Читать книгу Unexpected Pleasures - Mary Wine - Страница 4

CHAPTER ONE

Whitehall Palace, October 1546

The Viscount Gregory Biddeford was considered to be a handsome man, but Justina saw only his ambition, which made him hideous in her way of thinking.

“You have made me wait upon you, madam.”

He touched the tips of his fingers against each other, lightly tapping them together. “For a woman who has so much to lose, I think your tardiness a foolish lapse of attention to the matter of making certain that I am pleased with you ...”

His eyes narrowed. “In all that you do.”

Justina suppressed the urge to cover herself. The viscount had not announced his entrance into her chamber, and she wore only a chemise. The fragile silk was translucent in places from the water that had dripped out of her freshly washed hair, making the thin fabric stick to her body. The viscount considered her curves with a flicker of lust in his eyes. However, she knew the man well enough to know that it would be simple to turn his attention away from her flesh in favor of reprimanding her for being bold enough to argue with him. The man’s ego always reigned supreme over his lust.

“The Baron Ryppon is known for his dislike of being betrayed, my lord. You knew that he would not fail to unmask me once I had done your bidding and set his bride free during the night.”

“You should have followed her out of the fortress. That solution was so simple, it could have been thought of by a child.”

Justina had to force her temper down, which was surprising. Her time at Amber Hill seemed to have drained away some of her tolerance for the viscount’s lashing tongue. The pompous ass always sent others to do his bidding while having no compassion for the difficulty of the tasks. He was dressed from head to toe in the latest fashions. Velvet sewn with pearls, bits of gold, and jewels was tailored to fit his frame precisely. Around his neck he wore the solid gold knight of the garter order with its Tudor rose medallions and depictions of St. George slaying the dragon. While she had been imprisoned on the borderland, the man who had sent her there had been busy visiting his tailor.

“If I had attempted to follow her, the guards would have been alerted to her escape. Once she was gone, I was trapped inside the walls until morning and could not escape being caught. The Baron Ryppon refused to allow me to leave once the deed was discovered.”

Biddeford stepped closer, his gaze sliding down her body in a slow and insulting inspection. He reached out and touched her cheek, stroking his fingertips across her skin. A single shudder of distaste rippled across her in spite of her years of bowing to his will.

“Your time in that fortress weakened you, my sweet widow. Your feelings show on your face now.” He leaned down, close enough that she felt his breath against her cheek. “That will never do.”

He peered down the front of the gaping neckline of her chemise, his gaze drinking in the sight of her nude breasts and nipples. Justina jerked away, revulsion flowing through her in a thick stream.

Biddeford chuckled. “As I stated, you are weak. That body is mine to command, madam. I am your guardian, and you shall be obedient to my will.”

She wanted to narrow her eyes, but showing her real emotion was a luxury that she could ill afford. Instead she lowered her eyelashes to conceal the bright flash of her rebellion. “I did as you said, my lord.”

The viscount waved his hand. “Ryppon’s bride is irrelevant now. Lord Oswald has been given his expected treat in the form of another girl I was forced to find because you failed to deliver Bridget Newbury as I instructed you to. You have failed me.”

“I showed Bridget the way from Amber Hill. She was well away. Her escort failed you by not being able to get her to the coast.”

The viscount waved his hand again, this time his motion more impatient. “I told you, madam, it is irrelevant. While you have been locked away on the borderland, much has happened here at court. The King will die very soon.”

“You should not say anything of that nature. Only God knows such a thing.” Justina snapped at him before thinking.

A deadly look entered Biddeford’s eyes. “Have you taken leave of your senses, madam? Has it somehow escaped your notice that I am the guardian of your son and his future is entirely within my power to direct? Perhaps you require a demonstration of my control over your future. I will send for Brandon and have him brought to court. For certain there will be something I can think to do with such a pretty little boy.”

“You promised me that you will leave my son in the country.” Rage flashed through her too hot to ignore but still she fought to conceal it. “I have done much, too much, to earn that from you.”

“You seem to have forgotten that my word is good only so long as you obey me, madam.” Biddeford drew in a stiff breath. “You shall keep that tongue pleasant when addressing me, and you had better be grateful that your beauty still shines enough to be of use to me. I care not what you think, madam, no one does. You are a woman, a vessel used to please men, You will serve me, and anyone I direct you to, else I shall have your son be brought to court. As we both know, there are men who prefer boys to women.”

