Countess d’Aveyron might be like. There would be no more penitential sewing for her, no more hours on her knees poring over her psalter. The man at her side would shortly be her husband.
Lucien’s arm was steady as he guided her towards the palace. Strong. It was hard to remember her status and walk sedately . I am free of convents for ever! Elise and I will have a set of chambers entirely to ourselves . There will be no more sharing a bedchamber with other noblewomen; there will be no more jostling for the best place in bed.
She kept her head high and tried not to look at Lucien. He was full of contradictions, and she had doubts about their future together, but she was eager for their marriage to take place.
Lucien in the flesh was not quite as she had imagined him. During the time when she had been awaiting his summons, she had decided he must be cold-hearted. Remote. A lord who would brook being questioned by no one. There were times when that seemed to be true. Clearly, he set much store in obedience.
He smiled but rarely. And yet—when he did smile, his whole face transformed. I do not know how it is, but his smile touches my soul. Isobel knew she could not set much store in a smile. Smiles came cheap. Usually. She did not believe that was true in Lucien’s case. His rare smiles were to be treasured . It was somewhat galling to learn that he could touch her with something as simple as a smile after abandoning her to the nuns for so long.
And then there was his serious, distant look...if it were not for that, she might insist that he told her why he had taken so long to summon her. We shall have the rest of our lives together, I shall ask him later...
Elise and Joris were talking behind them, something about the road being rutted by too many cartwheels. Isobel glanced back. Between them, they were ensuring the porters didn’t let Isobel’s travelling chests slide off the handcarts. Joris had Isobel’s jewel box tucked under his arm. The jewel box didn’t contain much—a string of pearls; a gold ring that had belonged to her grandmother; a few coins her father had given her for the journey.
Lucien’s manner with Joris was invariably relaxed and easy. It was difficult to imagine him playing the tyrant with his men. He wouldn’t need to.
Their procession passed a cloth merchant’s, people were staring.
‘That must be Isobel of Turenne,’ one woman muttered. ‘She and Lord d’Aveyron are to marry.’
The woman’s companion—a pale girl of about thirteen—replied, ‘What about the woman he keeps at Ravenshold?’
Isobel caught her toe in the hem of her gown. The woman he keeps at Ravenshold?
In a trice, her sense of optimism was gone, snuffed out like a candle. Lucien has a woman. A woman he keeps at Ravenshold. It would explain so much.
He glanced at her, doubtless wondering why she had all but tripped over her gown. A dark eyebrow lifted.
She risked a question. ‘Did you hear those women, my lord?’
‘What women?’
Heart in her mouth, Isobel shook her head and walked on. As they turned into the main street, leaving the Abbey behind, Count Henry’s palace came into view.
Careful. This might not be the best moment to question Lucien about a lady-love. He could yet reject me. Isobel sighed, her years of waiting had scarred her, it seemed. Scared her. I won’t be bundled back to the Abbey...I won’t.
Isobel’s time in the convent had not blinded her to men’s baser natures. It was common knowledge that great lords often kept mistresses as well as wives. King Henry of England was notorious—despite his Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, being one of the most beautiful women in the world, King Henry had his Rosamund. And, if rumour could be relied upon, King Henry had countless other mistresses as well. Why should Lucien be any different?
If Isobel hadn’t been so focused on escaping the convent, this would—should—have occurred to her. Does Lucien have a mistress? It was a question
Lucien’s arm was steady as he guided her towards the palace. Strong. It was hard to remember her status and walk sedately . I am free of convents for ever! Elise and I will have a set of chambers entirely to ourselves . There will be no more sharing a bedchamber with other noblewomen; there will be no more jostling for the best place in bed.
She kept her head high and tried not to look at Lucien. He was full of contradictions, and she had doubts about their future together, but she was eager for their marriage to take place.
Lucien in the flesh was not quite as she had imagined him. During the time when she had been awaiting his summons, she had decided he must be cold-hearted. Remote. A lord who would brook being questioned by no one. There were times when that seemed to be true. Clearly, he set much store in obedience.
He smiled but rarely. And yet—when he did smile, his whole face transformed. I do not know how it is, but his smile touches my soul. Isobel knew she could not set much store in a smile. Smiles came cheap. Usually. She did not believe that was true in Lucien’s case. His rare smiles were to be treasured . It was somewhat galling to learn that he could touch her with something as simple as a smile after abandoning her to the nuns for so long.
And then there was his serious, distant look...if it were not for that, she might insist that he told her why he had taken so long to summon her. We shall have the rest of our lives together, I shall ask him later...
Elise and Joris were talking behind them, something about the road being rutted by too many cartwheels. Isobel glanced back. Between them, they were ensuring the porters didn’t let Isobel’s travelling chests slide off the handcarts. Joris had Isobel’s jewel box tucked under his arm. The jewel box didn’t contain much—a string of pearls; a gold ring that had belonged to her grandmother; a few coins her father had given her for the journey.
Lucien’s manner with Joris was invariably relaxed and easy. It was difficult to imagine him playing the tyrant with his men. He wouldn’t need to.
Their procession passed a cloth merchant’s, people were staring.
‘That must be Isobel of Turenne,’ one woman muttered. ‘She and Lord d’Aveyron are to marry.’
The woman’s companion—a pale girl of about thirteen—replied, ‘What about the woman he keeps at Ravenshold?’
Isobel caught her toe in the hem of her gown. The woman he keeps at Ravenshold?
In a trice, her sense of optimism was gone, snuffed out like a candle. Lucien has a woman. A woman he keeps at Ravenshold. It would explain so much.
He glanced at her, doubtless wondering why she had all but tripped over her gown. A dark eyebrow lifted.
She risked a question. ‘Did you hear those women, my lord?’
‘What women?’
Heart in her mouth, Isobel shook her head and walked on. As they turned into the main street, leaving the Abbey behind, Count Henry’s palace came into view.
Careful. This might not be the best moment to question Lucien about a lady-love. He could yet reject me. Isobel sighed, her years of waiting had scarred her, it seemed. Scared her. I won’t be bundled back to the Abbey...I won’t.
Isobel’s time in the convent had not blinded her to men’s baser natures. It was common knowledge that great lords often kept mistresses as well as wives. King Henry of England was notorious—despite his Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, being one of the most beautiful women in the world, King Henry had his Rosamund. And, if rumour could be relied upon, King Henry had countless other mistresses as well. Why should Lucien be any different?
If Isobel hadn’t been so focused on escaping the convent, this would—should—have occurred to her. Does Lucien have a mistress? It was a question
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