Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1)

by Alice Coldbreath

  Mathilde turned the page eagerly. This time, she started parading herself to him in his bedchamber, only half-clothed and making feeble excuses for her presence there. Mathilde frowned. At least she already had an excuse to be in Guy’s bedchamber. The widow was really scraping the barrel with the reasons she came up with, in her opinion. A mouse had scared her, she had a tangle in her long golden hair that her maidservant could not free. To all these excuses to get close to him, Sir Pelomon seemed impervious.

  Then finally, on the third night, the widow had a portentous dream. She cried and wailed, Sir Pelomon was roused from his slumbers and forced to try and comfort her in her distress. She twisted and turned in his arms, wrapping herself around him like a snake. In the confusion, her shift “fell off.” Sir Pelomon found his limbs entwined with those of a naked woman. Finally, his cast-iron virtue faltered, and quicker than you could say “‘knight errant,” his chastity was a thing of the past.

  So, her own instincts had been half-correct the previous evening, Mathilde thought with faint pride. She had been right to discard her shift. According to this book, strong men were weakened at the sight of the female form. But what she should have done, was pressed her flesh against his as much as possible, instead of keeping to her side of the bed. She frowned. Her own forays over to her husband’s side had been far too timid. She should have been bold like the lusty widow!

  Mathilde examined the subsequent illustrations with fascination. The page was quartered into four and in each of the frames the couple were arranged in some different licentious position. The first one was much as she had imagined, with Sir Pelomon on top of the widow, her legs and arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. Mathilde flushed at the position of the widow’s hands which gripped Sir Pelomon’s buttocks with shameless abandon. The widow’s back was arched as though she tried to mesh their bodies as tightly together as humanly possible. Sir Pelmon’s face was buried in the widow’s neck in an attitude that reminded Mathilde of that very morning. Guy had lain like that atop of her. If she had wrapped her legs around his back and grasped his buttocks, would he have submitted to desire like Sir Pelomon? An image of his backside when he had walked across the bedroom floor that morning flashed into her mind and she nearly gasped aloud. Would she ever have the nerve to do such a thing?

  Gulping, Mathilde’s eyes wandered over to the second picture where Sir Pelomon sat upon the bed and the widow knelt at his feet. Her face was pressed into his lap, Mathilde noticed with consternation, and Sir Pelomon appeared to have steam coming out of his nostrils. What on earth…? Giving up on that one as a total mystery, Mathilde moved to the next where the widow was back on the bed, on her hands and knees this time, and Sir Pelomon was pressed up behind her, his hands grasping her waist. Surely not? A suspicion entered her mind, but she dismissed it almost instantly. Surely a man would never do such a thing? A beast was one thing, but never a man! She frowned over the image. It certainly looked like it though.

  The fourth picture was very similar to the one she had already seen in the bathtub, with the widow astride Sir Pelomon. But this time, she was the one with her head flung back, and Sir Pelomon appeared to have his face buried betwixt her breasts. Mathilde stared. He certainly seems to have taken to fornication like a duck to water, she thought. Maybe if you got past a certain point then instinct took over. She certainly hoped so. A sound at the door startled her, and she slammed the book shut guiltily and flung it from her. It landed in the middle of the floor with a heavy thud.

  “Milady?” It was Prudence. “I was wondering if you was expecting any visitors this evening?” she asked, pursing her lips and staring at some point past Mathilde’s left shoulder.

  Mathilde licked her lips, and glanced furtively at her discarded book which lay between them. “I, er, dropped my book,” she said weakly.

  Prudence frowned and took a step forward, as if to retrieve it for her.

  “No!” Mathilde burst out, springing from her seat and practically throwing herself on top of it. “I have it! Do not trouble yourself,” she panted, scrambling to her feet. She pushed the hair from her face and cleared her throat. “Wh-what was it you were asking me?”

  Prudence stared at her now as if she were quite mad. “For supper milady,” she said sharply. “Are you expecting guests, or will the leftovers of the game pie do?”