The chamber was so silent, Justina could hear her own heart beating. Part of her would have liked to die rather than submit, but the memory of her son’s sweet face kept her alive. She was his only hope, his one protector, no matter what it took to shelter him from the depravity of the man standing in front of her. The law favored the viscount in every way since her husband had named him the guardian of their son. She was naught but a widow and her own family was gone.

The viscount took her silence as agreement. “Better. At least you seem to be able to learn quickly. Now, dress yourself and attend to the Princess Mary. The ambassador from Portugal has been sitting beside her most of the day, and I want to know what the man is saying to her.”

The door closed behind the man, and she heard his escort fall into step with him. Shivers began to move down her back and along her limbs.

She dare not refuse ...

A side door opened and two maids entered the chamber without a sound. The servants who lived in the palace were always wise enough to disappear when it was in their best interest, but they also heard everything, returning at precisely the moment they were needed. One knelt at her feet to help her into lace stockings secured with satin garters, while the other picked up a silver hairbrush and began pulling it through Justina’s damp hair.

Anyone looking into the chamber might think her a lady being attended as her noble blood deserved, but in truth she was no better than any whore walking the dockside out of desperation, to earn enough coin to avoid seeing her children suffer. Just because she had finer clothing and a warm fire at hand did not change how she earned those comforts. The world seemed to hold little good for women. The most blessed gift she had ever received took every bit of her strength to protect.

Her son Brandon.

Justina allowed his face to surface from her memory while the maids continued to dress her. One of them picked up the pair of boy’s britches she had used to escape from Baron Ryppon. The maid looked shocked, but Justina offered her no explanation for the male garments. For certain it was considered wrong for a female to wear such things as britches; the Church preached that it was unnatural for any woman to dress contrary to her gender. Only a woman possessed by the devil would do so. Those who liked to hunt witches often used the charge of wearing britches to help condemn their unfortunate prisoners.

Justina didn’t plan to say even one prayer of repentance for the wearing of those boy’s clothes. No one thought about stopping a young boy on the road. Every villager she had passed had taken little notice of her. They had assumed she was carrying a message and never thought she might be a woman who had bound her breasts to keep them from betraying her. She had even been tossed bread and cheese because the mare she rode was fine, and the woman who offered her the meal hoped that Justina would tell her master of the kindness. Perhaps send her a silver coin or two if she passed that way again.

Guilt did prick her for taking the food, but she had needed the strength to make it to Whitehall. She had to return and protect her son. What did it matter if she hated what she had become, so long as her child remained in the country, far removed from the depravity of court. Her own father was dead and that left her at the mercy of the guardian her husband’s will named. The Viscount Biddeford was a relation of her husband and the man embodied the ideal of a noble family. He made sure that not one bit of silver went unaccounted for and that every person under his power did their share to advance his name and fortune.

He didn’t care what method was needed, either. Justina refused to allow tears to gather in her eyes. Tears were a sign of weakness, and she wasn’t the first woman who had been used to charm information out of a man by acting as his lover. As far as the viscount was concerned, her chastity had served its purpose when she wed a titled man, and whom she slept with now that she was widowed was something for him to direct. It shouldn’t bother her, after all, she had never chosen her own lover, never laid down with a man she felt something more than even mild lust for. It shouldn’t matter and yet, she discovered herself dwelling on it now. The viscount was correct about one thing; her time away from court had affected her. She wouldn’t have thought that distance might cleanse her, scraping away the deceit and sin that felt as though it clung to her skin, but it had, because now she would have sworn that she could smell the stench of those around her who had blackened souls.

She turned and looked into an expensive and rare mirror. It was by far one of the finest things in the room, its surface showing her reflection with the help of the candlelight.

