Intimate Betrayal

  The earl regarded her with a cool glance, his handsome sculptured features set in a firm line. Then he faced the other man, his lips curling up in the mere hint of a smile.

  “Is this some sort of game, Tris?” he inquired dryly.

  “If it is, I can assure you it is not my doing, Derek,” Tristan insisted.

  The earl advanced and Diana stood utterly still, holding her body rigid. He circled her slowly, assessing every nuance of her soggy, travel-stained appearance. By sheer strength of will Diana subdued the tremor of panic invading her body as she met the predatory speculation in the earl’s intense blue eyes.

  “Will you kindly explain, madam,” he finally said, unable to keep his fury from his voice, “exactly how you happen to have acquired the title Dowager Countess of Harrowby?”

  Diana wrinkled her brow in confusion. She had thought very little about the kind of reception she would receive when she first encountered the new earl. She had been too busy concentrating all her efforts upon reaching London safely. His open display of hostility toward her was both unwarranted and unwelcome.

  “I was married to the former earl,” she said, in response to his question. “Giles Rutledge.”

  Her announcement brought a darker scowl from the earl and a hoot of laughter from Tristan. The earl turned away from Diana and walked toward the fire. Despite Diana’s puzzlement at his rude and hostile behavior, she could not help but admire his ruggedly handsome features and his lean frame, which was displayed by his perfectly tailored clothes.

  “Pierrepoint,” Tristan announced with authority in his voice. “Or perhaps Coventry. But I would put my money on Pierrepoint.”

  “Another prank?” Derek inquired, his tone conveying his annoyance as he picked up his brandy glass and took a long swallow.

  “What else,” the other man replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I suppose we might as well see it through. Come over by the fire and sit down, madam. You must be chilled to the bone. And please do tell us your tale.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Tris,” Derek said, “don’t encourage her.”

  Ignoring Derek, Tristan escorted Diana to a chair near the fire. He strode over to the sideboard and poured her a glass of sherry. Returning to her side, he handed her the glass and waited while she took a tentative sip.

  Lifting her eyes, Diana studied the two exceedingly handsome men staring down at her while she slowly sipped the wine. Both men were tall and well proportioned, with fit athletic builds. Tristan was slightly taller than Derek, but Derek was broader of shoulder. Their coloring was similar, but Tristan’s hair was a darker shade of brown and his eyes a deep, warm sapphire blue. The earl had blond strands in his close-cropped hair, which was in disarray because of its natural curl, and his eyes were icy blue. Even though it was early April, both men sported golden tans, attesting to their preference for the outdoors.

  Tristan had a boyish smile and an easy charm. Diana could not be certain about the earl’s smile. He had not ceased scowling since she entered the room. As Diana continued her covert study of the two men, they, in turn, took in every aspect of her appearance, from her moist walking boots to her hair, which was simply braided down her back and fastened with a black velvet ribbon.

  “You were going to tell us about yourself,” Tristan said after he had given Diana sufficient time to compose herself.

  “I am not sure exactly what you want to know,” Diana replied hesitantly. She twirled the sherry glass nervously in her hands, absently noting that Tristan wore a wedding band. A quick glance at the earl’s strong hands verified he did not.

  “Surely you have more to say than that,” Derek said flatly, looking pointedly down his nose at her with very cold, arresting eyes. “Were you not sufficiently coached?”

  Diana blinked at his obscure remark. She could feel his animosity. Yet his arrogant stare gave her just the courage she needed and she indignantly straightened her back. Diana did not have a clue as to why they were treating her in such a strange manner, but she decided it was time to assert herself.

  “I have come a great distance, sir, in order to settle the affairs of my late husband,” she said in a strong voice. Diana faltered a bit as the men exchanged glances. Tristan’s face was alight with amusement; the earl glowered with annoyance.

  “He has been dead for over three months,” Derek stated flatly. “What has taken you so long?”

  Diana looked up unflinchingly into the man’s cold blue eyes before she said, “News of Giles’s death has only recently reached me. I have been traveling for nearly two weeks now.”

  “Exactly where have you come from, madam?” Derek asked mockingly.

