Wed By Proxy (Brides of Karadok Book 1)

by Alice Coldbreath

  Guy started, the harsh words shocking him out of his stupor, but even as he opened his mouth to refute them, Mathilde’s expression altered to anger.

  “Sweetheart,” he said hoarsely, and at his word, she stiffened, drew back her hand and delivered a stinging slap across his face. It rang out so loud that it silenced all the muttering.

  “How dare you…” she uttered in a low, trembling voice. He reached for her hand. It had to smart from delivering that blow, but she snatched it back before he could massage her little palm. “You faithless man!” She pronounced the word as if it hurt her throat to speak it.

  He stared at her, his own face fast draining of color. “Faithless?” Never that. Her breast rose and fell with emotion. “Mathilde…”

  Her servant, Prudence emerged from the crowd. “Come away, milady. Come away from this wretched place!” she urged, grabbing for her arm. Mathilde turned toward her, almost blindly, allowing her maid to lead her stumbling away. Someone else detached themselves from the crowd and took her other arm. Guy thought for a moment it was Waldon.

  “Wait!” Guy called hoarsely after her.

  She didn’t even pause; gave no acknowledgement she’d even heard him. By the time he’d managed to stagger out of his chair, she was almost across the other side of the room. Instead of detaining her, not one of his idiot household had even lifted a finger to stay her. Instead, they had fallen back from her fleeing form, giving her a clear path of escape through the Great Hall.

  “Mathilde!” he roared. He felt unsteady on his feet, short of breath, sick at heart as he started after her.

  “Well, well,” he heard Tristan Kerslake drawl into the stunned silence. “No one told me that Lady Martindale had finally come home.”

  Guy turned his head over his shoulder to stare at him. Shocked murmuring broke out afresh at this, raising to an almost deafening babble. Lady Martindale? What the hells was Kerslake talking about?

  At his incredulous look, Tristan shrugged. “Her disappearance is the talk of all Aphrany.” My gods. He could not take this all in right now, only that she was fleeing from him.

  “Stop her!” Guy roared, as he staggered across the hall. His servants and attendants milled about in consternation and panic. “Where is she? Do you have her?”

  He burst out into the corridor outside where the air was fresher and filled his lungs with it. Firmin’s face wavered before him a moment, ashen and grave. Then Temur and Lettys were pointing toward the door, and Guy looked up to find Mathilde being hustled back through it by two of his men.

  “Be careful with her!” he bellowed, and hurried forward to relieve them of their burden. She struggled a moment, her fists raining fierce blows on his chest, then as he swept her up in his arms, she fell suddenly still and limp. Guy cradled her to him, as Waldon and Prudie burst through the door.

  “What are you doing with her, you wicked man?” Prudence shrieked. “Won’t you be content until you’ve killed her stone dead?”

  “Hush love, hush!” Waldon caught the distraught servant to him and she burst into noisy tears.

  Feeling eyes on him, Guy swung around to find a crowd including the Earl and Countess of Strethneal peering at him from the doorway of the Great Hall.

  “It’s a misunderstanding only,” Guy found himself saying angrily. “Return to your seats.”

  No one paid him any heed, their eyes all fixed on the small still figure pinned to his chest. Tightening his grip on her, he strode toward the staircase, pale-faced servants scattering before him.

  “Guy, what can we do?” Firmin called after him in an anguished voice.

  “Send everyone home!” Guy flung back at him over his shoulder. “The spectacle is over for this evening. I can scarcely be expected to provide any more entertainment,” he added bitterly.

  XXVIII

  An hour later, he reentered the hall, his expression haggard. Mathilde refused to speak to him, or even acknowledge his presence. Her expression stony, she had turned her face from him and looked as though she were fiercely willing him from her presence. She would not listen to reason or assurances and finally, realizing she was utterly exhausted, he had left her—he hoped to sleep—and posted a servant at the door to make sure she did not abscond. He could tear his own hair out at how things had transpired. For the life of him, he was unsure how things had blown up so badly in his face. Firmin hovered anxiously on the edges of his vision, but he ignored him.

