After a time, however, Valor reined in, waiting for Coquette to join him.
“Prepare yourself, little beauty,” he said as they approached Roanan, “for I feed you to the wolves this moment.”
As they entered the streets of Roanan, Coquette was astonished at the multitude of inquisitive stares and accompanying whispers.
“Milord,” one man greeted, tipping his hat to Valor.
“Good morning, Eaves,” Valor said. “Have you met Milady of Roanan as yet?”
“No, sire. I have not yet had the pleasure,” the man said.
Valor reached over, taking hold of the reins in Coquette’s hands and pulling her mount flush to his.
“This is Lady Lionhardt, Eaves, your Lady of Roanan,” he said as the man removed his hat and nodded to Coquette.
Coquette smiled and returned his nod of greeting.
“This is Eaves, milady,” Valor said to her. “He is the greatest blacksmith in the country. By far.”
“Thank you, milord,” Eaves said, smiling at Coquette.
“I am pleased to meet you, Eaves,” Coquette said.
“And I you, milady,” Eaves said, smiling. “We were hearing his lordship’s new bride was as pretty as any princess, milady. And may I say, your ladyship is far more than that.”
“You are far too kind and flattering, I am certain, sir,” Coquette said, silently commanding her blush to cool.
“What news of Roanan?” Valor asked.
“Oh, not so much of late, milord,” Eaves said. “Yet old Mathilde died three days past.”
“Mathilde?” Valor asked, dismounting then. “A good soul was she. I hate to hear she has left us.”
Coquette frowned, confused by Valor’s suddenly polite demeanor. She watched as he handed Goliath’s reins to Eaves.
“I will have a basket sent to her daughter. Perhaps a new sapling as well,” Valor said. He held his hands out to Coquette. By reflex, she placed her hands on his broad shoulders, allowing him to lift her down from her own mount.
“Thank you for telling me of Mathilde, Eaves,” Valor said, linking Coquette’s arm through his own. “And would you see to Goliath and Meg for me? I am not so certain Goliath was not having some discomfort on the ride here.”
“Yes, milord. Of course,” Eaves said. “Milady,” he added with a bow before replacing his hat.
“Come, milady,” Valor said. “Let us walk in Roanan.”
Coquette looked to him, inquisitive. He was so altered. His presence still commanding, thoroughly intimidating, yet his brief conversation was somehow void of the familiar arrogance normally radiating from him.
Each person who passed them on the streets of Roanan offered kind greetings, Valor instantly responding with a polite greeting in return. Coquette simply smiled, wondering which of these kind-seeming people were the vessels to carry malicious gossip and which were truly the Lord of Roanan’s allies in spirit.
They walked without haste for a space, until Valor led her to a shop filled with books, sweet pastries, and trinkets of every sort. He purchased a book—a book that she was certain she had seen already on a shelf of the vast library at Roanan Manor. Likewise, he purchased three pieces of hard, golden confection, depositing one in his mouth and two in his pocket. Lastly, he purchased a fine set of lace gloves for Coquette, pleasing the shopkeeper with an extra silver coin for her trouble.
Within the hour, Meg walked abreast of Goliath, and Coquette rode in wonder at the polite Lord of Roanan she had witnessed in town.
“It will begin at once,” he said suddenly. “It already has.”
“The gossip, you mean?” she asked. Surely such kind people as she had only just met would say nothing against Valor and especially herself. “But surely, sire—they all…they all seem so…so very fond of you.”
At once, Valor broke into amused laughter, and Coquette could not help but smile at the sight of his merriment. How much more handsome he was happy than ever brooding!
“You say it as if it is inconceivable to you,” he said. “Yet once you too found me of a quality to admire.”
Coquette was uncomfortable. Somehow, the appearance of his dazzling smile had unsettled her, causing her to feel fondly toward him. “I meant only to ask what malicious gossip can thrive when everyone there seems to see you as—” she began.
“You did not meet them all,” he said. “Not all the inhabitants of Roanan greeted us this day. You met the few who think of me as contributing to their livelihood—the blacksmith whom I paid for service to Goliath that was not needed, the shopkeeper whose books and sweets I buy each time I visit.”
“Surely they do not admire you simply for the sake of your purse, milord,” she said. She had seen the way these people greeted Valor, the true admiration in their eyes. He himself did not see they admired him for himself, not simply his purse.
“The gossip has begun, milady,” he said. “As I said, thicken your pretty skin against it.”
Suddenly, she desired to hear her name drop from his lips. She did not want to be milady. She wanted to hear his voice speak Coquette as it once had. She tried not to think of the way he had referred to her as Kitty in the past. When first they had become sweethearts, he had taken to calling her the more familiar Quettie, which he quickly smoothed into Kitty. How she wished he would name her that instead of milady.
Shaking her head to dispel the sweet memory of the Valor she once knew, she looked to him and said, “My skin is thicker than you think, milord.”
“Such soft skin as yours could not be too thick, milady,” he said, causing her to quickly look to him. For an instant, she thought she saw a familiar, teasing merriment in his eyes. But it vanished quickly as he added, “I am impatient to find you in my chambers this evening—as I know you are impatient to find yourself there as well.”