  “I hope my husband may call around,” admitted Mathilde wistfully. “But he may not.” Prudence gave a start. “H-he may be too busy,” Mathilde explained, and wondered why the maid was staring at her like that.

  “Lord Martindale?” asked Prudence in an odd tone.

  “Yes, was that not what I said?” Mathilde gave herself a small shake. She needed to pull herself together. “I fear I got a little lost in my book,” she explained, hoping that would explain her scattered wits. She hugged the wicked book to her stomach.

  Prudence gave a short nod. “I’ll make a new pie, milady. Right away.”

  “Oh, but you needn’t trouble yourself,” Mathilde said hastily. “It may well just be Robin and I for supper. I would not want you to needlessly—”

  “No trouble, milady,” said Prudence loudly. “I hope as I always know what’s due to my own mistress.” She dropped into a spontaneous curtsey that took Mathilde entirely by surprise. Now that she thought of it, she didn’t think she’d seen Prudence curtsey once since they had been introduced.

  Returning to her window seat, Mathilde took up her book to find out what happened next with the lusty widow. She was a bit disappointed to find that the next morning, Sir Pelomon heartily repented his actions. Had she been expecting him and the widow to live happily ever after? It seemed this was not that sort of book. Mathilde read on. Sir Pelomon determined to leave the widow’s castle the very next morning, and that lady seemed to accept his decision with equanimity. Riding resolutely away, the widow waved him off with her handkerchief from the highest tower. Sir Pelemon vowed he would ne’er fall prey to such wickedness again, but alas his soul was now besmirched and it almost seemed as though others could tell.

  At the next tavern, the ruddy landlady slipped a hand in Sir Pelomon’s breeches, fondling and telling him how “well-built and mighty a member he possessed.” As Sir Pelomon struggled to contain his no longer innocent reaction, the landlady bent over his bed, hitched up her skirts and invited him to slake his lusts on her ample body. Her own husband was sadly incapacitated and she longed for the touch of a man. Clearly from the illustration, Sir Pelomon was fired up from the view afforded him between the landlady’s generous thighs, for he fell upon her with ravenous, awakened appetites. Mathilde’s eyebrows rose. Now that he had sampled the forbidden fruit, it seemed it would never be as easy for him to live a blameless life again. Once again, in the aftermath, Sir Pelomon bitterly reproached himself, but Mathilde was starting to suspect that a pattern was emerging.

  Biting the side of her mouth, Mathilde found herself wondering if Sir Pelomon was really the victim as the book portrayed him to be. Should he not be firm in his resolve, and simply barricade his door against all these wanton women? On the next page there were several illustrations of him bending the cushiony body of the landlady over every stick of furniture in his bedchamber and even rutting her upright against the wall. The widow’s mouth was wide open as though she yelled her pleasure for all to hear. The positions of their couplings were varied. Mathilde’s cheeks burned red.

  A sneaking suspicion entered her mind and she flipped quickly through the rest of the pages. Sure enough it looked like the rest of the book consisted of Sir Pelomon’s many various amorous adventures. In amazement, Mathilde wondered just how many times could a virtuous knight be seduced? Slowly she closed the book. She fancied she was really too much of a beginner to be reading the advanced stuff. She needed to stick with the basics for now. It seemed to her that the first story was the one that would prove the most useful to her present circumstances.

  Now, what devices had the lusty widow had at her disposal? A very fi
ne see-through shift. Mathilde thought of the only one she owned at present and frowned. It was of a rather coarse linen, and she doubted very much that anything could be seen through it. Low cut gowns a-plenty, she remembered, thinking back to the story. Well, again, at present all she had was the gown she was wearing which was more designed to keep one warm than desirable. Mathilde tapped her chin thoughtfully. It seemed she was badly in need of some new clothes. Tangled hair, she thought remembering the story, a misplaced mouse. Well, her own hair was so wavy these days it often knotted, and she could always feign a mouse’s presence. What else?

  She reopened the pages and turned back to the beginning. A quick scan told her the only other discernible factors were the widow’s own unquenchable wish to seduce Pelomon, and a desirable female form. While Mathilde was confident of her own burning desire to be a true wife to her husband, she was a tad less certain that her body was the sort men lusted after. She glanced down doubtfully at her own small figure. No one had ever mentioned it if it was.

