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My Lady's Favor
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Chapter Four
S he had lied.
The knowledge ate away at Elysia long after Conon’s departure, keeping her awake into the morning hours. Although she’d never actually told a lie, her failure to correct the popular misconception that her marriage had been consummated was as good as an outright falsehood.
Brooding as she stared into the cold ashes of her bedroom hearth, she regretted her continued silence. She had every intention of revealing the truth to the earl last night when she went to meet with him and Conon.
But she hadn’t been allowed to see them.
Although unaccustomed to such treatment, Elysia knew such was most women’s lot. At Nevering, she had ruled the keep. Even while her brother lived, Elysia had been the one to oversee the linen trade and issue orders. How galling to go from a position of importance—one which she enjoyed immensely—to being treated with open disrespect.
Recalling Huntley’s rude treatment the previous evening riled her all over again. She had assumed the earl instructed Huntley to keep her out of their private meeting, though Conon seemed genuinely surprised when she mentioned she had been denied entry. Perhaps it was only the earl who wanted her kept in the dark.
In her anger, she decided if the earl did not want to share his plans for her, she would not bother to confide the truth to him. This morning, when she had calmed down and realized she had a moral obligation to tell him the truth no matter if she had to fight Huntley to do it, she discovered Arundel had already departed.
Since first light she had paced the floor, fearing for her soul with so grave a sin to hang upon it. She thought, too, of Conon and his fear that an heir would usurp his fortune. But how could she tell him the truth? The matter was most delicate.
She would have to live with his anger for another couple of weeks until it was proven she would not bear the next Count of Vannes. Surely, once she displayed no signs of being enceinte, she would be allowed to go home. She would simply confide the truth to her overlord when she saw him once again.
Who would it hurt if she kept the truth to herself at this point? After all, she would take nothing from Conon’s inheritance except a small dower property, and that could be returned to him as soon as she spoke with her overlord. It wasn’t as if she would be dragging the French estate home on horseback. Besides, Conon had an enormous estate to live in now, so he wouldn’t miss the deed to a minor keep for a few weeks.
Somewhat appeased by her plan, Elysia donned her old gardening kirtle to work among the flowers she’d spied the previous day. She hated idle hands. In the garden she would escape the oppressive keep, with its reminders of the horrible night before, and soothe her frayed nerves with a healthy dose of weeding.
Scarcely aware of the departing wedding guests, Elysia lost herself in the mundane task of tending an unused section of the garden, visualizing the seeds she would have planted to best utilize the space.
The male voice startled her.
“The garden seems to be a common hiding place for you, Countess.” Conon appeared out of nowhere as he had the day before.
When his kiss upon her hand had seared her flesh.
Although he was as incredibly handsome as the previous day, Elysia noted the shadows under his eyes, the sadness that lurked within. Guilt nagged at her.
As Conon helped her to her feet, she tried not to wince at the pain in her thigh from the count’s knife wound.
His eyes narrowed as he assessed her, obviously seeing the hurt.
“What is it?”
Embarrassed and guilty, she could not look at him. “It is nothing, I—”
“You should not be out so soon after a wedding night, Elysia.” His voice was as rough as the hand that still gripped her arm.
“I am fine, truly—”
“There will be talk all over France about the beautiful young English woman who came to Brittany to wed a rich count, poisoned him on his wedding night, then flaunted herself about the gardens the next day as if nothing were amiss.” His words might be accusing, but his tone was merely tired.
Ignoring the unwelcome warmth that still tingled where he touched her, she stepped out of his grasp. “Poisoned? Is that the verdict this morning?”
“Aye.” He smiled halfheartedly. “Though that verdict is subject to change several times by the end of the day and will no doubt become more embellished as the tale travels to all corners of France and England.”
“Do you believe I had a hand in the count’s death?” She brushed the soil from the worn linen kirtle she favored for gardening.
“Your refusal to stay in your chamber like a proper grieving widow today does nothing to ease my mind regarding your possible guilt.”