  “Where’s Kerslake?” Guy flung out aggressively. Only a few servants remained clearing away the last of the abandoned feast.

  Firmin cleared his throat. “He, er, retired along with all the other guests,” he said miserably. “I believe he repaired to the south-facing sitting room. I sent along a bottle of wine for him there.”

  Guy paused in the act of turning around to head for that room. “And his sister?” he asked coldly. He didn’t want to stray across Julia’s path if he could possibly avoid it.

  “She has taken to her bedchamber,” Firmin answered. “The lady was most distraught at the unfolding of this evening’s events.”

  Guy stared at his steward. “What the hells has she to be distraught about?” How typical of Julia to try and make everything about her, he thought caustically.

  “I believe there were one or two pointed comments directed her way,” Firmin said awkwardly. “The general feel of the room was not kindly toward her. The, er, Countess of Strethneal was quite scathing about Lady Julia’s conduct under your roof.” Firmin scratched his jaw. “It was unfortunate she chose tonight, of all nights, to wear that Martindale ruby.”

  Guy snorted. “Unfortunate, is that what you call it?” He left the room abruptly and headed for the sitting room Firmin had mentioned. He soon found his quarry. Tristan had made himself comfortable, lolling on one of the cushioned benches. He had unbuttoned his doublet and cuffs and was tossing back the last of his wine when Guy entered.

  “Mine host!” Tristan greeted him jocularly.

  Guy threw himself down in the seat opposite. “Explain,” he said tersely. “Your remark at supper.” Tristan set his goblet down carefully on the windowsill behind him. When he was not quick enough to speak, Guy added. “You identified her as my marchioness. How and why. Tell me now.”

  “I identified her, because I was eminently in a position so to do,” answered Tristan calmly.

  “You have met her before?” Guy barked.

  “Allow me,” said Tristan raising his hands placatingly, “to explain.”

  “I am waiting,” Guy said shortly.

  Tristan hauled himself into an upright position. “I have never met her, not formally. You are quite right in thinking it is highly unlikely that I should have done so. I have never set one foot in the Argent king’s court, as you know. But my travels do take me down south quite frequently, having no fixed abode of my own.” He cut short a regretful sigh, seeing Guy narrow his eyes.

  “I have a friend in Aphrany,” he said swiftly. “On some occasions we have ventured to watch the public lists. I saw her there, at least twice, in the royal box. She was pointed out to me as a figure of interest, my friend knowing our families are connected. I must say,” he added thoughtfully, “she looked a little different in those days. Like a little doll, wheeled out to a formal event. She certainly did not wear her hair curly and loose. I fancy,” he mused, “she wore both jeweled headdress and veil.”

  Guy let out a puff of air. His head was reeling. “And you are sure it is she? The same female?”

  Tristan eyed him curiously, then nodded. “Oh yes, there can be no mistake,” he said simply. “Even in peasant’s garb, it was she. I never forget a face.”

  Peasant’s garb?

  “You said her flight was the talk of Aphrany,” Guy prompted him stiffly.

  “Well yes,” Tristan admitted. “Even in such unfashionable quarters as my friend inhabits, the story was spoken of. How she had tricked her nurse and escaped her mother’s clutches dressed in her page’s clothing. Th
ey switched places, apparently.”

  Tristan looked highly diverted at the retelling, but all Guy could think about was that everything she had told him was true. Here then, was the explanation for the boyish clothing, the savage haircut, the lack of traveling companions.

  She had run away. To him.

  His mouth was dry. And he had not believed her. Cynic that he was, he had thought the whole story was a lie. He passed a shaking hand over his brow.

  “It is a wild tale, is it not?” said Tristan with such insightful sympathy that Guy flinched. “Have you been keeping her as your mistress this entire time?”

  Again, his tone was light and amused. Guy’s flashed him an angry look. He was not about to discuss such things with Kerslake. Swiftly, his houseguest rearranged his face to one of solicitousness rather than diversion.

  “I can see that might lead to some awkwardness,” he said with the understatement of the century.

