by Aston, Alexa
Instead, she’d willingly gone with Jean-Paul de la Tresse. In her inexperience and immaturity, she mistook the sad air about him, romanticizing how heartbroken he was at the death of his wife the year before. When he’d wanted her to come to Monteville, she assumed it was as a servant. Eager to please, she offered to cook or clean or weave tapestries, her only skilled accomplishment from her convent days.
Jean-Paul had taken her as a bride instead. Marielle was certain that Agnes, the first wife, had died of neglect. She learned all too quickly the unhappiness Jean-Paul wore was a mixture of boredom and indifference. She’d been eager to marry him and escape her father’s house, never dreaming she’d become a caged bird at Monteville. Thank the Sweet Christ her husband was often gone on business. It was the only thing that helped her retain her sanity.
Marielle rose and made her way from the bedchamber to the floor below. From there, she went outside into the cool, sunlit morning to await the riders. Within minutes, three men on horseback entered the courtyard. One was Donatien de Toulouse, Monteville’s overseer and Jean-Paul’s right-hand man. The second, as expected, was Pierre Bouchard, looking slightly out of sorts, as if the ride to Monteville was an interruption he barely tolerated.
But it was the third rider that most interested her. The nuns always chastised her for her immense curiosity but they were no longer the ones who made the rules in her life. She was la Comtesse of Monteville. Marielle regally moved down the steps to greet fitz Waryn.
He swept off his horse with a grace that belied his size. He was far taller than any man she’d met and possessed a lean yet athletic frame. She was drawn to his long, muscular legs tucked into black boots which gleamed in the sunlight. His handsome face radiated strength and good cheer. As he bowed to her, his blue eyes twinkled with mischief.
“I take it you are the Comtesse de la Tresse.” His white, even teeth shone in a wide smile, a direct contrast to Jean-Paul. Her husband rarely smiled and, at two and forty, was missing several of his teeth.
“I am Ashby fitz Waryn, man of business for Lord Garrett Stanbridge the Earl of Montayne of Stanbury.”
Marielle’s eyelashes fluttered instinctively, surprising her because they’d never done so before. She curtsied to her guest. “Please, call me Marielle. We do not stand much on formality at Monteville.”
Fitz Waryn took her hand in his. His touch was light but decidedly masculine. It also made her instantly aware that she was a woman and he a very handsome man. Marielle looked into his eyes of azure, her mouth gone as dry as brittle bones.
He gave her another smile, pleasant and yet at the same time sensual. Sweeping a quick kiss across her fingers, he said, “Enchante, Marielle. And please, you must call me Ashby.”
The name fit him. Marielle returned his smile. “We are honored to have you stay at Monteville, Ashby.” She liked the way his name rolled from her tongue. “Your French is quite good.”
He beamed. “I was brought up at Stanbury with Lord Montayne. His mother had us speaking French from an early age, though Garrett didn’t use it much. Still,” he added, “it wasn’t until Garrett married the Bouchards’ daughter a few years ago that I had a true feel for the language. Madeleine drilled me like a tyrant before I journeyed here, especially since it’s her native tongue.”
“Well, you may tell her that you have done justice to it.” Marielle turned to the others. “Bonjour, Pierre. It’s always nice to see you.”
Pierre mumbled something in return, no louder than a mouse confronted by a hungry cat.
She turned to their steward. “Thank you, Donatien, for bringing Ashby here.” Glancing at their visitor, she added, “Jean-Paul said he would mostly likely visit with you when we sup this evening. Until then, I am sure Donatien can answer any of your questions. Come, let us go inside the chateau and allow you to wash.”
She led the trio into the darkened hall and signaled for water and towels. The men soaped and rinsed their hands before being seated. Since it was past the midday meal when their workers had eaten, Marielle had only one trestle table set out for them to dine on.
“Monteville is quite a becoming estate,” Ashby commented. “The land is lush and your chateau is full of charm. And you, my lady, are the jewel in its crown. Rarely have I seen such beauty.”
