow a scant few days after her husband’s death. Anger brewed inside her, drawing her out of the gray depression that had hung over her all week. “What is it you wished to speak with me about, sir?”

Kneeling with respectful courtesy before her, he stared at her with an impudent gaze. “Marriage.”

Elysia reeled. She heard Belle gasp behind her.

“Really, sir—”

“Call me John.”

It upset Elysia enough that she had no say in her life anymore. But now Huntley did not even give her the courtesy of speaking without interrupting.

“Nay. I could not,” she assured him. “Sir Huntley, I have only just lost my first husband. My devotion to his memory forbids me to even consider—”

Grabbing her hand in both of his, he yanked her a step closer to where he knelt. “You knew him less than a night, Elysia.”

What manner of man thought he could woo a woman by not ever letting her finish a sentence? The same kind who would attempt to court a new widow, apparently. She balked at Huntley’s familiarity and withdrew her hand. “Nay, I—”

“I will be a good father to your son, should you bear one.”

He looked reverently toward her belly, and Elysia got the sneaking suspicion he had rehearsed this speech. No wonder he would never allow her to speak. Her commentary would probably confuse his practiced words.

“I must mourn my husband, sir, and even then it is up to the earl.” Part of her longed to give him a stern set-down for his crudeness, but instinct warned her John Huntley would not take such a slight with good grace. He was a dangerous man, lacking the restraint Conon possessed.

Conon. Strange how he came to mind at the oddest times.

“The earl will give his consent if you agree, Elysia. I am his most trusted knight. He owes me much.”

“But he does not owe you me, Sir Huntley, and I am not ready to wed again.”

He looked offended, and dispensed with his courtly guise to address her in a more serious fashion. “You need a strong knight to guard your considerable wealth, Elysia. And if you bear the heir to Vannes, you’ll have all the more need of me.”

“I will not bear a child.” Elysia’s face flamed at her blatant mention of the situation, but she became more annoyed by the moment. Exasperated, she gave in to the urge to send him away. “Now I must ask that you take your leave, sir. I am overwhelmed by your proposal, and I am still in mourning. Pray speak no more of it.”