  Luckily, Guy was distracted, remembering Mathilde’s odd comment at the marketplace that she did not think she should have been in her nurse’s charge for as long as she was. Then too, there had been that rambling story he had not been paying much heed to. Something about her nurse’s old tales of … Lord Matty and Lady Tilda, he remembered suddenly and swore. That only made sense if her name indeed was Mathilde. How could he have missed that? He was a damn fool.

  “Doubtless, she would not have been impressed finding Julia sat in her place,” Tristan mused, with a lack of sensitivity that almost took Guy’s breath away. “Where did you have her stashed away? In the village?”

  Guy glared at Tristan, whom he’d never particularly liked. “Of course not,” he retorted. “And I’m not taking you for a confessor, either.”

  Tristan laughed. “Can’t say as I blame you,” he said fairly. “I doubt it’s a role I’d play well. Though you may have to attempt to smooth my sister’s ruffled feathers.”

  “Why the hells does Julia think she’s any right to feel hard done by?” he demanded.

  Tristan sighed. “After all, she enjoys the status of returning northern heroine in these parts. She’ll not be happy to relinquish that coveted role for the unenviable one of scarlet woman.”

  “Julia knew I had a wife,” Guy answered shortly. “Just not one in residence.”

  “True,” Tristan conceded. “And at the end of the day, your behavior has been exemplary. Why, you even secured her a chaperone while she was under your roof.”

  Guy grunted. It wasn’t his conduct toward Julia Allworthy that troubled him.

  “Cutting up rough, is she?” Tristan tutted.

  Guy didn’t bother to reply. Even in the current dire circumstances, thinking of Mathilde in terms of his wife gave him a warm feeling that made it easier to breathe. She is my wife! If he focused on that, it made it easier for him to bear this present catastrophe. How could he have already been the possessor of everything he ever wanted, and not be aware of it? It defied all logic. She would have to forgive him for his monumental stupidity. She just had to. Wearily, he clambered to his feet. He wasn’t so foolish as to think of sleeping beside her in his bed tonight. He would sleep in a guest bedchamber close by.

  “Things will doubtless look less better in the morning,” Kerslake murmured with a breezy assurance Guy found himself envying.

  “You can tell you’ve never taken a wife,” Guy responded heavily.

  Tristan smirked. “I doubt it would suit me.”

  Guy was inclined to agree. As far as he was aware, Tristan’s income derived from leeching off his brother-in-law and various friends and acquaintances. He had no estate, for it had been claimed by the crown after their castle had been razed. He eyed Tristan with a faint curiosity. He knew for a fact that his older brother Miles, Guy’s closest boyhood friend, would never have borne such a life. What would Miles have done had he survived the war? Guy liked to think he would have helped his friend establish himself somehow. Should he have done more for his younger brother, he wondered now? He was sure that several of the northern lords had stood as Tristan’s sponsor at some point or another. How else could he live such an indolent lifestyle?

  Tristan yawned. “I think I’m for bed, too, it’s been a long day.

  It certainly had, thought Guy grimly. And he needed to muster his energy for the battle ahead.

  XXIX

  The next couple of days were hell on earth. Guy set about putting things to rights with a vengeance, but Mathilde refused to meet him even halfway. Prudie guarded her mistress’s door like a tigress, baring her teeth at any intruders who dared to darken it. In the end Guy felt compelled to have Prudence sent back to the lodge. Waldon had been strangely disapproving about the whole thing.

  “Damn it, man, what is it?” Guy had snapped in the end. “I can’t have maidservants barring me from my own bedchamber!”

  “Who’s to fight in her corner, with Prudence gone?” Waldon had asked with a stubborn look on his face.

  “I’ll fight in her corner,” Guy had replied. “Now and always.”

  For a second, he had thought a scathing retort had hovered on Waldon’s lips, but whatever had sprung to mind, he managed to swallow down in the face of Guy’s narrowed eyes.

  “I’ll take the lass back then,” he mumbled.

  “Aye you do that,” Guy glowered.

  “I’d better check on the boy, in any case.”

  Guy glanced at a movement in the window. “Don’t bother,” he said shortly. “For he’s here.”

