A Wager for the Widow. Elisabeth Hobbes
‘I thought all ladies could dance,’ he said, raising one eyebrow.
The muscle in her arm tightened involuntarily under his. ‘I didn’t say I couldn’t. I choose not to,’ she said curtly before lapsing into silence.
They had reached her bedchamber. Lady Peyton untwined her arm from Will’s and opened the door. A crumpled green-velvet coverlet was visible on the bed and Will’s mind began to wander down paths it shouldn’t. Moving a touch closer, he rested one arm on the door frame and bent his head over Lady Peyton, fixing her with the intense gaze that never failed to leave his targets breathless with desire.
‘Lady Peyton, I owe you an apology,’ he breathed huskily. ‘What I did on the ferry...what I asked of you...I was wrong to do so.’ Her green eyes widened in surprise. This was almost too easy. ‘I have no excuse other than that I was swept away by your beauty.’
Will dropped his eyes to the ground as though ashamed, before raising them to look at her once more through half-closed lids. Instead of the rapt expression he expected, Lady Peyton looked outraged.
‘Swept away?’ she said disdainfully. ‘It’s fortunate indeed your horse did not miss his landing if you are swept away so easily!’
‘I mean no offence,’ Will answered calmly. ‘It is a compliment to you that I was overcome by sentiments stronger than my sense of propriety.’
‘I want no such compliments, Master Rudhale,’ Lady Peyton exclaimed. Two pink spots appeared enticingly on her cheeks. ‘If I must suffer to live under the same roof as you, the greatest compliment you can pay me is to believe me when I say I wish you to stay out of my presence as much as possible.’ She spun on her heel and half-flung herself into the room, slamming the door behind her.
Will stood alone in the corridor, scarcely able to believe what had just happened. He fought back a laugh of glee. Truly she was wonderful.
There had not been a woman yet who had resisted Will’s attempts at seduction—few even tried. Now he was more determined than ever that a woman as captivating as Eleanor Peyton would not be the first!
Her heart thumping, Eleanor banged the door closed behind her and leaned back heavily as though Rudhale might attempt to barge his way through at any moment. She raised a hand to her neck and was unsurprised to feel her skin hot to the touch, a telltale prickle of a blush creeping across her chest. Her hand was trembling and she clenched her fist tight.
Jennet was emptying Eleanor’s travelling chest with her back to the door. At the sound she jumped, her head twisting round to where her mistress stood.
‘You startled me, my lady. Is something the matter?’ she asked in alarm.
Eleanor smiled faintly at the absurdity of her behaviour and shook her head. The steward might be egotistical and his words far too personal for comfort, but there was no reason to suspect he would commit so violent an indiscretion. Really, she was not herself this morning.
She crossed the room and sank on to the low folding stool in front of her window, rummaging on the ledge among the boxes until she found the green glass bottle containing her favourite scented oil. She dabbed a drop on her temples, inhaling the fresh aroma of lemon balm, and slowly her composure returned.
Jennet came and knelt at her side. ‘My lady, do you remember the man on the ferry—?’ she began. Eleanor cut her words off before she could continue.
‘I know.’ She nodded. She took Jennet’s hands. ‘You must not tell anyone what happened. I have spoken to him and told him I will not discuss the matter again...’
Her voice trailed off as she thought back to the conversation. Never before had she spoken in such a manner to anyone, least of all a man! She reminded herself that until she met the steward there had never been any cause to do so.
Even so, she could not blot out the vision of Rudhale’s eyes penetrating her with such open, honest desire. He had made his attraction perfectly clear and it unsettled Eleanor deeply. Even more troubling was the constriction in her belly whenever she was in his presence, as though a fist was wrapping her stomach around itself and pulling her closer to his reach whether she willed it or not.
‘My lady?’ Jennet prompted.
Eleanor realised with a start that she had been staring at the wall, seeing nothing for who knew how long. She shook her head and smiled at Jennet.
‘I could not have made myself any clearer. If Master Rudhale has anything of the gentleman about him, that should be the end of it,’ she finished.
Drawing a deep breath she picked up a book and began to read. Becoming engrossed in the subject, she soon forgot about Rudhale. When a knock at the door brought her mind back to the present, it never even occurred to her to worry whom it might be.
Jennet rushed to the door and the wise-woman from Tawstott Town followed her into the room. Eleanor beamed at the thickset, wispy-haired woman dressed in black. Joan Becket had brought all of Lady Fitzallan’s children into the world. A close friend of Lady Fitzallan, she still maintained an interest in the lives of the three who had survived.
Crossing the room, she curtsied to Eleanor and kissed her hand. ‘Eleanor, good to see you again. Someone told me you’ve got yourself injured.’ Mistress Becket smiled.
Eleanor’s hand instinctively moved to her ankle. Mistress Becket’s eyes followed her action and she nodded.
‘Well, let me have a look and I’ll see what I can do.’
Eleanor lifted her foot on to a stool and unrolled her stocking. Anne must have told their mother, of course. The girl was incapable of keeping anything a secret. Eleanor frowned to herself. No doubt she would be called to explain what had happened before long.
The examination was quick and a mild sprain the verdict. Mistress Becket smeared a foul-smelling poultice of crushed comfrey and nettle leaves over Eleanor’s ankle. She bound it tightly with thin straps of flannel and stood back with a smile.
‘Walk lightly for the next few days. Borrow a stick from your father and you won’t have to spend your days hiding away in here.’
Eleanor reached for the purse that lay on her table, but Mistress Becket held up her hands.
‘The payment has already been settled,’ she told Eleanor as she wiped the remaining mixture on a cloth and packed it into her basket.
‘Did Mother pay you?’ Eleanor asked, surprised.
The old woman’s eyes twinkled. ‘Not her,’ she said with a grin.
‘Who, then?’ Eleanor asked curiously. Mistress Becket’s fees were not cheap and Anne was unlikely to have the funds or inclination to pay. Becket smiled as she reached the door.
‘Why, by the person who asked me to attend you, of course,’ she said with another grin. ‘Master Rudhale.’
Eleanor leaned back in her chair, her mind in a whirl. She ordered Jennet to find her a crutch as the wise-woman had recommended. She could barely contain herself while she waited. The words on the page jumbled themselves in disordered sentences. She tried to calm herself with embroidery, but found the threads knotting under her touch. Twice she stabbed her finger and she finally flung the cloth on to the bed and settled for staring out of the window at the clouding sky until the maid returned.
* * *
Eleanor found the steward in the rear courtyard supervising deliveries of grain. He had his back to Eleanor and at first was unaware of her presence. She had intended to confront him immediately, but instead held back, curious to see him at work. She watched as he gave orders to the two servants. He spoke in a quiet voice and from the expressions on the faces of the other men he commanded their respect. He stood with his wax tablet in hand, tallying up the sacks as they were