Marriage Under Siege (4 page)

The great door at the end
of the Hall opened to admit a blast of cold air and the new lord. He hesitated
for a moment as he saw her there and then, as if reaching a difficult decision,
walked slowly towards her, eyes intent. She lowered hers. It would not do to
increase her vulnerability by a show of emotion or uncertainty. Or weakness. If
she had learnt anything at all in her short life, it was just that.

She remembered him vividly
from their first encounter at Whitehall.

He had not remembered her,
except as a vague acquaintance—indeed, how should he? She was not a noticeable
person, would not draw a man's attention in a crowd. Her hair, her face, her
figure were all acceptable, she supposed, but really quite commonplace.
Certainly not attractive enough to catch the eye of a man such as Francis
Brampton, as he was then styled. But she remembered him.

And she remembered his
wife. His betrothed as she had been then in the final months of 1640.
Katherine. A lively, laughing sprite of a girl. A vibrant beauty with slender
figure, tawny hair and jade green eyes, a young girl experiencing the pleasures
of Court for the first time—the allure of the masques, the songs, the dancing.
And they had so clearly been in love. A glance. A touch. A smile. Such small
gestures had shouted their passion to the roof timbers. So much promise for
the future of their marriage together. With an effort of will, Honoria closed
her eyes to blot out the memory and governed her mind against the envy that had
engulfed her and still had the power to bruise her heart. How could her own
experience of marriage have been so empty of love, so painful and humiliating?

But, after all, what right
had she to complain? Katherine was dead.

Honoria saw Mansell now
when she raised her eyes once more, her control again securely in place, her
lips firm. Not a courtier, in spite of his appearance at the sophisticated
Court of Charles and Henrietta Maria, but rather a man of action. A soldier,
perhaps. She knew that he was a younger son and so had been prepared to make a name
for himself as a soldier or, more likely, politician. But then his elder
brother had died, in a minor, meaningless skirmish against opposing forces near
their estates in , Suffolk, thus thrusting Sir Francis, as he became, into the
role of head of family, into the elite of county society.

Honoria studied him. He was
tall and rangy, well co-ordinated with long, lean muscles. Hard and fit, he
carried no extra weight, his black velvet coat emphasising his broad shoulders
and the sleek line of waist and thigh. She could imagine him being equally at
home in the saddle or wielding a sword in battle. He walked towards her with
long strides, with a natural grace and elegance, of which he was probably
unaware.

He was not conventionally
handsome, she decided—his features were too strong for that. But striking.
Definitely not a man to be ignored in any circles. His hair, which waved to his
shoulders, was dark brown with hints of gold and russet. His eyebrows were
darker, drawing attention to remarkable pale grey eyes, which could appear
almost silver when caught by the light, or dark and stormy when passions moved
him. They were beautiful, she decided. And they made her shiver a little with
their intensity. A masterful nose and firm lips, now set in a straight, uncompromising
line. No, not handsome, but a striking face that would be impossible to
overlook or forget. And made more memorable by a thin scar, which ran along his
brow from his temple to clip the edge of one fine eyebrow. An old scar, thin
and silver against his tanned skin. Honoria found that she could not take her
eyes from him. And yet she was forced to acknowledge that he would be a
dangerous man to cross. His face was imprinted with harsh lines of temper and a
determination to have his own way, and it seemed to Honoria, given his
confident arrogance, that he would enjoy much success.

She sighed a little. What
would it have been like if she had been wed to Francis Brampton—Lord Mansell,
as she must now learn to think of him—instead of Lord Edward? Handsome the new
Lord Man- sell might not be, but she had been well aware of the number of eyes
that had followed him at Court. Followed him with feminine interest and
speculation in spite of his recent betrothal. She herself had not been
immune... But where had that thought come from? She pulled her scattered wits
together. She had no idea what had prompted such a daydream—and it would not do
to think further along those lines. To show emotion was to put yourself in the
power of those who witnessed it. She must keep her feelings close at all costs.

Mansell continued to
approach, unaware of the disturbing thoughts that ran through the lady's mind.
No, he decided, he hardly remembered her from their first meeting. Only a
vague impression of a young woman within Denham's family. How should it have
been otherwise when he had been caught up in the glory of new love, held
captive by Katherine's vivid face and vibrant colouring. God—how he had loved
her! And been consumed by the miracle that she should love him. It seemed like
yesterday—and yet a lifetime ago. No! He would not have been aware of the woman
who stood before him, shrouded in black and an indefinable air of desolation.
Attractive enough, he supposed. Well born, rich—but nothing to compare with the
girl who had shared his childhood and had bestowed on him her love and her
heart so willingly. He could almost hear Katherine's laughter. He closed his
mind against the sharp lance of pain, forcing his thoughts back to the
immediate problem. At that moment he sincerely doubted if Edward's widow ever
laughed!

The widow raised her eyes
to his as he halted before her. 'I trust that the arrangements were to your
liking, my lord?'

'Excellent—in the
circumstances.' His smile of thanks warmed his features. 'I understand from
Foxton that I have you to thank for the arrangements—and the spread of food. I
have to admit that I had not given it much thought.'

'How should you? Men rarely
do. You merely expect it to be done.'

Mansell raised his brows,
the smile fading, at the quick response. Had she intended such needle-sharp
judgement? He could detect no malice in the lady's face. Nothing except for a
soul-crushing weariness that she could not disguise. He chose to control his
instinctive reaction and bit down on a curt reply.

'I could have no complaint,
and nor could our guests, my lady. Unless it was the length of time it took the
Reverend Gower to bury my late unlamented cousin.'

As on the previous evening,
it crossed his mind that perhaps that was not the most tactful of comments to
make to Edward's widow, but she accepted the criticism of her lord with her
usual lack of response. No touch of humour. No smile. Merely a frigid
acceptance.

