Seduced by Grace by Jennifer Blake

his fingertips over the palm of her hand.
    She flinched, her eyes widening at they met his, their centers turning so dark they looked black. A rash of goose bumps feathered over her arm, disappearing under the sleeve of her gown.
    David swallowed a curse as his body tightened in response. He could not drag his gaze from the front of her gown where the peaks of her breasts were surely beading under the embroidered silk. He had meant no harm, and yet it seemed as if every eye in the hall turned in their direction. Was it his imagination, or did the rumble of conversation grow quieter, the expression of those who watched become more avid? Was it possible the tale of her abduction at his hands, and retrieval by the king, meant all now waited to see how it might end?
    God’s blood, but of course they did. How could it be otherwise when so many had borne witness to the beginning? Men might speak with disparagement of women as gossips, but were just as likely to pass on a fine yarn, especially if it had a whiff of scandal in it.
    The best he could do at this point was to leave Lady Marguerite alone in public. Bowing, he withdrew, moving off to rejoin Oliver who had thrown himself down on a bench with a number of his other men-at-arms.
    He thought Marguerite watched him go. He’d have traded his gold-chased armor to know whether she was glad or sorry for it.
    A sudden commotion at the great entrance door provided a welcome distraction. David turned in time to see a thin man with silver hair stride into the hall. That he was a personage of some description was clear from the richness of the cloak he wore and the complement ofmen-at-arms at his back. A younger man walked beside him, the knife-blade sharpness of his nose and arrogant tilt of his chin proclaiming him to be a near relative, most likely a son. Neither of them was particularly tall, though their upright posture made them appear so. They had been relieved of their swords before being ushered into the presence of the king, but rested their hands upon the empty scabbards with the look of those tonguing spaces where teeth had been pulled.
    Men turned to stare. Somewhere a woman gave a nervous titter. Behind and to David’s right, a lord spoke in hushed and excited inquiry. “God’s blood, is that not…”
    “Aye, so ’tis,” his companion replied with a judicious squint.
    “What does he here? One would think he’d be loathed to show his face.”
    “Looking for his lost heiress, I’ll be bound.” The man chuckled. “That, or redress for her loss. A man to squeeze a penny till it squeals, Lord Halliwell.”
    “He’ll have met his match in our Henry,” the first man replied, nudging the other in the ribs.
    So this was the man Marguerite was to have wed. David watched him stride through the crowd while a frown settled between his eyes. An aristocrat from his toes to his silver-haired pate, his every move shouted his certainty of his place in the world. He appeared near seventy, an age when only an egotistical idiot would expect to take a bride young enough to be his granddaughter. To think of him ever having the right to lay his bony and age-spotted hands upon Marguerite made David grind his teeth until his jaws ached.
    Even so, he could not blame the man for being incensed at the loss of so fair a prize. It was not often a man could look forward to holding beauty and fortune in the same woman.
    Halliwell advanced upon the bench where Marguerite sat. David saw the moment when the crowd parted enough to show the newcomer to her. All color leached from her face, leaving it waxen in its paleness. She swayed a little, but then sat up straight with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
    Her former betrothed drew nearer, stopped before her. Derision crossed his skeletal features. He made her a bow so shallow as to be an insult, and spoke in an undertone while the man beside him looked on. An instant later, Lord Halliwell continued his progress down the room, making for