My Lady's Favor. Joanne Rock
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she and the count had exchanged vows, Jacques St. Simeon’s expression grew serious as he looked upon his nephew. “Thank you, son.”
Cheers went up all around and in that moment, she braved a glance at Conon to find his gaze upon her, serious and contemplative. Perhaps her attention called him from his thoughts, because a grin suddenly stole over his face.
“Lady.” He raised his cup to her alone, then downed the rest of his wine in her honor. After slamming the vessel on the table, he crossed the room as if he could not wait to put distance between them. He pulled his dining companion into his embrace and headed toward the gathering dancers.
Elysia found her gaze would not stray from him. He wrapped the other woman in strong arms outlined by his narrowly cut tunic. Although Conon possessed the broad shoulders of a warrior, his step was light as he whirled his partner around the floor. The woman tossed her head back and laughed.
What would it feel like to be so carefree?
Elysia’s fanciful thoughts scattered as the count attempted to lean close to her and lost his balance, pitching forward. She buoyed him up with her arms, but he remained oblivious to her effort. He gestured to the dancing couple. “They make a beautiful pair, do they not?”
Elysia affected a smile in response. She had never found much to recommend beauty.
“She is a widow, you know.” The count nodded in the direction of Conon’s companion. “In our country a widow is allowed a bit of freedom to seek what company she wishes.”
In my country, too, Elysia reflected, wondering if she would ever know a time in her life when she was not bound to answer to a man. For a moment, she envied the woman. But it was certainly because of the widow’s autonomy and not her proximity to the dynamic presence of Conon St. Simeon.
Her husband flashed her a knowing grin. “’Tis why my nephew seeks out the grieving widows. They are mistresses of their own hearts—and their own bedchambers.”
He gave a loud guffaw at his joke, his fit of laughter soon turning into a fit of coughing. When his face turned red, Elysia feared for him.
“My lord, perhaps you should rest.”
“Rest?” He spluttered, apparently incensed at her choice of words. After another round of coughing, he rose to his feet with slow deliberation. His eyes issued a distinct challenge.
“Perhaps we should retire for the night and you will learn what your lord is made of.” His voice boomed with the complete lack of awareness of a drunkard. The entire hall stopped to turn wide eyes on the bridal couple.
“We retire!” the count shouted, yanking Elysia roughly to her feet beside him.
The crowd fell silent, until one lone clap broke the quiet. Elysia did not need to turn around to know which bold wedding guest instigated that noise. No matter how opposed Conon might be to his uncle’s wife, he supported the marriage in public. Elysia couldn’t deny a flicker of admiration for his family loyalty. Thunderous applause and whistles broke out amongst the well-wishers, who quickly followed Conon’s suit.
Fear, cold and still, choked her. She tripped behind the count as he pulled her through the hall, stumbling up the stairs leading to the sleeping quarters. She hadn’t prepared herself for this yet. Not that she would ever be fully prepared, but the count dragged her to bed hours before she’d thought they would retire.
Tomorrow she would wake up defiled by a lecherous old man, with nothing to look forward to in her life but more of the same, night after night. Arundel told her the count wanted to have another child, as his two children from his first marriage had died in infancy.
The fact that Elysia’s mother had told her exactly how babes were conceived only added to her anxiety. Knowing what her husband expected of her filled her with panic since Jacques St. Simeon did not seem to be a gentle man.
By the time they reached the lord’s chambers, Count Vannes appeared winded, his ire from the hall vanished in an effort to gasp for air. He looked much older than his fifty years. Elysia had a sixty-year-old tenant at Nevering who displayed twice the energy and health of her new husband.
Elysia watched his breathing slow, and he seemed to collect himself. Opening the chamber door, he smiled with some of the mocking self-deprecation she had seen in his nephew. “After you, beautiful one.”
Stepping hesitantly into the opulent chamber, she gasped when he wasted no time pulling her backward against him.
“After tonight, you will never again suggest your husband is some kind of invalid who needs to rest.” When he ran his hands possessively over her hips and down the fronts of her thighs, Elysia fought the urge to shove them away.
How would she get through the night? She was accustomed to being her own mistress, to managing her own life. How would she lie submissively beneath this drunken cad when she longed to run from him?
“There will be so much delight for you tonight, innocent one. I will be very gentle with you, I promise.” His words slurred together as he swayed on his feet and leaned against his wife, mashing her with his bulk.
Unable to support him for long, she stepped toward the room’s one chair, hoping to convince the count to sit down.
“Please, my lord.” She strained under his weight as she maneuvered him around the huge bed to the high-backed seat next to it.
Not in all her years as a starry-eyed girl did she envision this debacle for a wedding night. When she dared to dream of it, she imagined a man gazing upon her with adoring eyes as he initiated her into womanhood. An incredibly handsome man.
Like Conon.
Tripping over a protruding claw foot of the monstrous bed, Elysia lost her balance. The count fell into the linens, his arms still wrapped about her midsection, dragging her down with him.
The oaf.
“Please my lord, I—” Wriggling away from him, she stiffened when he seemed to regain control of himself.
“This is very nice, Lady Elysia.”
Pinning her body against his own, he rolled with her until he lay atop her. Her back bent at an awkward angle as her feet remained on the floor.
The count kissed her and ran groping fingers over her breasts. Elysia squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could close down all her other senses.
Muttering incoherent words in her ear, he pulled at her clothing in all directions—yanking her gown from one shoulder, tearing the fabric at her neck, hoisting up her skirt.
Elysia froze. The count grinned down at her, eyes glazed and unseeing. His hands fumbled with his clothing, pawing between their bodies to loosen his braies.
And then the pain came.
Sharp and heart-stopping it felt like a dagger, jabbing into her with considerable force. Her mother had said it would hurt but a moment….
“Damn!” The count looked down between their bodies in dismay. “I forgot to sheathe my eating knife, love.” With a tipsy lack of grace, he slid the blade clumsily from her thigh. “Does it hurt overmuch?”
Blood poured from the wound, staining her dress and the bedclothes.
“I will be fine.” Grateful for the reprieve despite the pain, Elysia pressed her kirtle to the wound. “I need some wine to bathe it, however, my lord.”
“I am so sorry.” Like a chastened young squire, Count Vannes hurried across the room to retrieve the flagon.
“Damn clumsy of me.”
After cleaning and bandaging the small gash, Elysia helped Vannes remove his eating knife from its place at his waist.
“Perhaps I have gone about this all wrong, my dear.” Grinning sheepishly, he tugged her torn tunic sleeve back over her shoulder. “I think instead, you should disrobe for me.”
He cannot