She was a beauty. As long as she could recall, she had been told that her complexion was flawless, creamy and smooth with lips that remained the color of spring berries without paint. Her nose was small and well shaped and her cheekbones high and slanted. She had a head of golden hair with a hint of red. Her father had delighted in her fair looks, clothing her in costly silk to show off her beauty. But he hadn’t done it to celebrate her good fortune in being blessed with comely features; no, her sire had dangled her like a rare treat in front of men with bluer blood than his. Marriage offers had begun appearing on her father’s desk by the time she was ten and before she saw her sixteenth natal day she was a wife. A coveted bride that her husband, the Baron Wincott, had delighted in parading through the court like a mare won from the auction block. He had lorded her possession over his friends, outlining every detail of their coupling without any concern for her tender modesty. Five of his fellow lords had been invited to the consummation of their union and the tears falling down her cheeks had not stopped her husband from stripping her bare in front of their lustful gazes. It had not been the only night her husband had allowed others to watch him using her. The baron was sick and depraved, and her married life had been one torrid night after the next, the only reprieve coming when she swelled with child and her husband sent her to the country because he found her round belly ugly.

No, she had no time for tears, or weakness, or admiring of her fair features. Her beauty was a curse and one that had brought her much suffering. Her life would have been far kinder if she were plain, for that would have seen her father wedding her to some quiet gentleman of modest means.

The maids brought her fine leather shoes that had been specially made for her feet. They had heels on them for dancing, and one maid fetched a silk ribbon with pearls dangling from the ends to tie each shoe with. Next came a farthingale. The slip was set with steel hoops that would hold out the skirts of her gown and keep the dress in its cone shape. A pair of stays was laced over her chest to raise and support her breasts. The maids lifted a heavy dress up and over her head. Justina raised her arms and the garment fell down in a flutter of brocade and velvet. The viscount made sure she was provided with the most recent fashions, and the gown was no exception. Set with a square neckline edged with costly velvet, the gown was constructed of brocade in hues of blue and silver to set off her blond hair. The neckline exposed the creamy swells of her breasts when the bodice was laced into position.

“A partlet, I believe.”

One of the maids looked up and nibbled on her lip. “His lordship did not instruct us to dress you in a partlet, my lady.”

The servant looked at the amount of flesh the gown exposed but still remained obedient to her employer’s instructions. Justina was well accustomed to such but she had also learned long ago, when she had wiped her child-bride’s tears from her cheeks and refused to crumple at the feet of the men who felt they owned her, to be clever. She had discovered how to outthink the men around her because that was the only way that she, as a woman, might prevail.

“Yes, and you also heard the viscount tell me to attend the Princess Mary. Her highness is known for her modesty and does not tolerate ladies who do not recall that facet of her disposition. Without a partlet, I doubt I will attend her very long.”

The servant’s eyes widened with understanding. “Oh yes, you are very astute, my lady. The viscount will be pleased.”

Pleased ... yes, that was what Justina needed. For the man to be satisfied with her. A ripple of something that felt very much like resentment went through her. The emotion surprised her because she had banished such feelings long ago. If she had not, she would have gone insane.

The Church would tell her that she deserved what Biddeford gave her for being so relieved when her husband died. She had been relieved and overjoyed and a hundred other emotions that had nothing to do with grief. But such elation had been short lived. The viscount had sent for her, and the moment she appeared at court, the man had begun directing her to use her cursed beauty to snare the secrets that he desired.

The maid returned with a simple over-partlet that was little more than a yoke, sewn at the shoulders with a collar. It fit perfectly on top of the dress and tied beneath her arms. The maid used pearl-topped pins to secure it at the center front of the neckline. Constructed of silk, the fabric covered her breasts up to her collarbones, leaving only a slim inch of skin on display where the two fronts met. It was set with a collar that had lace edging and more pearls.

“That should meet with her highness’s approval.” The maid had spoken before she thought, and ducked her chin when she realized that she had indeed uttered her thoughts without being asked for her opinion. She hurried to finish dressing her and Justina remained silent.

They were both caught in the net of rules that held them down. Just because she was addressed as a lady made little difference. She was a servant as sure as the woman fussing with her cuffs.

The other maid had dressed her hair and Justina moved to the door the moment they both stopped picking at the details of her dressing. At least going to attend the princess was not a horrible thing. She would save her hesitating for times when the viscount pointed her toward truly sordid things.

Brandon ... she thought of her son and her lips lifted with true joy. No one need know why she smiled.

Curan Ramsden, Lord Ryppon, stood on his front steps to watch his second in command take leave of the castle for the final time.