  She thought of court, her only frame of reference. Lenora Montmayne was widely considered the most beauteous maiden in all Karadok, but she seemed to inspire courtly admiration over anything else. Mathilde had never heard tell of even a whiff of scandalous rumor about her conduct with her suitors, who all tended to be eminently respectable. Besides, Lenora was likely very well chaperoned when she was escorted.

  Helen Cecil on the other hand, was not so respectable, and said to be the king’s current mistress. She was perhaps a little earthier in her appeal, Mathilde considered. Helen had a bold, appraising way of looking men in the eye when she spoke to them, and she threw back her head, when she gave her full-bodied laugh. Mathilde had seen her reach out and touch a sleeve fleetingly when she stood conversing with powerful men. She did not hang on to their words in a fawning manner, it was more an appreciative look in her flashing eyes. She liked the company of men, and she did not care to hide the fact behind a demure expression or modest gaze. Sometimes, she threw her words at them like a challenge, by turn mocking and then admiring them. She kept them on them on their toes. Men probably found Helen Cecil seductive, Mathilde thought with sudden conviction. She bet Helen knew a few tricks to incite a man. Maybe she had even used them to ensnare the king’s favor? She had never really considered such things before.

  In truth, Mathilde had not much cared for Helen. By the same token, she was sure Helen herself had no good opinion of Mathilde. She would have dismissed her as a total nonentity. Helen was not the sort to have female friends, she did not join in with the tapestry circles, or the various friend groups that appreciated the arts. Mathilde did not think she had ever seen her much about with any women, apart from her sister Jane who by contrast was rather quiet and had recently become one of the queen’s ladies in waiting.

  Would Guy think Helen Cecil was attractive, Mathilde wondered with a pang? She fancied she already knew the answer. Biting her lip, Mathilde devoutly wished she had spent more time observing the bold Helen, instead of looking away from her bright flame. But Mathilde had always kept to the quiet corners at court, creeping about like a little mouse. To be honest, she wasn’t sure such tricks would work for one such as she. With a sigh, she wondered where she could hide The Seduction of a Virtuous Knight by a Lusty Wanton Widow. It would not do to have anyone come across such a book by accident. Climbing the stairs to her room, she hid it in one of the many sections of a large carved chest at the foot of the bed. It had certainly given her plenty to think about, she reflected, sitting back on her heels. But did she have the nerve to put any of it into practice?

  XVI

  I will not go to her, Guy resolved grimly. He had been distracted all day, and he wasn’t the only one who had noticed it. At midday he, Firmin and Temur went to pay a series of scheduled visits on his estate. He could feel Firmin and Temur casting furtive glances at him all afternoon. Finally, on their ride back from an outlying farm, they plucked up the courage to tackle him about the cause.

  “You didn’t seem much interested in what Hapland suggestion about passing the tenancy to his son-in-law,” Temur piped up. “Did you have someone else in mind for that end plot?”

  Guy shrugged and noticed them exchange looks. “I’ve nothing against his proposal,” he answered grudgingly. “Johnson seems capable enough.”

  “You barely spoke to him,” Firmin pointed out with a frown.

  “What’s there to say?” Guy growled. “Hapland said he was willing to teach him. Why should I gainsay it? It makes no odds to me.”

  “It’s not like you not to sound someone out,” said Temur. “That’s all. Usually you take these things so seriously.”

  Guy gave a huff of irritation. “I took the both of you along,” he said pointedly. “If you had any doubts, you should have spoken up!”

  “I’ve nothing against young Johnson,” Firmin admitted slowly. Guy turned in his saddle to look at Temur.

  “Me neither,” he said, glancing away.

  “So why are you quibbling about my decision then?” demanded Guy.

  “You just seem a little out of sorts,” said Temur cagily. “Not yourself, that’s all.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but after darting a glance at Firmin he seemed to think better of it.