Marielle’s face flamed, unused to any form of flattery. As the youngest of seven children, no one had paid attention to her at home. When she’d been sent to the convent as punishment, the nuns had not tolerated vanity in any form. The only way she’d learned she was pleasing to the eye was when Jean-Paul told her so and then pursued her with determination in the space of a single afternoon. She’d regretted that his passion had all been in the chase, for once caught, he rarely gave his young wife a second thought.
“I thank you, sir,” she said meekly. “I fear your long journey to France may have addled your brains, nonetheless.”
The Englishman took a sip from his wineglass before replying, “I’ve been here a good week, Marielle. Long enough to recover from any strain my trip could impose. As for the ride here, it was merely a snap of the fingers.” He snapped his fingers as he spoke.
Marielle winced involuntarily. A chill passed through her, settling in the pit of her belly. Jean-Paul usually ignored her but when he wanted her for something, he would snap his fingers loudly. The staccato sound always washed over her, covering her in dread. She tried to dispel that feeling now.
“I am glad you have come to join us. Would you care for more of the duck? Mayhap some more fish?”
She settled more into her role of hostess after that, letting the men speak of wines and the weather and what prices next year’s crop might bring. Before long, the meal ended. Pierre excused himself, saying he must return to the grapes. Donatien, too, begged forgiveness to go about his duties.
That left Marielle alone with Ashby. She had studied him surreptitiously throughout the meal. She liked his easy manner and relaxed grace, whether it was conversing or spearing a tidbit of meat with his knife. The fact he was so handsome that he took her breath away made her realize she grew warm. Marielle pushed a loose tendril back. Why, she hadn’t experienced infatuation since her brother Renaud’s friend, Guy, had been underfoot years ago. Guy, who never looked at her as more than a pesky little sister, while she worshipped the ground he trod upon.
Many a night, she had endured Jean-Paul’s hasty lovemaking by closing her eyes and picturing that young image of Guy as her lover—not her husband with his sagging middle and hairy back and foul breath. Jean-Paul may have gruffly claimed to love his wife when pressed but Marielle did not reciprocate such feelings. She found it increasingly difficult as the years passed to be around him, much less share his bed on the rare occasion he snapped for her appearance.
Yet now, at the ripe old age of three and twenty, this Ashby fitz Waryn had her heart doing somersaults, like the monkey she’d seen at the faire two years prior. She longed to lean over and kiss him, a gesture Jean-Paul found distasteful. Because of her husband’s opinion, Marielle had never been kissed.
She knew this childish attraction she felt toward their visitor must be quashed. To act upon it would be dangerous—not only for her, but for Ashby himself. In the meantime, she would continue to enjoy the rare company of a visitor. She couldn’t remember the last time a man eyed her so appreciatively yet respectfully. This Englishman would be amusing to have around.
“Would it be possible to walk about and show me some of the grounds?” Ashby asked.
“I would be delighted to be your escort.”
They went out into the afternoon. A cool wind had picked up since the men had arrived.
“Here, let me return for your cloak,” he told her. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Before Marielle could protest, he went back inside the castle. Little tingles pricked her spine. She threw off the warning signals and clasped her hands together to still their trembling. In less than an hour, Ashby fitz Waryn had paid her more attention than sh
e’d received from a man in her entire life.
Except for Marc.
“Here you are.” Ashby draped the cloak about her. As when he’d taken her hand upon first meeting, Marielle sensed a quick spark between them. Because of it, she avoided meeting his eyes. Instead, she tied the cloak tightly about her, nervous and unsure what to do.
“If I may?” He took her arm and guided her through the inner bailey and beyond. His casual air and dozens of questions soon had her laughing, recounting humorous incidents of life at Monteville. Marielle admired his easy charm. She also liked how he didn’t speak down to her, as if she were a child, which Jean-Paul frequently did. Rather, the Englishman spoke to her as la comtesse should be addressed.
