The King’s Sister

The King’s Sister by Anne O'Brien Page A

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Authors: Anne O'Brien
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when he discovers his wife to be treating her marriage vows with frivolity …’ She nodded towards the glowing Earl of Pembroke. ‘You should not demean yourself.’
    ‘I would do no such thing, madam!’
    ‘Perhaps not. But how pleasant for the court to wager on the consanguinity of smoke and fire!’ she said dryly. And without waiting for a reply, the Princess changed her seat, to take up a position nearer a brazier for her comfort.
    It had put me entirely in my place, a dagger thrust to bring an unpleasant day to a painful end. I was not frivolous with my vows. I had no intention of being so. Silently I nursed my vexation through the dying minutes of the tournament, praying for a quick end and escape. Only to be further accosted when the Duchess of York, brushing past me, lured by the pleasures of warmth and food, turned the blade. Unwittingly? I did not think so.
    ‘What was disturbing the Princess?’ she asked. ‘She seemed very interested in me.’
    ‘Only in Sir John,’ I said. ‘She was keen for us all to admire her son’s skills.’
    ‘We all admire him, do we not?’ Isabella smiled at me as she collected her women and followed the Queen.
    She was so very beautiful even if she lacked inches. It made a man protective of her, I supposed. If that was so, noman would be protective of me. I had inherited my father’s generous height.
    I hated that Isabella thought I was a rival for John Holland’s attention. But after today I was not. He had shown me that I was of no value to him. What had made me think otherwise? As Princess Joan had observed, I would benefit from some maturity.
    ‘Will you dance with me, Countess?’
    His lips curved confidently. His hand, extended, had an element of command about it, as if it would be impossible for me to refuse an invitation from the victor of the joust. I looked at him, at the hand, finely boned, the fingers that had today gripped a lance with intent now heavy with gems. I looked at his face, the saturnine lines that spoke of temper and passion. At the knowing gleam in his eye, dark as a kestrel’s.
    Infinitesimally I tilted my head.
    The insufferable arrogance of the man. Don’t trust a man who is arrogant. My father was a man of arrogance, but that was an entirely different matter. I would not trust John Holland ever again. Had I not known that he would make this invitation, as if he had not spent the afternoon as the prime object of Duchess Isabella’s lust?
    I smiled.
    I curtsied to John Holland, more deeply than was entirely necessary from one of my rank.
    ‘It would be my pleasure to dance, Sir John.’ It was in my mind to turn a chilly shoulder but that would put me toomuch into his power. I knew he would make much of the slightest indication that I knew full well that today he had slighted me, after seeking me out yesterday. Ignore a woman and she will come to your hand out of pique, as a lonely lapdog will come to be petted. I recognised the game and I would not play it.
    ‘The music has begun,’ he remarked, his smile quizzical as I lingered. ‘We will miss it unless you step smartly.’
    ‘I am honoured. Thank you, sir,’ I said. Then seeing a perfect alternative presented to me. ‘But I will dance with my husband.’
    ‘Does he know?’ The eloquent brows rose.
    ‘Of course. Here he is, come to claim my hand.’
    ‘My lady!’ Jonty, approaching at a fast lope, was deliciously decorous. ‘Will you partner me?’
    With a gracious smile I inclined my head and joined my hand with Jonty’s, who led me through the steps with lively skill and some well-practised exactitude, during which I did not once glance in John Holland’s direction.
    ‘Am I getting better?’ Jonty asked at the end, only a little breathless. His energy was prodigious.
    ‘Marginally. You only trod once on my foot.’
    Jonty grinned. ‘I must leave you now, madam.’
    ‘And why is that?’
    ‘My lord the Duke has need of me to take a message.’
    ‘Then you must go.’

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