“I believe I shall miss Synclair. He’s served me as a second in command very well, I shall be hard pressed to find anyone as skilled.”

His wife, Bridget Newbury, drew a quick jerk from him because he had been so focused on the knight making ready to leave. His wife offered him a slight curving of her lips as she joined him. The minx enjoyed being able to sneak up on him.

“Synclair has performed his duty with honor. It is time for him to return to his family.”

“That isn’t where he is going.” Bridget kept her voice low so that it would not carry. His wife was the model of submission except for when no one else might hear her.

Curan admitted to enjoying that facet of her personality quite well behind the closed door of their chamber.

“Synclair didn’t say where he was going, and he owes me no telling of what is on his mind now that his time of service is finished.”

His wife smothered a small sound of amusement. “You choose not to ask because we both know full well that he is going to pursue Lady Wincott.

“We do? I am not certain of any such thing.”

His wife frowned at him. “I see, my lord husband, then am I to understand that you gave him a parchment, sealed with your crest, to deliver to the King because you expect him to ride to his lands and hand it over to a rider there?”

Curan chuckled softly. “I didn’t ask him, but in the event that he does go to court, I sent the missive with him. You are too concerned with others’ affairs, Wife.”

Bridget offered her husband a calculating glance; he returned a guarded one that she answered with a widening of her eyes and a flutter of her eyelashes. Bridget offered him a sweet smile that held no more meaning, nor intelligence, than a springtime duckling. Curan laughed, his rich voice full of amusement.

Bridget waved one hand in the air and allowed her features to return to normal. “I am also not simple, and you like that too much, Husband.”

“That is true, even if I find your ability to mask your thoughts quite entertaining ... that is when it is being directed at someone else.”

Curan reached down to where his wife’s belly was gently rounding. Their first child was growing in spite of the winter closing its grip over the land. Snow flurries drifted in the air, melting when they made it to the ground. Synclair was tense, the knight intent on checking his horse before he mounted. He reached out to tug on a strap and then another, walking all the way around the horse before nodding with approval.

That had always been the man’s way. Synclair left nothing to chance, no detail overlooked. He had served out his time with a diligence that was worthy of the knight’s chain he wore. Synclair lifted one booted foot and placed it in the stirrup before rising in a single fluid motion to gain the saddle. His body was powerful and accomplished the task with ease, giving testimony to the years the man had trained. Two white plumes topped his helmet, proclaiming his rank to anyone approaching him.

Somehow, Curan didn’t think that Lady Wincott needed to see Synclair riding toward her. Unless he missed his guess, the lady would feel the knight closing in on her. His own sister had gifted her mare to Justina so that she might flee back to court. Curan wished Jemma hadn’t interfered. One more day and Synclair would have been free to claim the lady.

Synclair never looked back but set his spurs into the belly of his stallion and leaned down low over the neck of the animal when it lunged forward. A small party of men followed the knight newly released from service. These were Harrow retainers, men who had been waiting for their lord to finish his sworn duty.

“I do hope Justina is looking over her shoulder, Husband.”

“Come now, Wife, do you wish her to be any easier to bring to heel than you were?”

His wife frowned at him. “Bring to heel?”

Her complexion darkened as she chewed on his choice of words. “I was attempting to be a dutiful daughter.”

Curan felt his own mood darken. “I believe Justina feels she is doing the same, but I for one hope Synclair can interfere in that duty.”

His wife lost her annoyed look. “As do I.”

For love was worth the sacrifice of pride.

The palace, despite being full of people, was unnaturally hushed. Justina made her way through the hallways, feeling the eyes of the people she passed rest on her. They inspected her, critiquing her poise and every detail about her person from the position of her hands to the angle she held her chin. Fans lifted and ladies leaned closer together to whisper about her, not really caring if she noticed. When one was at court, it was simply best to expect to be talked about; when one did the things that she had done, gossip was sure to follow.

“Lady Wincott.”

Francis de Canis drew her name out in a low tone that left no doubt in her mind that the man was debating just how high her price was. He was a dangerous man, one who sold his services to high-born nobles and didn’t quibble over spilling blood in the process of delivering what he’d promised.

He didn’t wait for her to offer her hand but instead reached out and captured it while she was completing her curtsy.

“I must say, it is a delight to see you gracing these hallways once more.”