  “I can’t believe you went to her last night, Guy!” Firmin burst out furiously, as if he could no longer contain himself. “Everyone’s whispering about you staying out all night, taking a kept woman!”

  Guy pulled up on his reins, and stepped into Firmin’s path, blocking him. “What did you say?” he asked in a low, angry voice.

  “Did you really think it would remain a secret? It’s the talk of the place!”

  “I never said anything!” Temur interjected in alarm, but Guy ignored him. He already knew neither Waldon nor Temur would have gossiped.

  “She’s the enemy and you know it!” Firmin shouted, grabbing at his own reins to control his skittish horse. “Some emissary of your southern bitch of a wife, or worse!“

  “If I can keep a civil tongue in my head when it comes to her, then I’m damned sure you will, Firmin,” Guy roared.

  “A civil tongue? You took her to your bed last night!” Firmin spluttered, as his horse slipped on the icy path. “And soon everyone will know of it!” he added bitterly as his horse righted itself.

  “I don’t give a damn!” spat Guy, wheeling his horse about. “Let them know of it! It’s my business and no one else’s.”

  They stared at each other, breathing hard. Their breath hung about them in icy clouds.

  “If your father only knew! A southerner at Acton March,” Firmin spat. To his surprise Guy found the words no longer held the sting they should.

  “We lost the war, after ten long years of fighting,” he said tightly. “Call him the southern king all you want. Wymer’s colors fly over all Karadok now. The Blechmarshes are done. My father’s dead. You’d best wake up to the fact, Firmin. You surrendered along with the rest of us.”

  “The princess still lives!” Firmin stated hoarsely.

  Guy fixed a steely gaze on him. “Una’s been Wymer’s prisoner some five years now. You know what happened that night at Sandysford as well as I. She refused the chance of escape with myself and Ulverston. It was her last chance. It’s a miracle they haven’t executed her already.”

  “Maybe they have,” said Temur, breaking his silence. “And they’re just southern lies about her being under house arrest.”

  Guy shrugged. “We played our cards in the whole debacle,” he said feeling suddenly tired. “And we lost. That hand is played out.”

  Firmin struggled a moment with words, then seemed to lose the will to speak. He sagged in his saddle, looking defeated.

  They were approaching the house now. One of the servants ran down the steps to take the horses, but Guy did not dismount as the other two did. Strangely enough, Firmin’s words had only cemented his earlier thoughts, that it was pointless resisting the inevitable. If his guilt was already dec
ided, then why should he continued to fight his own will? Feeling the weight of a burden lifted, he tugged the reins, turning his horse about.

  “I’ll be back on the morrow,” he flung over his shoulder, and started off for the woods at a gallop. He thought he heard Firmin call after him, but did not turn back. The fresh snowfall had obliterated any tracks through the woods, but his horse picked his way through the trees surely enough, remembering their previous path. He wondered fleetingly about the reception he would find. He hadn’t exactly done himself credit the last time, getting drunk and then insulting her on the morning after. His brain skipped over the night he’d spent in her bed. He could not remember it, and could only hope he had been a considerate lover. It had been so long since he’d lain with a woman, the possibility that he had not been gentle weighed heavy with him. She was so small and delicate. And he, decidedly, was not.

  He needed to make reparation for his previous uncouth behavior. He wished he had some gift or peace offering to bring her. Would any of the clothes he had ordered for her in Wickhamford have been delivered yet? He had told Temur to specify the lodge for their delivery, and to impress on them the need for urgency.

  On arriving at the lodge, he led his horse into the now snug lean-to, where Destrian and the bay mare—he had no idea if she’d named her yet—were stabled. They whinnied in welcome as he backed Bayard into a vacant stall. He rubbed him down and tethered him, noting someone had not been neglecting their duties as the floor was clean and fresh straw down.

  Letting himself in through the kitchen door, he encountered Robin at the kitchen table sketching out a plan on a piece of paper, with a tabby cat upon his knee. Both turned to look enquiringly at him.

  “My lord,” greeted Robin.

  “Robin. Where is your mistress?”

  “I laid a fire in the upstairs sitting room for them. She and Prudence are in there, adjusting some gowns.”