“What does staying shut up in my chamber have to do with how much grief I feel?” Elysia was surprised at the sting of tears in her eyes.
“You cannot convince me you mourn his loss.”
“Just because I was not overly eager to wed him? By all the saints, that does not mean I wished his demise. I imagine at least half the brides who have ever sought the altar have feared and regretted the choice of husband made for them. That does not make them bloodthirsty killers.”
“Aye. But their husbands do not end up dead on their wedding nights.”
“Very well then, my lord.” How dare he accuse her of something so foul? “Your uncle was poisoned.”
Conon’s eyes widened, a flicker of shock and disappointment crossing his expression.
“Poisoned by drink and self-indulgence,” she snapped.
“And mayhap by uncaring relatives who closed their eyes while he had been slowly killing himself for heaven knows how many years.”
“Touché, chère.” The wind caught his hair and gentled him with unseen fingers. “However, I assure you my lack of interference in my uncle’s life was not the result of indifference. Had he been my father, perhaps I would have felt I had the right to….” He paused in thought, far away from the garden and Elysia. “Yet it does not matter. He is gone.”
“I am sorry.”
“So you say. I merely came to inform you that Arundel departed, and he has left John Huntley to be your guardian while you are in residence here.”
“Sir Huntley?” She could not imagine a more loathsome protector.
“Everyone else is leaving except for Leon de Grace and myself.”
“De Grace is loyal to you, I gather?” Elysia wished she had an ally here. She did not relish the thought of spending any more time at Vannes, but it seemed a small price to pay for her freedom.
“He is his own man, and he seems to think I will need his help in the coming weeks.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of Conon’s mouth. “I could not get rid of him if I tried.”
“You are fortunate to have such a friend.”
“Fortunate with no fortune. But you are right, Countess.” Bowing, he turned toward the stables. He was but a few steps from her when he looked back. “Elysia.”
“Aye?”
“While I understand the need to lose oneself in activity during a crisis, most of our remaining guests do not.” He nodded in the direction of the road, where a small party of knights rode away from Vannes, casting curious glances toward the scene in the garden. “Would it hurt to smother any more wagging tongues?”
“Certainly.” Duly chastened, Elysia nodded, sorry she had not thought to stay within the keep for that very reason. “I will retire to my solar.”
Dusting off her small shovel, she had to admit Conon St. Simeon possessed a quiet wisdom she had not expected in so carefree a man. His frivolity at her wedding, his open liaison with a wealthy widow, had made her regard him as an insubstantial man, but now she doubted such was the case.
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.”
With admirable discretion, Belle opened the solar door and cleared her throat.
Huntley looked back and forth between the women, obviously wondering how far he should push his luck. “Very well then, Countess. I will leave you, for now.” He smiled graciously, though his eyes remained lust filled and greedy. “My offer still stands, however. I would have you think on it.”
With a curt nod, he vacated the solar, leaving Elysia irritated but enlivened. If nothing else, Huntley’s visit helped dissipate her sadness.
Soon she would go home. If her moon cycle proved as well timed as usual, she would have less than a fortnight to remain in Brittany, and then she would leave all remnants of her ill-fated marriage behind.
“You say Huntley departed her chamber well after nightfall?” Leon de Grace asked Conon for the second time, as if oblivious to Conon’s desire to speak no more of it.
“Aye.” Conon swung his sword in a wide arc, narrowly missing de Grace’s head as they practiced in the vast courtyard outside Vannes Keep the following morn.
“Did he look well pleased?” De Grace darted a blow and backhanded Conon’s blade, relieving him of his sword.
A string of unholy curses erupted from Conon’s throat as he stood at his friend’s mercy. “What do you mean by your question?”
Grinning, Leon stood back, his once vicious sword becoming a harmless staff in his hand. “You are obviously annoyed to think Huntley had some sort of tryst with your uncle’s widow. Are you not?”
Conon stalked to retrieve his blade, angry with himself for allowing de Grace to best him. Conon was ten years younger. And faster. And stronger. But he would never find wealth on the battlefield with that kind of performance. He had to focus on something besides Lady Elysia, damn it. “Not annoyed. Just insulted for my uncle’s memory.”