  “Cornwall,” Diana responded calmly, determined not to lose her temper no matter how cruelly provoked.

  “Cornwall? Near Truro?” Tristan asked.

  “No,” Diana answered, turning her attention to him. “Farther down the coast from Truro, nearer to St. Ives. The closest village to my home is called Zennor.”

  “This is really too much, Tristan,” the earl interrupted with annoyance. “I am not about to sit through a long discourse on the geography of Cornwall.” He shifted restlessly from foot to foot. “I do believe that I have had quite enough. I think it is time to summon Dobbs and have her ladyship escorted out of here at once.”

  Diana felt her anger ignite at both the earl’s words and his sarcasm. She had been wrong to go there. She should have known better. It was only fitting that Giles’s relations would treat her in such a disgraceful manner. Diana turned sharply to the earl and, with as much dignity as she could muster, rose to her feet.

  “It will not be necessary for you to call your servant, my lord,” she stated. “I will take my leave of my own accord. And gladly. I can assure you, I have had quite enough of your rude and ill-bred behavior.” Diana fumbled momentarily in her black reticule before pulling forth several crumpled sheets of paper. “Here is a list of the properties Giles managed while we were wed. I still own them, as the marriage contract clearly states. I am requesting your solicitor forward the deeds of ownership to my residence at once. The address is listed on the copy of the marriage contract.”

  Derek reluctantly took the papers she offered him, his eyes gleaming brightly with speculation. “Bravo, madam,” he sneered. “You seem to have found both your spirit and your imagination.” He turned to Tristan and remarked further, “She appears to be warming to the part, don’t you think?”

  But Tristan was no longer smiling. “Perhaps we have been a bit hasty, Derek. I think we should listen to what she has to say.”

  The earl lifted an eyebrow. “Not you too, Tristan?” he responded suspiciously. “Don’t tell me that you are somehow tangled up in this ridiculous farce?”

  While the two men argued the point, Diana decided to make her escape. She sped swiftly past them, determined to leave the room as quickly as possible. Now that she realized her mistake in coming, she wanted nothing more than to leave and forget the entire incident. She would not subject herself to any more rude and hostile behavior. Diana did not know precisely where she would go once she left, since she did not know a soul in London, but it didn’t matter. Uppermost in her mind was the need to be free of the Earls of Harrowby, both former and present.

  Diana had almost reached the drawing room doors when Tristan called to her to stop. The strength of command in his voice caused her to react automatically and she obeyed him.

  It was a good thing too that she did, for a split second later the doors swung open, barely missing slamming into her head. A short, slender figure, clad entirely from head to toe in black, swept regally into the room.

  “Derek,” the woman called out in a throaty voice. “I have only just arrived, but I insisted to Dobbs that I see you immediately. The trip from Darford was positively draining, yet I felt I should greet you before I went to my rooms. Dobbs actually tried to dissuade me, and then he insisted on announcing me. Can you imagine—announcing me in my own home? The very idea. I told him I
would not stand for it, of course.”

  While the woman paused a brief moment to catch her breath, the earl said, “Henriette—” but was cut off as she began speaking again.

  “Tristan,” she exclaimed, seeming to recover instantly from her exhaustion as she spotted the other man. “How very lovely to see you.” She held out her hand dramatically for him to kiss and Tristan reluctantly complied. “And who is your friend?” Henriette inclined her head toward Diana.

  Tristan didn’t answer the woman, and she waited only a mere heartbeat before walking up to Diana and introducing herself. “I am Henriette Rutledge,” she announced. “Countess of Harrowby.”

  For a brief moment Diana felt a flicker of sympathy for the earl. She couldn’t imagine how he survived being married to such an overbearing woman. No wonder he scowled all the time. Diana turned her attention back to Henriette, who was talking about her difficult journey into town. She was pretty, Diana conceded, with her brilliant green eyes and dark hair, and probably near to Diana’s age of twenty-two. And yet, Diana thought, Henriette resembled a black magpie, chattering away, her slim figure encased in a long pelisse of black silk with puffed sleeves and a half-dress cap of silk with its small black feather perched on top of her head.

