The conversation flowed this way and that, and Lucien’s new Countess turned to him, her green eyes bright with interest. Her veil fell forwards and a breath of summer came his way—honeysuckle. Honeysuckle and roses. With it came a sensual tug of attraction. It was so strong he ached. Isobel is quite the most desirable woman in the hall.
‘My lord,’ Isobel whispered, giving Countess Marie a sidelong glance. ‘It can’t be pleasant for the Countess not to know where her mother is.’
‘Don’t concern yourself. Countess Marie has not seen the Queen since she married King Harry.’
Isobel tipped her head to one side and her silver circlet caught the light. ‘That does not mean she is not upset by the Queen’s disappearance. Politics might have kept them apart, but they are mother and daughter. There must be a bond between them.’
‘Must there?’
She frowned. ‘You are too cynical, my lord. Do you know what has happened to Queen Eleanor? Can the King really have imprisoned her?’
Lucien picked his words with care. Ever since the Queen’s disappearance in the spring, the world had been talking of little else. Queen Eleanor was known to be difficult; she had surrendered the reins of power in the Aquitaine with great reluctance. And then she had committed that most terrible of sins—siding with her sons in open rebellion against her husband. ‘I only know what everyone else knows,’ he said. ‘The Queen was on her way to join the princes in Paris when she vanished.’
‘King Henry must have her,’ Isobel muttered. ‘Who else would dare?’
Privately, Lucien agreed, no one else would dare.
Small fingers dug into his arm. ‘You don’t think he would kill her?’
Lucien shook his head and kept his tone confidential. ‘Lord, no. As a wife, she must drive King Henry to distraction, but I doubt even he would go that far.’
‘He had that churchman killed. What was his name?’
‘Becket.’ Lucien grimaced and glanced about him. ‘Isobel, it is not wise to speak so boldly in public. King Harry has friends here. Besides, I am sure the Duchess is safe—wherever she is.’
‘I doubt one could feel safe in a prison.’
Lucien felt his face go hard. ‘Do you?’ In effect, that was what he had done to Morwenna, imprisoned her. It had been for Morwenna’s good, and he had been within his rights as a husband, but that did not alter the fact that he had imprisoned his wife. He forced a smile. ‘He is punishing her. It is a husband’s right to chastise his wife.’
‘We are speaking of a Queen!’ Indignation sparked in Isobel’s eyes. ‘A woman who was the Duchess of Aquitaine in her own right!’
Lucien raised an eyebrow. ‘She is particularly intractable. Many would say she deserved to be confined.’
At his side, Isobel seemed to freeze. She gave him a haughty look. ‘Is that your view, my lord? Would you lock an intractable wife away?’
When Raoul’s head turned sharply towards them, Lucien could have kicked him. ‘You will never know the answer to that, will you, little dove?’ he said. ‘Because I am sure you would not be so foolish as to turn into an intractable wife.’
She sat very straight and what her reply would have been, Lucien could not say, for at that moment a serving girl approached with a tray of sweetmeats. ‘More dates, Countess?’
Isobel gave the girl a distant smile. ‘Thank you.’
Lucien accepted a handful of dates himself. Thankfully, the arrival of the sweetmeats seemed to have lightened the mood. When his wife’s eyes turned back to his, hauteur had been replaced with thoughtfulness.
‘My lord, I cannot imagine what it must be like for Queen Eleanor to be a prisoner after the privileges she has known. How can she tolerate it? And how can he—her husband—behave in such a way?’
‘Rebellion is no light matter. One might just as easily ask how could she—his wife—have behaved in such a way? At the least, she needed reining in.’
‘Reining in?’ Isobel’s voice was sharp. ‘We are talking about a woman here, not a horse.’
Conscious of the Countess of Champagne sitting feet from him, Lucien kept his voice low. ‘At what point does rebellion become treason?’
Isobel’s pretty cherry-coloured mouth thinned. Lucien was on the point of saying something along the lines that if Eleanor had respected her husband’s judgement, imprisonment would not have been necessary when he had second thoughts. Isobel was reacting most vehemently on behalf of a woman she had never met. Why? I will not find that answer tonight, not while sitting at our wedding feast. Yes, it was his wedding night, and the loveliest woman in Champagne was his.
