by Mary Wine
The Viscount Biddeford had been raised at court. His father had taught him well how to cultivate relationships among those in positions of power. He would not call them friends, for a wise man never allowed himself to fall to the weakness of having friends. Court was for gaining power and wealth. It was not for fostering emotional ties. Men who hadn’t been taught that so often ended up losers to men such as he.
Many nobles departed from court during the winter but that was their mistake. Now, while the weather forced them all to remain indoors, was the time for arranging details to suit his needs. Besides, the King was not improving. His wound was being tended every day now, sometimes twice. That doubled his own need to see things settled before there was a change in power. He would have Bessie Portshire as his wife and thereby gain a powerful connection to her father, the duke.
But that meant retrieving Justina. The viscount made his way down another length of hallway and into a chamber that quieted when he appeared.
“Good day, my lords. Thank you for coming.”
Half of the privy council was present, men he often did business with. He owed some of them favors and knew secrets about the other half that they didn’t want repeated. What they all shared was a love of power and knowing that they held it.
“I need to introduce a petition tomorrow and I am hoping for your support.” Biddeford watched eyes narrow in response but he did not allow that to affect his confidence.
“My ward, the Lady Wincott, has gone missing, and I want her returned to me.”
There were a few dry chuckles but the viscount silenced them with a raised eyebrow.
“As I am sure that every one of you would show the same devotion to your own wards, I am hoping you will agree with me that the Baron Harrow must be held accountable for his actions.”
“The Baron Harrow is well respected, enough so that the King received him almost immediately.” Lord Faulkner spoke up and there were too many heads nodding in agreement with him to suit Biddeford’s taste.
“Is that so? And how is His Majesty feeling today?”
The lords all fell silent. Being on good terms with Henry Tudor would soon benefit no one. It was an unspoken thing but one that every man in the room understood.
“As I was saying, I believe the Baron Harrow should be arrested and placed under house arrest until the matter of how my ward has come to be detained by him is investigated.” The viscount spread out his hands. “I simply cannot fail to do my duty as her guardian.”
No one truly believed that he was sincere about sheltering Justina, but the men in front of him were silent as they considered the risks of failing to side with him. He had often raised his own hand to vote for them when they called upon him, and it was time for them to repay him.
“May I count upon you, my lords?”
Bessie Portshire plucked a gold needle from the cuff of a shirt she was making for her father and tried not to appear as pitiful as she felt.
She was surrounded by daughters of other nobles, many of them feigning an interest in sewing just so that they might sit with her. She pushed the needle back into the linen and smiled while looking at the cuff so that Elizabeth Faulkner might not notice that she had seen the mess she was making of the project in her hands. Elizabeth had no love of sewing because it was clear that she spent little time with a needle and thread. The shirt in her hands was bunched and pulled in all the wrong places. It truly was a pity because the cloth was very fine and had no doubt cost Lord Faulkner a good measure of silver.
“Did you see Lord Harrow with Lady Wincott?” Elizabeth was watching her with wide eyes that didn’t look very innocent on the girl. There was a sly twist to her lips that betrayed the fact that she was fishing for information.
“Yes, I believe them a most handsome couple.”
More of the girls angled their heads, so as to hear every word clearly.
All that much better for gossiping later ...
“But there is no understanding between them. I heard that Lord Harrow has not even spoken to the Viscount Biddeford.”
Bessie lifted her face and stared at Elizabeth. “Lady Wincott is a widow, so I suspect that courting is done a bit differently the second time.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I believe the man is trying her out to see how she rides.”
Several of the girls giggled but Bessie dropped the shirt into her sewing basket and stood up.
“Lady Wincott is my friend.”
Elizabeth lifted her pert nose. “You would be wise to rethink that position. There are many rumors about her.”
“Well I shall have none of the business of concocting new ones. I find Lady Wincott honest and truthful. She is a woman with honor.”
Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath as Bessie left the room. She felt the weight of the other girls staring at her and sweat trickled down her back beneath her corset.
“Well, she has some pride.” Elizabeth kept her nose in the air and aimed her hardest stare at the other girls. She had to swim or sink now. “As if she is any better than we are. She is a woman, dependent on a good match and then upon her ability to produce a living son quickly. That temper of hers will not see her gaining any favor, mark my words. If her reputation is spoilt, she will come to no good end, high-born or not.”
There were quick glances between many of the girls, and Elizabeth watched to see who looked to whom. Such information would please her father as well as be useful when seeking out who spoke ill about her. Several of the girls nodded, agreeing with her publicly, if not truly. Elizabeth didn’t care what they really felt, only that once a few heads began moving, the rest followed. She smiled, enjoying the moment of being the one that the other girls looked to for direction.
And her father had claimed that girls were of little use. She would show him the error of his thinking.
“Francis de Canis, my lord.”
The Viscount Biddeford watched his manservant reverence after announcing his guest.