  Finally, Henriette ceased her tirade and looked expectantly at Diana. Since Diana did not have the faintest idea what had been said, she merely smiled. When Diana saw that Henriette had regained her breath and was about to begin another soliloquy, she spoke quickly.

  “I was just explaining to your husband,” Diana said, but Henriette immediately interjected.

  “My husband,” Henriette shrieked. “You cannot possibly mean Derek?”

  “You did introduce yourself as the Countess of Harrowby, Henriette,” Tristan said.

  Henriette shot Tristan a positively chilling look and said, “’Tis a reasonable mistake. After all it has only been a few short months since my dearest Giles was so cruelly taken from me.”

  “Your dearest Giles?” Diana said. She made a low, choked sound as she stared at Henriette.

  “Yes,” Henriette responded, enjoying the intense attention everyone was now affording her. “Tristan was right however. I did make a mistake. Although I am far too young for the title, I am actually the Dowager Countess of Harrowby. Giles’s widow.”

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Adrienne Basso’s newest historical romance,

  HOW TO BE A SCOTTISH MISTRESS,

  coming as a print and eBook in July 2013!

  Chapter One

  Northern England, June 1306

  “We’ll have rain by nightfall, I fear,” Lord Henry Libourg, Baron of Arundel, declared solemnly as he slowed his horse’s canter, drawing closer to his wife so as to be heard above the pounding hooves. “’Tis bound to make a mud pit in the middle of the bailey, but the newly sowed crops will benefit.”

  “Rain? Are you daft, my lord?” Lady Fiona matched her mare’s pace to that of her husband’s war stead, then eyed him with healthy skepticism. “There is nary a cloud in the sky to mar the perfection of sunshine.”

  “Rain it will be, my lady,” Henry insisted with authority. “I feel it in my bones.”

  He slapped his gloved hand deliberately against his thigh, then grimaced. Fiona turned her face upward toward the bright sunshine, shaking her head. It was moments such as this when the nearly twenty-five-year age difference between her and her spouse became glaringly apparent. Only an old man spoke of his joints aching when rain or snow approached.

  The unkind thought had no sooner entered her head when Fiona silenced it. Henry was a good husband—dear to her in many ways. She had been sent to his manor as a young girl of twelve, to serve his wife and learn the duties of a proper lady. When that good woman had died in childbirth five years later, Henry had surprised Fiona by asking her to be his wife and mother to his infant son.

  Born to a family of minor nobility that took little stock in the welfare of its female members, Fiona had been relieved when her father agreed to the match. Relieved and grateful, for it allowed her to stay at the first place she had truly considered home.

  She knew others could not understand why she would eagerly wed a man of modest means and position so much older than herself, but as the Baroness of Arundel, Fiona had found a purpose that filled her with confidence and self-worth. Though affectionate, she had come to accept that hers was not, nor would it ever be, a marriage of passion. Yet Fiona loved Henry truly, in a way that stretched far beyond a sense of duty.

  All in all, it was a good life.

  Fiona turned her gaze away from the sunlight twinkling through the leaves and gazed out at the trees surrounding them. Summer had finally arrived, but a thick layer of dead brown leaves carpeted much of the forest floor, mingling with the green of the smaller bushes and ferns.

  “Oh, look Henry, ’tis a cluster of blooming feverfew,” Fiona exclaimed. “Please, may we stop so I can gather some? Two of the kitchen lads have broken out in a fierce rash. They are suffering mightily and treating them with my usual ointments has proven useless. I am certain the addition of feverfew will make all the difference.”

  Filled with excitement, Fiona tugged on her reins with a short, sharp motion. Her horse protested, rearing in response.

  “Careful now, you don’t want to take a tumble on this hard ground,” Henry admonished. With impressive skill, the baron reached out a strong arm to ensure his wife kept her seat.

  Fiona cast him a grateful smile, tightening her thighs around her mount instinctively. She was a competent, though not especially skilled, horse woman. Fortunately, Henry was near to keep her safe.

