Mistaken for a Lady by Carol Townend

used to be extraordinarily clear-headed.’
    â€˜And well known for his prowess at arms—he was quite the warrior in his youth.’
    â€˜So I hear.’ She sighed. ‘Tristan?’
    â€˜Aye?’
    â€˜Papa withdrew from the world of power politics long before our betrothal. It occurs to me that his lack of interest in anything that happened outside Fontaine had its effect on me.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    She ran her finger round the glazed rim of her wine cup and gave a small smile. ‘Whenever I questioned him about duchy business, he would change the subject.’
    Tristan’s eyes were full of sympathy. ‘He was old and his mind was tired. I’ve seen it happen to others—their world begins to shrink and they lose interest in what is happening elsewhere.’
    â€˜I know he couldn’t help it. Papa lost interest in the world outside the castle long before you and I were married. I suspect his world began to shrink after Countess Mathilde’s death. My main regret was that every time I asked him about Breton affairs, he would lose the thread of his thoughts.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘It was almost impossible to unravel what he was saying.’
    â€˜That must have been frustrating.’
    â€˜That is an understatement. I wanted so much to be able to converse intelligently with you. You must have found me very uninformed.’ A lowering thought came to her. Was that why Tristan had kept her in bed in the early days of their marriage? Had he thought her too ignorant to be taken seriously?
    He smiled, eyes gleaming in amusement. ‘You do yourself a disservice. Francesca, I enjoyed being with you. It was restful beyond anything I had experienced. You brought me no petitions, you made no demands.’
    â€˜I suspect Papa knew he was at fault for not tutoring me better. One of the reasons he chose you for my husband was because he respected your acumen and trusted your judgement. However you look at it, I was too ignorant to marry a count. I must have been a grave disappointment.’
    Tristan pressed his thigh against hers—the movement was subtle and, she thought, deliberate.
    â€˜Far from it.’ His mouth curved, he was staring hungrily at her mouth and her stomach swooped. ‘As I recall, after the wedding there was never enough time for talking.’
    Her face scorched and she looked swiftly away. ‘That’s true.’
    They’d spent too much time in each other’s arms. Although they had talked, endlessly, it had been about inconsequential domestic topics such as how soon they might enlarge the stables at St Méen so as to accommodate more of Tristan’s horses. They discussed the decoration of the manor solar—how many cushions Francesca should embroider with Tristan’s colours. Why, he’d even given her his opinion on her design for the wall-hanging.
    When she glanced his way again, Tristan was still staring at her mouth as though he wanted to devour it. Inevitably, their eyes met and for a moment she lost her breath. That look made bittersweet memories rush back at her—rumpled bedsheets; the softness of raven-dark hair as she sifted it through her fingers. That look, Saints, it was altogether too carnal for a quiet supper in a tavern.
    The candle flickered—the pot-boy stood at Tristan’s elbow, a wooden platter of lamb in one hand and a basket of bread in the other. ‘Here you are, mon seigneur ,’ the boy said, placing the platter in front of them with a clunk. ‘If you would carve off as much as you and your lady need, I will take the rest of the joint to your friends over there.’ He jerked his head towards Mari and Bastian.
    Tristan took up the carving knife and Francesca realised she would get no more out of him until after they had eaten.
    * * *
    Holding his candle clear of a draught, Tristan approached the bedchamber. The landlord had told him there was only one bed