“Yes, yes, show him in.”
The servant withdrew before he heard a step on the stone floor that told him de Canis had arrived. The viscount didn’t rise. He continued to finish writing until the ink ran dry on the quill he was using. He set it carefully in the small wooden holder made to cradle the expensive silver writing implement before raising his attention to the man waiting on him.
“Francis, how good of you to come.”
There was a slight pinch of annoyance around the man’s face but he covered it well, inclining his head in deference.
“Yes, your man claimed you wished to discuss a matter of grave importance with me.”
Biddeford smiled, enjoying the feeling of his lip curving. “Yes, I believe you shall find it most interesting that I have met just recently with several members of His Majesty’s privy council. Tomorrow, this petition that I am finishing will be introduced and put to a vote. I believe it shall pass and the recently ennobled Baron Harrow will find himself placed under house arrest until it can be determined why my ward has not returned to my side. It is entirely possibly the man will have to answer for imprisoning her. After all, I am her guardian, and there is no reason why she would not want to return to me.”
Lust flashed through de Canis’s eyes and his lips curved with it. He tilted his head and looked toward the window for a moment.
“I believe there is time to prepare our little gathering for the evening.” He turned his face back to Biddeford. “But if you cross me, be sure you will pay for it, my lord.”
The viscount frowned but he wanted Bessie too much to risk offending de Canis. “How will you get the girl here?”
De Canis grinned. “Simple really, we shall let her think she is being invited by Justina.” He pointed at the quill. “Pick that up; you have an invitation to pen.”
Biddeford did as instructed. It was odd, his temper should have been irritated but he discovered that he was far too excited to take offense. Anticipation was making him giddy, and he had to force h
imself to listen to what de Canis wanted him to write. The man truly did have confidence in his potion because there was no way they would gain success otherwise. He dipped the quill into the ink several times before the parchment was ready to be sealed. By the time the ink was dry, his cock was rigid. It had been a long time since he had suffered an erection longer than a few hours. That’s what a mistress was kept for, to keep a man from having to be distracted by his cock. Today he was going to wait for release. Bessie Portshire was going to ease the stiffness from his swollen flesh this time. By the week’s end, he would have her wed and installed in his bed for at least a month.
And he would also have his ward back, too. Satisfaction warmed him almost as much as lust did. He discovered that he enjoyed the combination far more than anything else.
“Come, Mother! The table is set for our supper.”
Justina didn’t think that she would ever grow tired of hearing her son’s steps as he came running down the hallway. The day had flown far too fast, each hour feeling like only a few precious moments.
She could not stop thinking about the parting that was sure to come with the dawn. She told herself to savor the day, instead of dreading what was to come. There would be plenty of time to grieve once her son was safely on his way.
Outside it was gray, with thick clouds pressing down from the sky. The temperature never grew to anything that might be considered warm, and as the sun began to arch back toward the horizon, Justina found herself happy to be able to dress completely once again.
She followed her son’s footsteps down a long hallway and around a corner until she could smell the scent of food in the air. Her belly gave a rumble, making her laugh softly beneath her breath, for she had neglected to eat in favor of spending time with her child.
Justina froze in the doorframe, her gaze drinking in the sight before her. It was not a grand hall, not if one compared it to Whitehall palace. The room was large enough for several tables and there were four of them pushed against the walls. A single trestle table was set with pewter plates and linen squares. Two large candelabras sat in the center with candles burning brightly over the table.
What stole her breath away was the sight of Synclair sitting at the table. He wasn’t at the head of the table but sitting next to the chair her son was eagerly climbing into while Nan stood behind him with a watchful eye. The nurse pushed the heavy, X-framed chair toward the table once Brandon was seated.
But it was Synclair who reached over and dropped the waiting linen into her son’s lap. Brandon looked up with a smile on his lips that showed off the gap where his missing front teeth were. Synclair leaned down and whispered something in his ear that made her son fill the dining hall with musical laughter.
Sweet God, she loved Synclair even more in that moment.
The table was everything she had ever been denied. It was simple and more beautiful than any she had ever dined at because of its lack of pomp and arrogance. The servant stood behind it, waiting to serve the meal, and they lacked the stiff posture she had seen her entire life. Arlene had spoken truly when she said that it was nice to have someone in the house to serve. The housekeeper was busy peeking beneath the lid of a soup bowl, while a young girl stood at the back of the room where the doorway to the kitchen was. She waited there for Arlene to give her a silent signal to carry back to the cook when the master of the house was ready for the next dish. The girl didn’t look haggard as so many at court did. There was no fear on her face that she might earn a sharp slap tonight if she was slow or clumsy. Instead she smiled and toyed with her apron while she waited with a look of happy anticipation on her young face.
“There you are, my lady. I am beginning to think that you never eat.” Synclair rose, his chair scooting back with a loud sound. Justina sunk into a curtsy and she discovered that she truly meant the respectful lowering of her body.