Tonight of all nights, he would be a fool to insist that imprisonment was actually a light punishment for a queen who might be accused of treason.
Tonight I will bed my wife, and there will be no guilt. There will be no anger. There will only be pleasure.
* * *
Lucien had planned their retreat from the Great Hall. He had no wish to fall victim to the traditional bedding ceremony, and had arranged that Sir Raoul, his steward Sir Gawain, and Joris should position themselves at the bottom of the stairwell. Their orders were simple. They must hold back any revellers who thought to continue the evening’s entertainment by plaguing him and Isobel on their wedding night.
After the last notes of the interminable ballad died away, Lucien nodded at Raoul and thanks to his offices he was able to lead Isobel from the dais without molestation. The door at the bottom of the stairwell slammed behind them, cutting off noise from the hall. Candles shivered in wall sconces. As Lucien ushered Isobel up the curling stairs, the shadows wavered and jumped.
At the top he held the door open for her. ‘Mon Dieu, I thought that man would yowl all night.’
‘Yowl, my lord? I enjoyed it.’
Lucien bit back a reply he knew she would find cynical, and led her into the solar. ‘It was pretty enough,’ he conceded. ‘All very poetic. But it’s not real.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The feelings the lute player was singing about are transitory. They don’t last. You can’t build empires on passing feelings.’
‘You don’t believe in love?’
‘If love exists, it is not a feeling. It is a decision.’
‘Like an arranged marriage?’
‘Just so.’
‘How very...practical you are, Lucien.’
Long blue skirts trailed across the boards as she approached the glowing warmth of the fire. Lucien was left with the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that he had disappointed her.
After the fluster and chaos of the Great Hall, the quiet in the solar seemed unnatural. Small sounds were loud. The swish of Isobel’s skirts. The crackle and spit of the fire. A jug of wine and two goblets sat waiting on a side-table. Glass lamps glowed in the corners. There was a slight gleam on the polished boards by the curtained doorway—candles had been lit for them in the bedchamber.
‘Where’s your maid?’
Elise stepped out from behind the screen and came to stand in the shadows. Head low, she curtsied. ‘Here, mon seigneur.’
Lucien frowned—he was beginning to find the girl’s self-effacing diffidence irritating. ‘You can look at me, I won’t bite.’
Elise’s eyes widened and she gave him the briefest, most reluctant of glances. ‘Yes, my lord. Is...is there anything you need?’
‘No, thank you, you may leave us.’
Dropping another hasty curtsy, Elise fled.
‘What’s the matter with that girl? She’s yet to look me square in the eye.’
‘She’s shy. She’s not used to being in the company of a great lord like yourself.’
Lucien grunted and pushed the maid from his mind. He was feeling uncharacteristically uncertain of his ground. He wanted Isobel—what red-blooded man would not?—and at last they were alone. Oddly, he felt absurdly uneasy and he could not think why. Except...
It flashed in on him that his previous wedding night had been less than hap
py. In truth, it had been a disaster. Lucien had been young, green, and utterly in love. He had been stunned when Morwenna had revealed her true colours. Morwenna had begun by telling him that she was not pregnant after all, that he had married her for nothing, and that his wits must have been touched for him to have believed her. And when the boy that he had been had protested that he did not care, that he loved her anyway, Morwenna had laughed in his face and—
‘Lucien?’
With Morwenna’s mockery ringing in his ears, Lucien found himself back in the present. His first wedding night had been the precursor of years of unhappiness. However, it was not Morwenna who was standing before him, gently touching his hand.
‘Please pour yourself some wine,’ Isobel murmured, her hair brightened by fire glow. ‘I shall retire. I do not need long.’
I do not need long. Sensible, forthright Isobel. Desirable Isobel.
No guilt. There will be no guilt.
She gave him a gentle smile and turned to the screen. Her silk veil trembled as it flowed out around her.
Her veil is trembling? His heart turned to lead. She fears me?
With a concerned frown, Lucien took a deep breath and went to find out.