They walked to her garden, where she planted the flowers and herbs that Cadena Bouchard recommended when Marielle first came to Monteville as a young bride. She pointed out the differences between rosemary, fennel, and thyme. They sat on a bench in the garden and talked for what seemed like hours.
Marielle had never known a more perfect afternoon.
“I find you a delightful companion, Marielle,” Ashby told her. “You are intelligent and beautiful. You have such a natural curiosity, as well.”
She laughed. “You should have heard what the good sisters said about me.”
“Were you convent-raised?” he asked.
Marielle nodded. “My parents, Gautier and Blanche, had six children before me. They hoped the nuns could take my nosiness and quick perceptions and mold me into something God would look upon with favor.”
“And did He?”
She laughed. “I shall simply say that Mother Superior and I came to same conclusion. It was not meant for me to have a vocation within the Church.”
“So you were a misguided novice?”
“No, I never even made it that far. The sisters took me in at five years of age. By that age, I was already a difficult child. Always into trouble. I seemed to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I was only allowed to stay because they found me intelligent. The good sisters kept hoping I would come around. That the daydreaming would cease and the mischievous deeds would end.” She grinned. “They never did.”
Ashby took her hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. “I find you perfect the way you are, Marielle.”
“So does her husband. My brother,” a voice said from behind them.
Chapter Three
Ashby turned lazily to look over his shoulder while gently releasing Marielle’s hand. Before him stood a man of about five and twenty, with dark hair and even darker eyes, thanks to the anger sparking within them.
He stood and gave the man a quick bow before extending his hand. “Ashby fitz Waryn. As a visitor to Monteville, I am happy to make your acquaintance.”
The man hesitated, obviously thrown off-balance by his gracious gesture. Awkwardly, he pushed out his hand and received Ashby’s. Ashby maintained his friendly smile but flinched inwardly at the weak, clammy hand. The man was short but stout. Someone should have taught him how to better present himself.
“I am Marc de la Tresse, brother to Jean-Paul.”
Marielle rose and while she did not stand close to him, Ashby sensed the change in her. They had spent the afternoon together in conversation and he’d never felt more in tune with a person as he did the comtesse. Though physically she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, with rich, auburn hair and sparking violet eyes, he’d become enchanted by her zest for life and keen intelligence. The time in her company had passed quickly, full of witty conversation. Her demeanor now had totally changed. She was wary and stared at Marc de la Tresse coolly. Ashby couldn’t help but wonder at her relationship with this brother-in-law.
“We were not expecting you so soon, Marc. Did the business in Paris go well?” Marielle asked.
The Frenchman shrugged. “’Tis neither here nor there,” he said rudely. He seemed to have gathered his poise as he glared at Ashby. “Do you always go about caressing the hands of married women?”
Ashby answered cheerfully, “Only the ones that show any interest in me at all.”
Marc de la Tresse was left speechless by the remark, so Ashby added, “Unfortunately, Marielle displays remarkably good sense and sees me for the flippant fool I am. If you saw me holding her hand, it was merely to impress upon her my gratitude in spending such a delightful afternoon of conversation before I begin the bothersome task of talking business.”
His answer further perplexed the newcomer but Ashby could tell Marielle was ready to burst out in laughter. To cover for her, he asked, “Would you care to direct me to your stables? I always like to check on my horse after a bit. Make sure the animal’s settled in, you know. I would not want to return a surly horse to the Bouchards.”
Placing a firm hand on Marc de la Tresse’s shoulder, he said, “Come along,” and guided the man away from the garden. He did, though, turn and look over his shoulder, wanting to make sure Marielle was all right. “Thank you for your fine company today, my lady. I look forward to seeing you when we sup tonight.”
De la Tresse led him a good quarter-mile before they reached where the horses were stabled. He seemed reluctant to leave Ashby on his own, possibly fearing an Englishman, and this one in particular, would stir up trouble with any Frenchman he passed.