“Well you need not be if the man did not look well pleased, you see? A man who leaves a beautiful young woman’s room past nightfall is only having a tryst if he has a very self-satisfied look upon his face.”
Dusting the dirt from his blade, Conon tested it in a series of quick swings. “He did not look pleased, but neither did he look like a man rebuffed. Perhaps he is making headway with the countess.”
Conon waited for his friend to respond. When he received no answer, he turned to look upon him, and witnessed a troubled countenance. “What is it?”
De Grace stared down at the wildflowers and grass at his feet. “It is nothing, only—”
“What?” Conon felt a chill in his soul, anticipating an unwelcome answer.
“It merely occurred to me how much Lady Elysia has to gain by having a child to show for her marriage. I hope she has not taken it into her head to conceive one at all costs, even if it means taking Huntley as…”
Leon’s words died as a feminine voice swirled through the air on a musical note, light and sweet. Both men turned to see Countess Elysia Rougemont St. Simeon stroll out the keep gates and onto the wide path that led to the garden. She had a flat basket slung over one arm, the cutting knife inside it bouncing carelessly in time to her step. Her dark hair was caught midway down her back with a limp green ribbon. She wore a matching linen surcoat, richly embroidered with all manner of flowers and bees.
“Morning, Countess,” Leon called, halting her in her tracks along with her song.
With a polite curtsy, she waved away a raven tendril that escaped the rest of her hair and blushed a soft shade of pink. Her quiet song, her light step, softened her usual cool reserve.
Something contracted painfully inside Conon’s chest just to look at her. Could one so lovely be ruthlessly plotting against him?
“Good morning.” Her voice sounded breathless and warm, as alluring as her sweet song.
Not bothering to consider his actions, he approached her, watching her eyes grow wider with each step he took. “How long have you been receiving late-night guests in the privacy of your chambers, Countess? Only since your husband died, or has this been an ongoing indulgence?”
All signs of pleasant charm evaporated at his words. Spine straightening, she transformed into a worthy adversary before his eyes.
“I’ll thank you to give me a key to my room, my lord, so I can prevent fortune-hunting knights from forcing their attentions upon me at will.” The voice that had sounded so melodic and sweet stung him with its sharp bite. “As long as I am under your roof, it is your duty to protect me.”
As if she needed protection. Conon had never met a more capable woman. He found it difficult to believe she could not fend off one boorish knight while in the safety of her own home. “Of course, my lady. It must be difficult to stave off so many poor men.”
His barb found its mark. He could see the wound flash briefly in her eyes before she recovered herself, but not before he felt a moment’s regret for his temper.
“I hold you responsible if he gets in again.” In a swirl of skirts and swinging basket, she marched down the path to the garden.
Leon emitted a low whistle through closed teeth. “Tougher than she looks, is she not?”
“Almost makes you wonder if she is not tough enough to poison a lecherous old man to spare herself a life beside him.”
“It is a challenge to read the quiet ones,” Leon observed as they stared after her.
“You are an expert all of the sudden?”
“Aye. I know plenty about women. Why do you think I’m not a married man?”
“No luck, perhaps?” Conon watched Elysia bend toward a crop of flowers and apply her cutting knife to the stems with forceful swipes.
Leon ignored his words and pointed in Elysia’s direction instead. “You see what I mean? She is imagining that poor bloom is your head at this very moment. Women are dangerous creatures.”
Conon scraped a protective hand over his throat. Perhaps the countess warranted a bit more of his attention. What did he really know about her other than that she had strolled into his uncle’s life and convinced him to wed, and now she would benefit tidily for her efforts? Despite what Leon said, Conon also knew she didn’t have much trouble speaking her mind. And she had a talent for making money wherever she went.
But he needed to know more. The future of Vannes might rest in her hands. In her womb.
Yes, he’d do well to keep a better eye on this woman. And damn the consequences, the idea pleased him.
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