Reclaimed By Her Rebel Knight. Jenni Fletcher
The wine...’
‘Your mother is still greatly missed,’ Roul interceded tactfully, ‘and I’d say that you take after her in character.’
‘I hope so.’ Because he didn’t want to consider the alternative...
‘Because of that, I’ll trust you. If you make a stand against the King, then I’ll support you, too. You have my word and my silence.’ Roul clapped a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, smiling as if the subject were over and dealt with. ‘And now that’s settled, we have pleasanter matters to discuss. My wife is planning a banquet tomorrow to celebrate your reunion with my niece. I think you’ll be pleased. Constance has grown into a fine and accomplished young lady.’
‘I look forward to it,’ Matthew lied, finally accepting a cup and raising it to hide his underwhelmed expression. She could be the finest, most accomplished young lady in the whole of England for all it mattered to him, but marriage vows were marriage vows and it was his duty to keep them.
‘To Lady Constance.’ He raised his cup in what he hoped was an enthusiastic-sounding toast. ‘My wife.’
Constance sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot in a cotton shift as Isabella ransacked her coffers.
‘You have to make a little effort to dress up for him.’ Her cousin was adamant as ever. ‘What about your red gown? The one with the white beads?’
‘No.’
‘But it suits you.’
‘Absolutely not!’
She shook her head, nibbling on the jagged remnants of her fingernails and averting her eyes from the rich crimson fabric. It was true that red was her best colour, complementing her colouring and making her olive complexion seem to glow, but it made her painfully self-conscious, too. That particular gown had been a birthday gift from her uncle and aunt, but she preferred to blend into the background rather than stand out quite so dramatically and the prospect of seeing her husband was nerve-racking enough. Aside from the fact that she had no desire to dress up for him, as Isabella put it, she didn’t want to see him again at all! The banquet her aunt had arranged was only a few hours away and she had to fight the temptation to dive back under her bedcovers and refuse to come out.
‘Why not the red?’ Isabella was pouting now.
‘Because it’s too bright. My green bliaut and surcoat will suffice.’
‘But they’re so drab! That surcoat looks like a sack on you.’
‘It’s just loose, that’s all.’ The way that she liked it. Tight-fitting gowns only drew attention to her curves...
‘No.’ Isabella put her hands on her own narrow hips emphatically. ‘As your cousin I refuse to allow it. He’s your husband. You want to make a good first impression, don’t you?’
‘Second impression.’
‘Well, the first one was too long ago to count. You admitted you barely spoke to him on your wedding day.’ She smirked. ‘Although now I see why.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that the rest of us met him in the hall this morning when you were still asleep and he was so stern. Emma tried to flirt with him and he gave her such a scathing look! Served her right, but she’s still sulking about it.’
‘Oh.’ Constance blinked, uncertain about what to make of either his or her younger cousin’s behaviour. ‘But why didn’t you wake me this morning?’
‘Because you were tossing and turning for most of the night and Mother said we ought to let you rest. Wait, I know!’ Isabella snapped her fingers. ‘Mother’s blue gown. The one you wore to the Michaelmas feast last year. I’ll ask if you can borrow it again.’
‘No!’ Constance raised her hands in panic, gesturing awkwardly at her chest. ‘It was too tight...here.’
‘I know.’ Isabella giggled. ‘That’s why he’ll like it. Half the men in the hall couldn’t take their eyes off you that day.’
‘It was horrible.’
‘They were like dogs slobbering over a piece of meat. I’d take it as a compliment.’
‘You weren’t the meat.’
‘Well, this is different. Your husband’s allowed to slobber, isn’t he? Besides...’ Isabella tilted her head to one side speculatively ‘...you’ve lost weight since then. You aren’t feeling unwell, are you?’
‘No, just nervous.’ Constance averted her face to hide her expression of guilt. Since the summer, she’d been making a concerted effort to eat less, not that it had made any difference to her hips and breasts. Only her face and arms had ended up looking thinner.
‘It’ll be all right.’ Isabella sat down and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘Father would never have married you to a monster.’
‘I know. And I know he only did what he thought was best, but I just wish he hadn’t married me to anyone.’
‘But he had to, you know that. Lacelby was practically besieged with suitors after your parents died. They would never have left you alone, not until you’d chosen between them, and there was a danger the King might have made you a ward and kept all your inheritance for himself. He’s done it before, Mother says. He puts unmarried women in the Tower, claiming it’s for their own safety, but really to make sure they never marry and have heirs so then all the land becomes his. You’re lucky the Wintours are such a powerful family or it might have happened to you, too. Without your husband’s protection you might have lost all your inheritance.’
‘So I ought to thank him for taking it instead?’
‘No—’ Isabella sounded chastened ‘—I just meant that it could have been worse.’
‘You’re right.’ Constance tipped her head sideways, resting her cheek against her cousin’s shoulder apologetically. ‘I’m sorry I snapped. I know that you’re right, but I still can’t help resenting him for it. He took my inheritance and sent me away from Lacelby as if I were just a child. He never even spoke to me, let alone asked what I wanted. Even if he isn’t a monster, what if I can’t stop resenting him? What if we just make each other miserable for the rest of our lives?’
‘That’s a risk for any marriage. Sometimes I worry about Tristan.’
‘You do?’ Constance lifted her head again in surprise. Isabella had done nothing but enthuse about her betrothed ever since they’d met. ‘But you love Tristan. You said he was perfect.’
‘No, I said that he seemed perfect. That doesn’t mean he is. Anyone can seem perfect.’
Anyone except for her husband, Constance thought bitterly. He hadn’t even seemed pleasant. If only she could have waited a few years to marry, then she might have chosen a husband for herself, one who she might have liked and respected, who wouldn’t have treated her like a child, but allowed her a mind of her own. Then perhaps in time there might have been affection. Fondness. Maybe even love, just like in the songs... She bit down hard on another nail. One glimpse of Matthew Wintour and it was impossible to imagine feeling for him the way Isabella felt for Tristan.
‘We just have to hope for the best.’ Isabella jumped off the bed, dispelling the sombre mood. ‘Now I’m going to fetch Mother’s dress and I don’t want to hear any more arguments. It makes your eyes look turquoise.’ She stopped halfway across the room. ‘Do you know what’s funny? That we’ve shared a room for five years and I’m still not certain what colour your eyes are.’
‘Grey.’
‘Not