Ashby purposely took his time fawning over the borrowed horse from the Bouchards, whose name he couldn’t remember for the life of him. He crooned to her “Oh, Girl,” and “My Sweet” enough times to get a rise from his companion. He rather enjoyed each twinge of disgust.
Ashby didn’t care for this man. He would learn why once he spent enough time in de la Tresse’s company. He possessed a sixth sense when it came to people. He would discover why her brother-in-law’s presence bothered Marielle and what the relationship was between the brothers de la Tresse.
All in good time.
*
Marielle dressed with care for the evening meal. She knew Jean-Paul liked for her to look impressive when guests were present in the chateau, showing off the pretty baubles he bestowed. More than that, she wanted to look her best for Ashby fitz Waryn.
She gazed at her troubled expression in the small mirror she’d received only last year for her birthday. Why did she feel Mother Superior looming over her shoulder, ready to scold her for her interest in Ashby? It wasn’t as if she’d actually flirted with the handsome Englishman. She had been on her best behavior.
Well, mayhap she smiled a bit too readily at his quips. In one afternoon, she’d laughed more than she had in a lifetime. Still, no harm had been done. She simply saw to their guest’s amusement while her husband was detained in the vineyards. Besides, Ashby was a charming, witty man. What woman wouldn’t laugh at his observations or reward him with a ready smile when he offered a compliment?
Still, a cartload of guilt seemed parked at her doorstep. Simply because she found the man immensely attractive did not mean she would act upon that attraction. Sisters of Merciful Heart had driven that into her head. She would never be disloyal to her marriage vows, no matter how miserable she became. Others might stray from their sacred promises—but Marielle never would. Ashby, for all his flirtatious manner and charm, did not seem a man to press himself upon a woman who did not wish for that attention.
Marielle doubted he ran into many females who did not desire him. The truth was that he was a sophisticated English nobleman who had merely been a polite guest. He would never find a convent-bred girl such as her attractive. It seemed ridiculous even to speculate about such matters.
Yet Marielle smoothed her lavender surcoat, hoping it would bring out the color of her eyes even as she tried to downplay the vain gesture. She’d only met one person with eyes her shade of violet and that was her grandmere, now dead these past ten years. Marielle was the only one of more than twenty grandchildren who could lay claim to such color. The sisters often blamed the violet shade when it came to her pranks. They seemed to associate he
r being different with the troubles she caused.
She left to check with Cook on tonight’s supper. It would be grander than usual, on account of their guest, but lighter fare than the midday meal. All seemed in place as the vineyard workers began arriving. Marielle greeted many by name and, as always, wished she could be more a part of the close-knit household. Jean-Paul, though, had different ideas for his comtesse. He commanded her to be apart from his retainers, as befit her noble position. In bowing to his wishes, Marielle found herself totally isolated from any friendships that might have otherwise formed naturally over the course of time.
She often lamented that she’d never made a single friend, other than her twin. After Arielle’s death, when Marielle had been sent to the convent, no one befriended her. From ages five to fifteen, she’d never grown close to any of the nuns, much less the few girls who came to live at the nunnery in order to take their vows and become Brides of Christ. Her passion for knowledge, coupled with her naughty behavior, marked her for isolation from the convent’s residents.
She’d hoped that by coming to Monteville that things would change. She longed to go into the vineyards and help tend the vines and harvest them when they ripened. What she wouldn’t give to stomp on the grapes in merriment as the laborers of Monteville did each year. She was used to hard work. The sisters believed in strong toil as the entrance into heaven and Marielle always did more than her fair share of labor around the convent. It had continued once she’d returned to her parents. With her mother’s poor health, all the cooking and cleaning had fallen to Marielle. It proved difficult to come to Monteville and have servants wait upon her hand and foot. The only kind of work Jean-Paul approved her doing involved weaving tapestries. Despite the wide arrays of colors and threads at her disposal, even that grew old with time.