Lady Isobel's Champion. Carol Townend
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breasts … This was her betrothed of many years, yet he was making her feel nervous—edgy in a way she didn’t understand. Why did his gaze make her feel so self-conscious? She wished she could read him. What was he thinking?
And why was Elise hovering out in the corridor when she had made a point of stressing that she would welcome some support?
‘You have grown into a strikingly beautiful woman,’ Count Lucien said, softly. ‘I find myself regretting the duties that have kept us apart for so long.’
Isobel sent him a direct look. It had been a relief when she had heard that finally Lord d’Aveyron’s summons had arrived at Turenne, and she wanted him to know that she had not enjoyed the wait. He ought to know. ‘Duties, my lord?’ Conscious of Sister Christine hovering by the door, she lowered her voice. ‘It has been nine years. My lord, I know you have become a great tourney champion, but must you attend every tournament in Christendom?’
She caught a slight grimace, quickly concealed.
‘A thousand apologies, my lady. King Henry and King Louis disapprove of tournaments, which means that sometimes one must travel long distances to find the best of them.’ He lifted his shoulder. ‘The prize money can be good.’
Isobel stared at him. Lucien Vernon held so much land it was hard to believe that he struggled to raise revenues. He had estates in Champagne, Normandy and the Auvergne—plenty of resources, surely? Something felt wrong. Was he so ambitious—so avaricious—that he must win every prize in Christendom? And if so, why had he not married her sooner? She was an heiress.
Later, I will go into this with him later. I cannot ask revealing questions with Sister Christine hanging on our every word.
Count Lucien smiled and she felt it in her toes. His eyes were not pure blue, they had black and grey flecks in them and they were very penetrating. Disturbing. Isobel did not remember them being quite so disturbing nine years ago.
She steeled herself against him. It stung to look into those thick-lashed eyes and recall that he had not cared to visit her in nine years. Their match might have been arranged by their fathers, but from the moment Isobel had met him she had been drawn to him. Once the delays had started and she had realised that he did not feel the same way about her, she knew that when she next faced him, she must conceal the attraction she felt. An attraction that was still there, despite the years of silence.
Even then, there had been a hint of the devil about Count Lucien d’Aveyron. Today, it was strong. She could feel it in his touch—in the way a smile or a glance weakened her self-containment. The nuns had never mentioned that men possessed such power. It was … unsettling in an exciting, shivery way.
Such power was dangerous. Such power was to be resisted. Particularly when she found it in the man who had shamed her. He ignored me for years! I will not grant him power over me.
Count Lucien was her betrothed, that much was set in stone. Isobel had never wished to escape their marriage, but if she wanted to keep her self-respect, she must guard her heart. This man would soon be claiming her body. It was a husband’s right and she was realistic enough to know that even if she wanted to she would not be able to hold him at bay. But he would never touch her soul.
Nine years, he ignored me for nine years …
‘My lady, as you are doubtless aware, I sent for you because it is time for our marriage. It will be soon.’ His fingers squeezed hers, warming her inside all over again.
There was movement behind her. Abbess Ursula had entered the lodge—the ruby at the centre of her silver cross was glowing like an ember. Elise trailed in behind the Abbess, moving unobtrusively in the shadows behind her.
‘Count Lucien.’ Abbess Ursula inclined her head. ‘I assume you have come to arrange your wedding. Did you have a particular day in mind? I take it some time after the turn of the year will be convenient?’
‘The turn of the year? Lord, no. Since Lady Isobel is here I see no reason to delay.’
The Abbess drew her head back. ‘Count Lucien, Advent is almost upon us. You are doubtless aware there can be no weddings in Advent, and it will be hard to arrange it before then. I realise Lady Isobel is already chafing at her confinement here, but her early arrival has thrown us into disarray and—’
‘I am aware of all that,’ the Count said, voice dry. ‘And I intend to take responsibility for Lady Isobel’s care as soon as possible. Our marriage will take place before Advent begins.’ He looked at Isobel. ‘Do you care to choose the day, my lady?’
Isobel thought quickly. ‘I should like to marry on Winter’s Eve,’ she said, picking a day at random.
‘Winter’s Eve?’ His blue eyes were thoughtful. ‘I’m taking part in a local tournament the following day, but I imagine that might be arranged.’
The Abbess frowned. ‘But my lord, Winter’s Eve … that doesn’t give us long to prepare.’
‘I am sure the bishop will accommodate us. And should he prove difficult, I expect you, Abbess Ursula, as cousin to King Louis, to use your influence.’
Isobel’s mind was awhirl. In truth, she was in a state of shock. Not once in all that time had he shown the slightest interest in her. She had grown used to his neglect. But thankfully it seemed he really did intend to marry her. Of course, she would feel happier if he hadn’t made it plain he would be squeezing the ceremony in before one of his all-important tournaments …
The Abbess sighed. ‘Winter’s Eve is not the best of days for a wedding, my lord. You may not recall, but in some quarters it is known as Witches’ Eve.’
‘Is it?’ the Count said, stiffening.
It might be wishful thinking on Isobel’s part, but it was as though he disliked the way the Abbess was so dismissive of her suggestion. Is he to take my part against the Abbess? Is he to be my champion? It was a novel feeling. Isobel felt herself begin to soften towards him.
You fool, have the long years taught you nothing? You mean nothing to him.
‘Reverend Mother, are weddings actually forbidden on Winter’s Eve?’ he asked.
Abbess Ursula shook her head. ‘No, my lord, but—’
‘Then Winter’s Eve it is.’
The Abbess gave a curt nod. ‘As you wish, my lord.’
Blue eyes held Isobel’s. ‘My lady, you realise our marriage will take place before word reaches your father? Viscount Gautier will not be witnessing our wedding.’
‘I am reconciled to that,’ Isobel said. ‘I realised some while ago that my father would not be attending the ceremony.’
‘Oh?’
‘He no longer enjoys full health.’
Count Lucien’s expression was sympathetic. ‘I was saddened to hear of your mother’s death in the summer, I didn’t know Viscount Gautier was also in poor health.’
Isobel nodded, and jerked her gaze away. Grief welled up and the narrow window behind Count Lucien was lost in a mist of tears. Her wounds were too raw for her to speak about her poor mother. ‘Father has remarried. I am sure he will have mentioned this in your exchange of letters.’
‘Yes, so I recall.’
In her heart, Isobel felt her father had betrayed her mother by remarrying so soon. The words caught in her throat.
It irked her that after prevaricating for so long, Count Lucien had merely to snap his fingers and she must come running. Her new stepmother, Lady Angelina, must have been thrilled when his summons had arrived, for she had wasted no time in packing Isobel off. Isobel could have remained at St Foye’s, but the convent was clearly too close to Turenne for Lady Angelina’s comfort. Notwithstanding this, Isobel would have felt she was betraying her father if she complained at being so easily dismissed.