  Once her horse was calm, the baron peered over at the soft, white petal flowers she pointed toward, his expression perplexed. “Feverfew? Are you certain? They look like ordinary daises to me.”

  Fiona smiled. Henry was a man of solid intelligence as well as experience, but medicinal herbs and flowers were completely foreign to him. “With their yellow centers and white petals, I’ll allow there is a strong resemblance, but you must trust me, sir, when I tell you those are not daisies.”

  “I trust you, Fiona. I’m just not certain ’tis wise to delay our return home. We have been gone for most of the afternoon and there are duties that await us both. If I can spare the men, you may return tomorrow to collect your flowers.”

  “They are not merely flowers, Henry, they are medicine. And truly, the need is so great that I fear tomorrow might be too long to wait. The sooner I try a new treatment, the sooner the lads will be healed.”

  Henry made a soft sound of resignation beneath his breath. “God’s bones, Fiona, I think you are the only woman in all of England who would make such a fuss over kitchen lads.”

  Graceful in victory, Fiona smiled sweetly. “You are the one who taught me to care so diligently for our people, good sir. Now come, there looks to be enough to fill my saddle pouch as well as yours.”

  The baron slid off his horse, then he caught his wife around the waist when she began to dismount from hers. Their eyes met briefly as he set her gently on the ground. Impulsively, Fiona leaned forward and playfully kissed the tip of Henry’s nose.

  “Impudent baggage,” Henry bristled in mock annoyance.

  A deep chuckle bubbled through Fiona and she laughed merrily. The sound echoed through the forest, startling a flock of black birds from the branches of a near-by tree.

  “Wait here,” Henry commanded, handing her the leads of both horses.

  Fiona nodded in understanding, waiting patiently. Even though they rode on their own land, it was wise to be cautious, especially in these uncertain times.

  She watched the baron make slow progress toward the clusters of feverfew, his shrewd gaze darting back and forth. Bored at being stopped on the journey, the horses ambled a few steps and lowered their heads to drink from a large puddle at the edge of the forest. Fiona allowed it, securing their leather leads to a tree trunk. She then turned back
to Henry, anxious to begin her harvest.

  At last, he gave the signal and she scampered forward, glad she was dressed in her new pair of leather boots. The ground was moist and springy, her feet sinking nearly to the ankles in some spots.

  “I don’t suppose I can ask you to hurry,” Henry muttered, as she strode passed him to reach the first large bunch.

  “I shall try my best,” Fiona replied. “But doing a proper job of harvesting takes time.”

  Though his expression was wry, Fiona heard the twinge of pride in her husband’s voice. She had never shied away from hard work and took a marked interest in all who lived at the manor, be they peasant, servant or knight. And it was no secret she was well loved for her dedication.

  Determined not to take a minute longer than necessary, Fiona sank to her knees, surveying the bounty growing before her. Gathering a large handful of blossoms growing at the base of an oak tree, she skillfully twisted her wrist, breaking the stems near the base of the roots. She made certain not to take every flower, ensuring the plant would survive and produce more feverfew in the coming weeks and months.

  With such a great number of soldiers, servants and others depending on her for care, Fiona knew well the importance of keeping the castle still room stocked with precious medical supplies, ever at the ready to treat the ills of those who needed help.

  Moving forward on her knees, Fiona reached around the trunk to harvest another bunch of the precious flowers. As she broke off the stems, an odd sense that something was amiss surrounded her. It was quiet, almost too quiet. She turned her head to check on Henry, who stood several yards behind her.

  His sword was drawn, his stance vigilant, yet relaxed. Telling herself she was being fanciful, Fiona returned her attention to the feverfew. Stretching forward, she tugged on a few remaining flowers, then suddenly, a masculine hand shot out from behind the tree and seized her wrist in a cruel grip.

  A scream lodged in Fiona’s throat, her body too stunned to react. The grip tightened and pain radiated through her arm, but fear and shock kept it at bay. Lifting her head, Fiona looked up into the eyes of the fierce warrior who held her captive. A knight, she surmised, from the style of his garments and one not needing to resort to thievery, judging by the fine quality of cloth he wore.