“Why do you stand, Sir Synclair?” Brandon asked the question, his face turned up to the man he sat next to.
“Because respect is earned, Brandon, and your mother has mine.”
Respect ...
It was a word she had heard so often and yet, it seemed to be nothing but a hollow shell. She straightened and walked to the table, her gaze on Synclair and the way that he waited for her, on his feet while his staff watched. He didn’t miss her wonderings. He lifted up one hand and offered it to her while his eyes filled with determination.
“Come, Lady, and have a taste of what manner of life I am asking you to share with me.”
“Did you ask my mother to wed with you?”
Synclair smothered a laugh and his face turned slightly dark as though he had forgotten that her child sat so close. He looked down at Brandon.
“Indeed I did, so be a good lad and help me convince her that I would make a fine husband.”
Her son wiggled in his seat. “Would that make you a love match?”
Justina caught her lower lip with her teeth while taking the last chair at the table and sitting down. Synclair lowered himself into his chair at the same time.
“I believe it would.” He was answering her son but his gaze moved back to her, and there was a flash of emotion in his eyes that humbled her.
“I believe you should wed Sir Synclair, Mother.”
Justina shook out her linen cloth and laid it over her shoulder. “I will take your wise advice into consideration.”
Synclair placed his own cloth over his shoulder and the moment he did, there was a snap from Arlene’s fingers. The meal began but it lacked the rigid pomp that had always sickened her at court. Here, Synclair teased her son and shot her hot glances between bites. The table was not quiet but often the center of laughter and good humor.
A taste of the life he offered?
Justina very much feared that it was like poison, one dose was all that it would take to snuff out the tolerance she had for the life that Biddeford forced her to live.
Her wrist was still stained orange.
Justina sat in the slipper tub and rubbed her skin, but the stain was not washing away. Today she was bathing behind the kitchen, in the bath room. It was warm from the hearth, but in the summer months the heat would be too much and the windows along the top of the wall would be opened to allow some of the heat to escape.
Tonight it was perfect, though, and the warm air felt good against her skin that had been just a bit chilled for most of the day. She lifted a square of linen and rubbed it against a piece of soap for several long moments before trying again to wash the orange tinge from her skin.
“I didn’t think it would stain.”
The wash square dropped into the water as she jumped in surprise. Synclair stood in the doorway, blocking much of the light and making it difficult to read his expression, but sensation tingled along her skin just from knowing that he was near. Her flesh was instantly more sensitive, her skin becoming warmer and her heart increasing its pace by small degrees so that she began to draw breath faster.
“Well, I suppose it is a comfort to hear that you are not in the practice of chaining women to your bed.”
He snorted at her comment and she heard his boots against the stone floor. She recaptured the square while resisting the urge to cover her breasts. Heat rushed into her cheeks, drawing a soft hiss from her.
Damn her body’s illogical responses!
Synclair chuckled softly at her. “What troubles you, Justina? I find it charming that you blush for me.” He reached out and stroked a finger along the surface of her hot face.
“I am not some girl who should be so undisciplined.”
“Still, I think it looks quite well on you, an honest emotion.” He wasn’t wearing his doublet, and he began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt until they were past his elbows. There was something intimate about the moment, a slant to his eyes that made her feel admired.
He plucked the linen from her fingers and gripped her wrist. “Neither are you that advanced in years, Justina. Your father wed you far too young.”
His gaze went directly to the rose-colored points.
“Sixteen is not an uncommon age to be married.” Justina heard her own voice waiver, betraying that she had no faith in her own words.
He continued to wash her arm, working along the underside before picking the soap up from where it was floating on the surface of the water and rubbing the wash square against it again.
“I can wash myself.”
He flashed her a grin. “But you will enjoy it more if I wash you.”
“A wife washes her husband, not the other way around.” The words were out of her mouth before she thought about them. Synclair sent her a look that was full of challenge.
“But I am not your husband, am I, Justina? Nor have you agreed to marry me, so you shall have to continue to be only my captive lover, and I may do with you as I please.”
He caught her other wrist and smoothed the cloth over it. The soap made the fabric glide across her skin, and having his gaze on her heightened her awareness of everything. Her skin was becoming increasingly sensitive. She shivered with enjoyment as he swept the cloth up to her shoulder and along her back. Once there, he applied more pressure, his fingers beginning to massage her back.
A soft sound of enjoyment crossed her lips. She couldn’t hold it in, and she leaned further forward to allow his hands to work lower on her back.
“It’s rather unfair that women wash their husbands but they never repay the service.” He chuckled softly. “For I enjoyed giving you service, my lady.”
“I agree.” There was nothing else to say, not when his hands felt so good against her body.
“Ah ... did I hear you declare that you agree with me, sweet Justina?”
She lifted her head and looked back over her shoulder at him.