“How kind of you to say.”

Justina didn’t tug on her hand; resistance would only encourage a man such as he. He thrived on making conquests, and putting up a fight was sure to cause him to double his efforts to claim her. He raised her hand to his lips and pressed an overly long kiss against the back of her hand, but he stared into her eyes while his mouth lingered over her skin. Lust darkened his eyes along with the unmistakable flicker of arrogant intention to have her at his mercy.

Justina offered him naught save for a bland expression. His fingers tightened around hers before releasing.

“We must see more of each other, now that you are returned. You will have to tell the Viscount that.”

“The Viscount Biddeford is my most dear cousin by marriage. His very great kindness to me since my husband died makes it impossible for me to do anything so bold as to tell him what to do.”

Justina lowered her lashes to conceal just how revolting she found his suggestion. The man hunted amid the court for any woman he considered to be wanted by other men. Well, she knew a thing or two about how to survive at court, and one was to use formal politeness to gain her way. It pleased her to be able to give a man such as de Canis such empty words because he was a man that enjoyed having women kept beneath the heels of other men. Let him watch that same meekness being used against him for a change.

“But does he show his appreciation of your devotion as well as I might?” There was a hint of a promise in his voice but one she would be foolish to take sanctuary in. She would only be trading one monster for another. De Canis would use her and then sell her without a care to who bought her favors, so long as he was well pleased with the transaction.

“As I said, he is most dear because of the great concern he lavishes upon me. I do not believe there is a single hour of the day that he is not sure of where I am. He is very careful to make sure I am well settled in every moment.”

Aye, well settled and well paid for ...

“Yes, I have heard that he keeps you close, Lady Wincott. Which accounts for my surprise in discovering you here. Quite alone as it seems.”

“I am to attend her majesty the Princess Mary.”

“Ah ...” He boldly reached out and trailed one finger across the surface of her partlet. Beneath it, the swell of her breast felt his touch, and she fought the urge to cringe.

“That would explain you covering up such delightful treats.”

He was daring her to show her true temper and abandon her meekness. Justina brushed by de Canis but not before she heard him chuckle. The man had a habit of decorating his lovers with expensive jewelry, proving that in spite of his common birth, he was a man of means.

He wasn’t the only one walking the halls of Whitehall Palace. There were new men of means who owed their fortunes to the sacking of the monasteries and cathedrals. King Henry Tudor handed out the riches to those who aided him in driving the last of the Catholic Church from England, but he took much of that money back when those common men came to him to buy titles.

It was a petty circle, one fueled by greed, and now that King Henry Tudor was dying, the fighting over what was left was growing more frantic. The King’s only son, Edward, was a boy of nine. True power would be held by the men named in the King’s will to govern for the young prince whom King Henry had spent so much effort trying to have.

Justina turned a corner and discovered the Princess Mary strolling on the green with her half sister, the Princess Elizabeth. The weather was cold now and the grass more brown than green, but the two sisters walked side by side while surrounded by onlookers.

Justina had to force a lump down her throat before she could walk any further. The onlookers sickened her with their sly glares and whispers. Mary Tudor was a grown woman now, but her father had never seen her wed. Both sisters had spent many years labeled as bastards while the King married again and again in pursuit of more sons. Only now, at the end of his life, was Henry Tudor spending time with his daughters. It was Queen Catherine Parr who urged her husband to do so but Justina couldn’t do anything save pity the two princesses for the rough road both had been given by life.

“The Lady Justina, Dowager Baroness Wincott.”

The chamberlain announced her and struck the stone walkway with his white staff while Justina lowered herself. Neither princess even looked at her, but several heads turned in her direction as she joined the crowd. Newly arrived daughters stood in their fine dresses near their mothers or guardians while they hoped to be noticed by someone important. Justina moved through the crowd, offering curtsies to many but avoiding engaging in true conversations. People were pressed almost too close in their quest to be near the royals, everyone talking in hushed tones while they tried to think of ways to gain whatever they wanted. Justina moved through them, intent on the same thing, to gain enough of the princesses’ attention to satisfy Biddeford.

“Lady Wincott.” Another chamberlain struck the stone walkways, startling her.