“You obviously do not know the nature of my skin or the vast length of my patience, milord,” she said, cropping Meg to a canter. She must escape him, for the blush on her cheeks was blazon, she knew. How dare he utter such insinuations! How dare he? Yet Coquette was greatly unsettled by the sudden and brutal hammering of her heart.
“Beast!” she muttered to herself as she rode on toward Roanan Manor.
Valor smiled and chuckled. Immediately, however, he endeavored to rein in his amusement. He would have to be careful in teasing her, for it could be his undoing. She evoked some long-lost desire toward jest from within him, and he must mask it, beat it down lest it weaken his resolve.
The little vixen, he thought, summoning indignation. How dare she imply she would have long patience in resisting him? Why, Valor knew full well that if he were a mind to have her do so, she would be willingly in his arms in a hair’s breadth!
Perhaps it was time the merchant’s daughter was taught her lessons in humility. Perhaps it was time he championed less chivalry and more virility! Hmph, he thought. We shall see how her prudence defends the advances of the Lord of Roanan this night!
“You seem overanxious this evening, milady,” Victoria said as she brushed Coquette’s long hair. Sitting before the looking glass in her own chambers, Coquette’s heart pounded with angst. The standing clock read one quarter of an hour before eight, and she was a knot of nerves and worry.
“I suppose I am only tired from the trip to Roanan today,” Coquette said.
“Well, I am certain there were many sets of curious eyes upon you there,” Victoria said, smiling. “No doubt the silvered tongues of the old gossips are weaving tales as we speak.”
“No doubt,” Coquette breathed.
“I will bring you some warmed milk with nutmeg this evening, milady,” Victoria said. “It will quiet you and send you to sleep much soothed.”
“I have not had your spiced milk since the first night I arrived,” Coquette said.
“You have had no need of it since that first night, I do not think,” Victoria said.
Coquette blushed crimson, as crimson, she fancied, as the coverlet
on Valor’s bed.
“Yet tonight…it will be good for you to have it,” Victoria added.
“I have been here nearly two weeks, Victoria,” Coquette said. “Milord…he does not seem to be as…as demanding that I away to him as I imagined a husband would be.”
Victoria held her breath for a moment, entirely irritated with her lord. Did he not realize milady’s complete innocence? Did he not yet admit the true desires of his own heart? Yet she must be careful, for there was much she felt she did not know—something keeping the Lord of Roanan from his wife and all he desired of her.
“I will bring your drink promptly,” Victoria said, setting the brush on the vanity and taking Coquette’s elbow in urgency she should stand. “For now, you should away to his chamber, lest he arrive early and be vexed to find you absent.”
Coquette did not miss the manner in which Victoria had so demurely skirted her questions. Perhaps she was simply uncomfortable discussing the intimacies of her lordship’s marriage. Therefore, Coquette chose to urge her no further and simply allowed Victoria to escort her across the hall to Valor’s chambers.
Once inside and alone, she began to tremble. With no memory of what had transpired on her wedding night, she was as unsettled as ever before.
She must distract herself—give her mind and body respite from worry. Thus, she glanced up at the lion overhead. Turning her head this way and that, she decided the nature of the mural was much better viewed from the bed. Carefully, for she was every inch disconcerted, she lay on Valor’s bed, gazing up at the lion. She glanced at the clock. Yet ten minutes were to pass before he would arrive. So she stared at the lion above her. There were attributes of the lion she had not noticed on her first night in the room. Its eyes were so like Valor’s she was surprised she had not noticed the resemblance before. The same color and shape, she fancied the lion had been painted while the artist gazed into Valor’s very eyes.
“You come to me early? How flattering, milady.”
Instantly, Coquette leapt from the bed. Valor had entered by way of his bathing rooms once again. Coquette put a hand to her bosom to calm her startled heart. He already had removed his coat, vest, and cravat. The billowy white of his shirt hung open and untucked. Even his boots and stockings had been stripped.
“You frightened me nearly out of my skin, milord!” she said, breathless yet, both from his sudden entrance and his alluring appearance.
“For my own advantage, I would have done better to frighten you nearly out of that gossamer nightdress you wear,” he said.
Coquette gasped, indignant practically to mortification at his inference.
He smiled and chuckled. “Come now, you merchant’s daughter, you,” he said. “We are alone, entirely isolated within my bedchamber. You need not act the offended innocent here. You seem to forget…you are my wife and have spent the night in my bed once before. Willingly enough, I may add.”
Coquette felt her brow pucker, again frustrated with her lack of memory of her wedding night. “Did I not know the better of it for myself,” he began, “by the expression on your pretty face, I would think you had forgotten completely the fact of it.”
“I-I am simply unaccustomed to such lighthearted handling of…of such private matters,” Coquette stammered. How she wished she could remember! But she did not. She remembered only her stunned astonishment at finding Valor to be her husband—the warm milk and nutmeg. Nothing else.