Isobel had pulled off her silver circlet and set it on a coffer when Lucien’s shadow fell over her. Catching her hand, he raised it to his lips.
‘Since I dismissed your maid, I should offer you my services.’
‘Thank you.’ Isobel’s heart was racing. She was certain he must feel how she was shaking. ‘I don’t think there’s any point in my denying this—I am nervous, my lord.’
‘Lucien,’ he reminded her. ‘And there’s no need for nerves.’ With a smile, he reached for the pins and ties on her veil. ‘You can be at ease.’
He draped her veil over the coffer. Cupping her cheek, he drew her close and kissed her. ‘You see? We have done this before,’ he muttered, voice deepening.
With a shy laugh, Isobel took his shoulders, angling her mouth to give him better access. ‘And this,’ she said, speaking into his mouth, ‘we have also done this.’ She could taste spiced wine on his tongue—cinnamon, honey...
Thank goodness I have taken those herbs...
‘But I have not done this in your company,’ Lucien said. Slowly, he reached for her girdle and unfastened it. Her girdle slid to the floor.
Isobel’s breath caught. A large hand enclosed her breast, stroking gently through the fabric of her gown.
‘Nor have I done this, although I have longed to.’
‘You have?’ Isobel pulled back and looked deep into his eyes. Lucien’s pupils had dilated, and his smile was as warm—as gentle—as a new bride could wish.
Gentle? She curled her fingers into his tunic as she remembered the day Anna had come running back to St Foye’s Convent after her wedding. She could not forget Anna’s tears as she had spoken about what happened between a man and his wife in the marriage bed. ‘There is much we have not done...’
His lips twitched. ‘True.’
‘Come on then...’ Taking him by the hand, she pulled him to the bed. ‘Best get on with it. Quickly, Lucien.’
His eyes were startled. ‘I thought to take it slowly, so as not to alarm you.’
‘You are my husband. Do it quickly, do everything quickly.’
‘Isobel, there may be pain—’
‘So I have been told. All the more reason for you to get it over with swiftly. I will be happier when I know how bad it’s going to be. Doing new things makes me nervous. Especially this. Quickly, Lucien.’
‘You assume it’s going to be bad.’ He shoved his hand through his hair. ‘Isobel, you unman me.’
Pushing bedcovers aside, Isobel lay back against the pillows and held out her hand. ‘I am sorry, Lucien, I have much to learn. I thought you would be pleased to do it quickly. It is just that I am...’ she bit her lip ‘...very nervous.’
Lucien braced his arms on either side of her head, and looked down at her. His eyes were soft as a summer sky. ‘My Countess,’ he murmured. ‘My sweet and innocent Countess. Perhaps you will feel better if I enlighten you. Women can enjoy the act of love.’
Isobel looked at him in disbelief. She enjoyed his kisses, but the full act of love? No. Such a possibility had never occurred to her. No one had mentioned enjoyment—not the nuns at Conques, nor her mother, nor Anna. Further, her mother had died in childbirth, which only went to prove that not only was the act of love in itself to be feared, but also the consequences...
Shaking her head, she pushed all thoughts of the sachet of herbs lying in her jewel box to the back of her mind. ‘Men enjoy it, women merely submit.’
The mattress rustled as he took his place beside her. ‘I am telling you the truth, Isobel. Women can enjoy it. You enjoy our kisses, do you not?’
‘Ye-es.’
* * *
Doubt was written all over Isobel’s face. Lucien could see she wanted to believe him; he could see her struggling with whatever nonsense the nuns had stuffed into her head. ‘Some women love it,’ he added.
‘What women? You mean fallen women? Does your mistress love it?’
He sighed, lifted one of her hands and held it in front of her, so she could watch as their fingers interlaced. ‘I have no mistress.’
Her brows snapped together. ‘No?’
‘Isobel, in the past I have been more sinner than saint. I have had lovers. No longer.’
Her frown deepened, and he had the distinct sense that she did not believe him. ‘Did they enjoy it?’
‘So they said.’
Her mouth turned down. ‘Fallen women. Ladies are expected to submit.’