Justina faltered for a moment because she had not expected her name to be called so soon. She recovered quickly, hurrying to the man wearing the tabard of the King. She lowered herself and waited for the princesses to raise her, but it was an older woman who spoke.

Queen Catherine Parr was much younger than her husband, and she sat beneath a canopy with her ladies. In fact, there was not a single gentleman beneath the fabric, the chamberlain standing a full twenty feet away.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

The Queen set her embroidery aside, looking disgusted by it. She changed her expression quickly, as though she had made a great error in allowing any emotion to show. A smooth expression appeared on her face as she looked at Justina.

“It is said that you have returned from the high country.”

“Yes, I have.”

The Queen folded her hands perfectly and sat them in her lap. “Perhaps you might sit and offer us a bit of entertainment with details of your travels.”

“Of course. Is there something in particular Your Majesty would like to hear about?”

The Queen tried to sound happy but there was a hint of boredom in her tone. Justina nodded and stepped forward while a chill went down the back of her neck. There was a tension beneath the canopy she had not felt from the Queen before. Her ladies cut quick glances between one another before they all folded their hands and adopted the same posture that the Queen did. Each looked like a doll that had been carefully dressed and posed by its owner. The rest of the court pressed forward but were kept behind the chamberlain so that no one was near the Queen. Not one of her ladies moved or spoke, they simply waited. The Queen kept her hands folded and seemed to search for a question.

“Were the flowers and clover in bloom?”

It was quite a benign topic and one that stunned Justina. Catherine Parr was well known for her love of books and study. It was one of the reasons Henry the Eighth enjoyed her company. It was known that she often debated theology with the King when they were in privy. She had been heard to say that such debates took his mind off his leg wound and that she was happy to be able to ease his pain.

And today she asked about flowers and clover ...

There was a hint of fear in the Queen’s eyes and a pinched look around her lips. Justina felt the tension wrap around her and she clasped her hands together, just as sedately as Catherine Parr was doing.

“The clover was indeed quite lovely during the summer. . .”

Justina didn’t know why, but she could feel the anxiety in the air, so she spoke of springtime foolishness, and noted with unease that the Queen seemed to listen intently.

The Queen retired early, taking her ladies and the princesses with her. Justina forced her expression to be smooth while she walked the distance to her rooms. Being housed in the palace was the doing of Biddeford, but for the moment she was pleased to not need to travel to a townhome for the night. That would have required her to either ride or take a carriage. She might wait quite some time for her carriage or mare to be brought up from the stables because they were an entire city block from the main palace. The only way to ensure her mare was brought forward soon would be to press some silver into the groom’s hand.

Her chambers were very nice, if a bit small. She had two windows and they were a very nice luxury for they allowed the rooms to be aired out. Many of the interior rooms had the scent of smoke lingering halfway down their walls from the fires that had kept their inhabitants warm during the winter months.

But her chambers were not as private as she might have liked. The viscount sat at the table in the front room, sipping expensive French wine from a glass goblet. His manservant stood silently behind him which was a reminder to her that Biddeford considered himself worthy of service at all times of the day.

“Do you like it?” He held one of the glass goblets up so that the candlelight shone through it. The wine in the glass was visible, and he tilted the glass back and forth to display its translucent ability.

“A gift from the King.” Smug satisfaction coated his voice while he took another sip from the delicate glass. Justina stood and waited while he set the goblet down. There was a flicker of his eyelashes, indicating that he knew she waited on him, but he did not grant her permission to sit. The heels were digging into her feet now and the skirt of the gown had begun making her lower back ache hours ago, but she could not sit in the presence of her better without his leave.

“How did you find our Queen?” There was thicker smugness in his voice now and a satisfied gleam in his eyes as well.

“Her Majesty was very welcoming.”

“You mean she was boring and meek.” Biddeford chuckled. “Yes, our dear Queen almost found herself in the tower like so many of her predecessors.”

Justina failed to smother her gasp of horror. The viscount tapped the table while smiling at her.

“Chancellor Wriothesley had the arrest warrant penned and the guard marching off to take her away when she somehow learned of the affair and threw herself on the ground at the King’s feet to beg for mercy.” Biddeford waved his hand through the air. “To beg for her life, actually.”

Justina felt her own throat contracting. There was no way to ignore the rising horror that filled her; the look of enjoyment in Biddeford’s eyes doubled it.