She watched him as he strode to the bed, lying down upon it and tucking his hands beneath his head for a moment as he seemed to consider the lion above. “Now then,” he began, “would you prefer I play the attentive lover for a time? Or does your preference this evening run toward fulfilling your duty as quickly as possible?”
Coquette frowned, but not for the insensitive manner of his words—rather for the familiarity of them. She had heard these words before—on her first night in his chamber.
“I choose as I did before,” she ventured. She was certain he had spoken these words to her on their first night. But what if she were mistaken? If she were mistaken, he would know at once her mind denied her memory.
“Ahh,” he said then, smiling as he rose and strode to her. “You choose again the attentive lover, then.”
“I do?” she breathed, completely unnerved as his strong, warm hands encircled her neck. Goose pimples broke over her entire body at his touch—a delightful shiver produced by the thrill fanning through her.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. “And it pleases me you should admit the preference.”
“It does?” she asked, breathless as he bent, placing warm lips against her ear.
She startled as the standing clock struck. Almost instantly, there came a soft knock on the door.
“That would be Victoria with our drink,” Valor said, releasing her.
Coquette swayed slightly, having been rendered rather giddy and light-headed by his attention.
Opening the door, Valor removed two silver chalices from the tray Victoria held.
“Thank you, Victoria,” he said. “You may leave us.”
Coquette fancied Victoria paused before leaving. Further she fancied the serving woman rather glared at her master with disapproval for a moment.
“Good night,” Valor said, closing the door with his foot.
“There you are, milady,” he said, offering one of the chalices to her.
Suddenly Coquette wondered if she should accept the drink. It occurred to her only then that the previous time she had taken warm milk with Valor, her memory had been denied her. Still, it had been Victoria who had prepared the milk. And how could milk and nutmeg deprive a person of their memories?
“It is good, this concoction Victoria blends,” he said, drinking his milk as Coquette accepted the chalice from him.
The milk was good—warm with heat and spice—and Coquette could not help but empty the chalice.
“Come,” Valor said, taking the chalice from Coquette’s hands and setting both vessels on the mantel. “Now what were we about before Victoria intruded?”
“I believe you were endeavoring to seduce me, milord,” Coquette answered, feeling suddenly less unsettled and more secure.
Valor’s eyebrows rose in seeming wonder. “Was I, milady?” he asked, yet going to her and taking her face in his hands.
The very air of the room seemed to soften and warm, and Coquette was momentarily mesmerized by the beloved face of Valor Lionhardt before her. How his eyes burned with…was it desire? His hair so soft, so tempting she could not keep her fingers from reaching up to twist one velvet lock.
“Are you truly so much changed as you appear?” she asked.
“Much changed, yes,” he told her, his eyes glowing amber. “I am everything your charming little suitor of the past was not,” he said. He smiled at her then, the dazzling brilliance of it causing her to quietly gasp. “Dark, dominant, and demanding.”
Her heart hammered brutally within her bosom. She fancied her toes tingled as she looked at him—watched as his dazzling smile softened to a mischievous grin, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her.
“For I am Lord of Roanan and will easily seduce innocence.”
“Seduce innocence?” she said. “Do you mean such as the devil himself does?”
His smile broadened, and he chuckled. “So that is who you kin me with, is it? Still, seduce you I will—and yet, as I have said, the manner in which I do was this night, again, your choice.”
Coquette’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her as he leaned forward, letting his lips lightly brush her ear.
“Which manner of lover’s lure do you wish me to use this night, my beauty? Do you wish for the gentle, careful lover’s kiss?”
She was breathless, trembling as she felt his lips linger a moment at the nape of her neck.
“Should I linger?” His voice was deep, rich like sun-warmed honey. He kissed her neck once more, one hand resting lightly at her waist. “
Should I breathe a kiss to you?” he asked, his hand at her waist pulling her body closer to his. He moved his attention from her neck, letting his mouth hover a breath from her own. “Do you prefer the soft, measured kiss of tender youth?” he asked, his breath warm on her slightly parted lips.
She was undone! Her mind fought with her heart and body, reminding her this was not her beloved Valor before her but a cruel and heartless beast. This was not Valor’s tempting whispered kiss but the breathed kiss of seduction. Yet everything in her, every shred of her soul, wanted him to gather her in his arms, press his lips to her own.
“P-please, milord,” she said, feeling somewhat giddy and weak. He must not kiss her! He mustn’t! She feared her longing to have her lost Valor, her heart’s dream, would be her undoing.
“Soft,” he said as his lips pressed to hers lightly. “Measured?” he asked, kissing her again.
Coquette inwardly scolded herself for not pushing at him—for not even attempting to evade him. Yet as his lips pressed to hers a third time, she was near gasping from restraining her desire to return the kiss.
“It is teasing in a manner,” he said, his mouth still hovering a breath from her own. “I find it frustrating and juvenile.”
His words saddened Coquette. For was this not the very kiss he’d so often stolen from her, gifted her so long ago when they were happy lovers? It angered and hurt her he would reprove it.
The Whispered Kiss Page 9