  They watched Robin dismount and head toward the house. Guy, remembering the lad’s previous behavior, steeled himself for a confrontation. However, to his surprise, Robin seemed to be the only one who did not consider him a villain.

  “Was she sat at your knee?” he’d asked bluntly.

  “What? Who?” Guy had been momentarily at a complete loss.

  “This other woman.”

  “Of course not!” Guy had spluttered.

  “So, there’s nothing in it, then” Robin had said, and his calm tone had been such a relief after Waldon’s indignation and Prudie’s outright hostility that Guy had relaxed enough not to shout.

  “Nothing at all,” he had rumbled.

  “That’s all right then,” Robin had said easily. “Why don’t you tell my lady that?”

  If only it was that bloody easy, Guy had thought grimly. He’d tried again, only that morning, and made no dent in her defenses. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. When he looked up, he found Robin’s gaze fixed on his face.

  “You had better set things to rights with her,” Robin said, giving him a level look. Guy paused, wondering if he was imagining the air of significance to the boy’s words. “There’s four of us,” he added suddenly.

  “Four of you?”

  Robin nodded. “Me, Willard Peyton, Piers Winstanley and Gordon Fairfax. But I’m closest to her.”

  Guy waited, for he could tell there was more to follow. Sure enough, after a few moments the boy continued.

  “She does things for us and we do things for her. At court, I mean.”

  Guy’s eyebrows snapped together. “What sort of things?” he found himself asking, remembering Mathilde’s words about her friends over that card game. It seemed weeks ago.

  “Binds our cuts, mends our clothes. Helps us write our letters home,” said Rob vaguely. He rubbed his nose.

  “I meant, what do you do for her?” Guy said pointedly.

  “Teach her things about life. Useful things,” the boy replied. “Her mother keeps her so hemmed in she can’t hardly breathe. Her old nursemaid still follows her around like she’s an infant. Luckily the old thing’s almost blind. She never even had any friends until she met the Countess Vawdrey.”

  Guy felt his face harden at that accursed name. She was friends with a Vawdrey? He’d have to coach her not to mention the fact in these parts.

  “It’s not her fault,” Robin added quickly, misinterpreting the source his disapproval. “She didn’t know any better. Once we started s
howing her the ropes, she soon caught on.”

  Guy shot him a look of misgiving. He didn’t know what to think about four young squires tutoring his wife into the ways of the world.

  “I need to have some speech with her,” he had concluded abruptly. He’d have to pursue this conversation at some future point in time. “Waldon is taking Prudence back to the lodge now, so you could either go back with them, or stay here if you prefer.” Leaving it up to the boy to decide, he nodded at Robin, who cautiously returned the gesture, then strode from the room.

  “I need you to talk to me,” Guy told the huddled lump in the bed. “We need to … explain to one another. I need to explain.” Nothing. He reached out and grabbed the sheets, dragging them down to her waist.

  She looked pale and wan, lying there in her shift. “Leave me be,” Mathilde said wearily.

  “I did not betray you, Mathilde,” Guy insisted. “Julia Allworthy is a guest in my house, nothing more.”

  Mathilde turned her face away from him to face the wall. If she would only cry or scream at him, it would somehow be better than this, he thought.

  “I’m not giving you anymore time to grieve yourself about this,” he said tersely. “You’ve had two days, and you’ll get no more.”

  “I can go home?” she asked in a small voice he barely recognized as hers, so lacking in spirit was it.

  “You are home,” he said uncompromisingly. Did she mean the lodge or worse? He refused entirely to acknowledge the possibility of the latter. “We can visit the lodge together at our leisure, but our place is here.” She gave no answer to that. “I’m sending Lettys in to attend you and help you dress.”

  “I want Prudie.”

  “Well, you’re getting Lettys,” he snapped. He regarded her a moment, his brow furrowed. “When you’re up and about, we’ll talk more,” he said in a stilted manner. “I have much to speak of.”

  Her listless reception of this disturbed him more than he could say. She seemed to have passed the distressed stage and reached some place he could not touch her. And he did not like it. Not one bit.