'I believe that your family
connection with Lord Edward is somewhat distant, my lord?'

'Indeed.' Mansell moved
closer to the fire. 'Some three generations back, I believe. My
great-grandfather was brother to Edward's great-grandfather, which makes
us...well, second or third cousins, I suppose. And I had no expectation of
this inheritance, of course.'

'I heard about your
brother's recent death, my lord. And that of your wife and son. I am sorry for
your tragic loss. It must be very hard to accept it.' He heard a note of true
regret in her voice. Even as he mentally withdrew from further expressions of
sympathy—had he not suffered enough for one day?—he saw a shiver run through
her so that he surprised himself and her by reaching out to cover her clasped
hands with his own. And he kept the contact even when the wolfhound showed her
teeth in silent warning.

Her hands were icy.

'You are frozen, my lady.
This is no place for you.'

Honoria choked back the
sudden threat of tears at such an unexpected expression of consideration,
silently horrified at how little it took to disturb her.

'It is no matter,' she
answered in a low voice. 'I will see to the clearing of the repast now. I will
talk to Master Foxton and Mistress Morgan.'

'You will not.' Sir Francis
turned her hands within his own, aware of the soft skin and slender fingers.
Such small hands to be burdened with such responsibility. He snapped his
concentration back to the immediate. 'Is there a fire in the solar?'

'I believe so.'

'Then come. You have been
on your feet all morning and should rest a little. And some wine will be
acceptable, I think.'

'But Sir Joshua—'

'Sir Joshua can fend for
himself admirably. Have you eaten today?'

'It is not important...'

'I suppose that means no.
No wonder you look so pale and tired.' Mansell took her arm, in a gentle grasp,
but one which brooked no more argument and allowed her no room for rebellion.
He led her to the stair. The wolfhound shook herself and pattered after them,
her blunt claws clicking on the stone treads.

Soon Lady Mansell found
herself ensconced in a cushioned settle before the smouldering, banked fire in
the solar.

'Stay there,' he ordered,
frowning down at her. 'I shall return shortly.'

It was easiest, Honoria
decided, to do just that, although she did not want the inevitable conversation
with the new owner of Brampton Percy. He returned with wine and a platter of
bread and cheese, which he placed at her elbow and then kicked the logs into a
blaze. When he took a seat on the settle facing her, Morrighan stretched before
the warmth with a heavy sigh, but kept her pale eyes on the intruder. Honoria sat
quietly, waiting, ignoring the food and wine.

'I cannot force you to eat,
of course,' he commented in a clipped tone, disapproval evident in his stern
face.

'I am not hungry.' The
slightest of shrugs.

Suppressing the urge to
take issue with her on this point, he decided that it would serve no purpose
and that he should go with impulse to discover what he could about the lady.
'Will you tell me about your marriage?' he asked abruptly. 'I will understand
if you choose not to but... Do I presume correctly that it was not a love
match.'

'No. It was not.'

'I see.' What should he say
next?

'You should not forget, my
lord, that I was an heiress,' the lady obliged him by explaining the situation,
'and my parents were dead.

The Court of Wards placed
me and my estates under the authority of Sir Robert Denham as my guardian,
until such time as a suitable marriage could be arranged.'

'Of course. And so Lord
Edward bought your wardship from Sir Robert.'

'Indeed, my lord. Lord
Edward informed me that he had managed to scrape together enough money from the
estate for the purchase in the hope of a good return on his investments. Not
least an heir. It cost him the noble sum of £2,000 to acquire my hand and my
lands. He begrudged every penny of it and the effort it took to raise it from
his unwilling tenants. He lost no opportunity to inform me of it.'

The statement of events was
delivered in such a soft, flat tone, but his ear was quick to pick up an
underlying thread of—what? Hurt? Humiliation? His heart was again touched, the
merest brush of compassion, by her calm acceptance of her experiences.

'That could not have been
pleasant for you.'

'It is the lot of
heiresses, I believe. I cannot complain.'

'Forgive me for touching on
a personal subject, but surely your guardian could have found you a more
suitable husband?' Mansell resorted to the direct. 'Lord Edward must have been
nearer sixty than twenty. And, with respect, I would have expected you to have
been married before now.'

'Before my advanced age?'
Her hazel eyes met and held his. 'I am twenty-three, my lord.'

A slight flush touched his
lean cheeks and a spark of anger, of guilt, glinted in his eye: he might have
broached the subject head on, but he had not expected her to be so outspoken.
'It was not my intention to be so insensitive, my lady. It is simply that, in
general, heiresses have no lack of suitors. There must have been others
more...appealing, shall we say, than my cousin Edward.'

'You read the situation
correctly, my lord. I am not offended. There was no lack of suitors.' She was
cold now, as if reciting the contents of a recipe. 'When I was very young I was
betrothed to George Manners, the heir to the Stafford estates. I only met him
once. He was very young—still a child, in fact, even younger than I was—and
very sweet. I remember that he wanted to climb the trees in the park...he died
from a contagious fever within a year of our betrothal.'

'I am sorry.'

She lifted her shoulders
again dispassionately, turning her face to the fire. 'And then I was betrothed
to Sir Henry Blackmore, cousin to the Earl of Sunderland. He had very powerful
connections and had his eye to my estates. We met on a number of occasions. We
would seem to have been compatible. He died from a bullet in the head last year
at
Edgehill
.'

'I see. And then there was
Edward.'

'And then there was
Edward.' A mere whisper.

He could think of nothing
to say about the sad little catalogue of events.

'So you see,' she
continued, her voice stronger now, 'as long as Lord Edward was willing to pay
the price, my guardian was more than pleased to accept his offer.'