“The clever woman managed to soothe the King’s ego by spouting some nonsense that she had argued with him only to distract him from his festering wound. She burned her books and told her ladies to follow her example. She therefore kept her head, for the moment.” He reached out to finger the thin stem of the wineglass. “She has been properly submissive ever since, a rather good example of how a woman should conduct herself if she wants to live.”

He took another sip from the wine. “However, Chancellor Wriothesley lost some of his influence over the King during the matter of the Queen’s investigation. Edward Seymour has been enjoying His Majesty’s company a little too much for my taste since then. Seymour will be hunting tomorrow. Make sure you ride with his party.”

“I thought you detested the Earl of Hertford. He must know that I am your servant.”

The viscount stood, his enjoyment fading. “I do hate him, which is why I want you to ride near the man. Since you spent so much time with Ryppon, it is possible the man will believe you have changed your allegiances, even if you can do nothing to change the legal fact that I am your guardian. Let him see you looking pitiful and needy. He’s been known to have a softness for pretty women. We shall exploit that if he is foolish enough to take the bait.”

Biddeford left, his manservant stepping forward to pick up the wineglass before following his master. Justina felt her heart beating softly, as though it was afraid to make too much noise. Now she realized what it was that she had felt around the Queen and princesses today. Fear, thick and choking, it hung over them like a fog that made everyone want to speak only in the most hushed of tones.

The chamber door closed and she winced at the sharp sound it made. Her heart instantly began beating faster, the feeling of being trapped tightening around her until she felt the need to run. Fast and as far as her legs might carry her away from the hideous man who had just invaded her chambers.

Of course that was the entire point of Biddeford’s visit tonight. He knew the art of intimidation well, understood how to upset any sense of balance she might gain for herself. A tremor traveled over her body, followed by another and still more until she was quivering. Fear, thick enough to taste, permeated the air.

The maids returned and helped her disrobe with nothing but pinched looks on their faces. Justina longed for darkness and sleep to give her relief from some of the dread, but when she lay in bed at last, in nothing but her chemise, there was no peace to be found. Instead another face rose from her mind, one that sent tears to burn her eyes. Her fearful mind reached for this memory, needing the strength that shone from his eyes.

Synclair ...

The man she had no right to long for or even think about. He was her opposite, everything honorable, while she was scarlet with sin. The knight had been sworn to serve Lord Ryppon and he had done so obediently. It had been Synclair who locked her away once her treachery was discovered, but he had not done so with disgust. The knight had boldly claimed a kiss from her that she still felt lingering on her lips.

You feel that kiss because you are too weak to ignore the memory. . .

So true, and still she allowed herself to sink into her mind’s recollection of the way the knight had felt against her. Somehow, she had never really thought that a man might feel so good, that she might take pleasure from his harder body. His kiss had been hard and punishing, demanding a response she had been powerless to deny him. For a few precious moments, her mouth had mimicked his, returning that kiss because she longed to, not out of obligation to her husband, or because she had been ordered to by the viscount. One sweet kiss that she recalled because it was genuine, but it was also a cruel torment because after the rush of sweet enjoyment, her mind returned to the times she had used her kisses to deceive. Misery wrapped around her as she saw Synclair standing so stiffly on the walls of Amber Hill, attending to his duty while always casting looks toward her tower-top room.

She had rejected him. Pushed him away and labeled him a blackard.

That was a kindness on her part.

Synclair was noble and pristine. He deserved a wife who matched his virtue with her own. It didn’t really matter anymore. She had left the knight far behind and the memory of his kiss was the only thing she would ever have of him.

The tears fell down her cheeks, but the darkness allowed her the luxury of not having to fight them. Instead she wept for the innocent bride she had been and the disappointment her husband had turned out to be. Knowing Synclair made her pain even worse for she knew that there were men worthy of the innocent she had been. There were knights who ladies might save themselves for and have their affections rewarded with faithfulness and honor.

Of course, that was not her lot, and the Church would tell her not to argue with God for what He had given her.

Well, she wanted to do much more than argue; she wanted to rail against the injustice of her life.

But most of all, she wanted to be worthy of Synclair, and she cried with the knowledge that she could never clean away enough of the sin clinging to her body to ever be good enough for him.