‘That’s the nun in you speaking, it’s not the real you. Isobel, I have to tell you that enjoyment is not confined to fallen women. Women from all walks of life are capable of enjoyment.’
‘But, Lucien, the nuns said—’
‘Were the nuns speaking from experience?’
‘I...no. No, I don’t suppose they were. My friend Anna though... Anna married recently and she told me...’ She hesitated, shaking her head. ‘It sounded dreadful.’
‘Her husband hurt her?’
‘Very much. She hated it, and—’
‘How well did Anna know her husband before they bedded?’
‘Not well. They had a brief betrothal. I doubt she saw him more than I have seen you—’ She broke off, flushing.
‘You must not fear me. I shall be at your command and shall stop the moment you give the word.’
‘On your honour?’
He smiled. ‘On my honour.’ Releasing her hand, he teased out a strand of blonde hair, and drew it across her breast. With the tip of his forefinger, he started at her crown and followed the strand down its length, travelling down the side of her head and neck, over her collarbone and across her breast...
His kept his touch light. Beneath it, her breast tightened. She was understandably nervous. A virgin. But—Lucien did not think he was deluding himself—his new wife desired him. Blood quickening, sensing that she was relaxing, he gradually increased the pressure, closing his hand on her. ‘You like this?’
‘Mmm.’ She tugged at his tunic, pulling at him until he lay half over her.
Given her fears, Isobel could not desire Lucien as much as he desired her. He ached with want. Even more so when she gave a faint moan and her eyes flickered to his mouth.
He cleared his throat. ‘Isobel, I would have you confess it—you are not frightened of me.’
‘I am not afraid of you, Lucien. Only the act. And...’
‘And?’
‘The consequences.’
‘We shall take it one step at a time. Trust me.’
Her hair flashed gold in the candlelight as she nodded. ‘I will. When you have done it, then I will know. Quickly, Lucien. Do it quickly.’
Small hands worked at his belt and threw it aside. They dipped beneath his tunic and undershirt. When they found his skin, Lucien almost lost control. He had not
lied to her, in the years since he had married Morwenna he had had lovers. But he had desired none as much as he desired Isobel.
‘My golden girl,’ he murmured.
Then his golden girl did something she had not done before—she shifted and pulled her skirts up over her hips. Lucien’s mouth went dry. She was slim and white, and that smooth, summer-scented flesh inflamed him. Intriguing shadows seemed to promise endless delight. Shared delight. Impatient as she, hard as stone, he fumbled blindly at her skirts, thinking to draw her gown over her head.
‘No time,’ she muttered, arching up to join her mouth with his. ‘Quickly, Lucien, quickly.’
Desire was a dark fire in his veins. Lucien was beyond arguing. He was beyond taking care, beyond anything except the driving need to have her. She wanted him quickly, she could have him. Busy hands were at the ties of his chausses, stoking the fire. Tugging, pulling—pushing aside his chausses and braies. Slender fingers closed over him and he jerked at her touch. She was eager, was his golden girl.
When he returned the compliment, touching her in that intriguing shadowy place, testing, teasing, she whimpered and writhed. After a few strokes, he let out a sigh. Without question, she wanted him.
With a groan of relief, Lucien positioned himself and gave a quick, hard thrust. Her skirts were bunched about her waist, and her eyes were intent on his. A line formed between her eyebrows. He controlled the urge to move and cleared his throat. ‘It hurts?’
She shook her head, and waves of golden hair rippled out over the pillow. ‘It feels rather...strange.’
Carefully, he found a rhythm.
Her eyes closed. ‘Oh, that’s...’ her husky laugh surprised him ‘...different.’
‘Mmm.’
Small fingers dug into his shoulders. She turned her head and pressed a kiss to his forearm, a tiny, almost insignificant gesture. It was too small a gesture, surely, to have something shift so powerfully in his chest?
He swallowed. ‘Isobel.’
She looked beautiful beneath him in their marriage bed. Her cheeks were flushed and her green eyes never left him. Her golden hair lit up the bedchamber. She lit up the bedchamber.
‘Lucien,’ she muttered.
Already she was matching his rhythm. It felt so good that at this rate she would soon have her wish—he would not last long. He reached between them.
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