Rose Bride (32 page)

‘You are very calm,’ he remarked bitterly.

Her brows arched in delicate response, but she said nothing.

Virgil frowned and folded his arms across his chest, telling himself this was to discourage him from shaking a proper response from her. He was not protecting his heart. This was to do with his loins, and her womb. His heart had no connection with either.

‘Is this what you hoped for all along, perhaps?’ he demanded, goaded into discourtesy by her unexpected lack of rebellion. ‘That if Lord Munro failed to acknowledge any child from your union, you could at least fall back on Master Elton for a husband?’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ she said tartly, then screwed up her face in a quick grimace. Her voice became muted again. ‘Forgive me, sir. I am . . . I am grateful to you for your generous offer of marriage.’ She shot a glance at Kate Langley, and he noticed a silent message pass between the two women. He had the impression this was an exchange she too had rehearsed carefully. ‘And I accept.’

‘Accept?’ he tossed back at her. ‘Accept what? I have made you no offer. This is not something that can be negotiated. This is a demand. An expectation of obedience. You will wed me and yes, you will be grateful.’

There was a growing flush in her cheeks.

He recognised that sign of female agitation and squared his shoulders, standing with his legs apart, planted like an oak before her. She would not budge him, however hard she pushed. He was an Elton.

That was what his drunken stepfather had said, of course, whenever he bent Virgil over his study table for chastisement. The rod always cut so deeply into his bare young legs and buttocks, Virgil would squirm and struggle against the thin whipping strokes, crying out in pain. ‘Keep still and take your beating like a man, you scurvy knave,’ his stepfather would roar. ‘You are an Elton, and not a Tulkey, or you would know not to dodge the rod.’

This child would be an Elton too. Regardless of whose seed had put him in her belly. On that score he was determined.

‘For all I know the child in your womb is his, not mine,’ he said belligerently, ignoring what he had just thought. ‘Or some other man’s, perhaps.’

Arrant nonsense, of course, to suggest she might have taken a third or fourth or even fifth lover beside him and Munro. He knew it, and Margerie knew it too, from the fulminating, dagger-under-the-rib look she threw him. But it made him feel better to insult her, to force her to understand the full humility of her position. She was being rescued from her own wanton nature. And he was the man having to sacrifice himself for her reputation.

Her reputation.
That was a fine jest.

His skin prickled though at the way she stared back at him, not speaking.

‘Tell me, Margerie,’ he demanded silkily, ‘would you ever have informed me about the child if his lordship had agreed to acknowledge it?’

It was an unfair question he had promised himself that he would never ask. But now, face to face with the woman who had spurned him, preferring a rich lord’s company to his, he could not help himself.

‘No,’ she snapped back.

Virgil clasped his hands behind his back, considering that response. He had not expected to feel wounded, yet he did. Wounded and furious. But there was the hard truth of it at last, and he had to face it. He had always been a poor second choice after Munro. No doubt the nobleman had bettered him in bed too. She might as well have slapped his face.

He struggled for control, but knew he was almost sneering, a dangerous thud to his heart. ‘I see,’ he said.

Had she ever cared for him at all? Or had he been merely a means to an end, an honourable man who would foolishly consent to marry her if Munro refused?

He remembered how passionately they had coupled. Had that been a pretence too?

He could not seem to breathe properly. He must not dwell on such thoughts, Virgil told himself. It no longer mattered what had been real and what had been false between them. The thing was decided. They were to marry. He tried to shut out the wounded voice in his head, hating its weakness, and when it would not be silenced, he let himself laugh at it instead, his smile mocking. But not in a pleasant way, and he could see she had noticed.

‘Perhaps a word in private might be wise,’ Kate murmured uneasily, glancing sideways at Margerie.

‘Oh, why bother?’ Margerie said icily, and dropped him a curtsey. ‘You heard Master Elton, the wedding is all arranged. What need for further speech when there are so many preparations to be made?’

‘Indeed,’ he managed.

Her colour was high. ‘Until tomorrow, sir. I shall be at the chapel at ten.’

‘Remember to pack your things; we have been granted permission to leave court immediately after the ceremony,’ he told her shortly, then turned, heading for the door.

Virgil paused in the doorway, suddenly not wanting to leave her on that sour note. There must be more things to be said. He had imagined a longer meeting. More gratitude. Perhaps some soft words. On her part, of course. She was to be his wife, after all.

He opened his mouth, meaning to discuss the journey into Kent, where they would stop for the night on the road. But Margerie was no longer looking at him. She had turned away, her back very stiff, as though nothing he could say would interest her.

Kate Langley looked at him expectantly, her brows raised, her face disapproving.

He closed his mouth, and felt his jaw clench in frustration. Margerie was right. There was nothing more to be said. And let Mistress Langley stare if she wished. It was none of her affair how he spoke to his bride-to-be.
She
would not be asked to put up with his manners.

Virgil bowed, then left the room.

God’s blood!
He had not even kissed her.

Early the next morning, Margerie bathed before the fire, then reluctantly allowed Kate to dress her as though she were her maid, unable to rouse much interest in which gown she was to wear, though she paused a moment before the handglass to admire the fragile white silk rosebuds threaded through her red hair.

‘Beautiful,’ Kate declared, pausing to tuck a stray red strand behind one ear, then stepped back to consider the full effect of the straight fall of green silk from hips to floor, flaring out from a pale jewelled bodice lent to her by one of the queen’s own ladies-in-waiting. Her look was one of grim satisfaction. ‘Yes, the white roses are perfect. Master Elton will have eyes for no one but you today.’

‘Wait,’ Margerie said huskily. ‘My necklace. The one Lord Munro gave me.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Kate searched for the costly gold and emerald necklace among Margerie’s possessions, then hurried back to clasp it about her throat, smiling. ‘
Now
you look perfect. A bride to make any man proud. Whatever else you may say of him, Munro has a good eye for beauty.’

Margerie glanced at her in surprise. ‘Are you crying?’

‘No!’ her friend exclaimed at once, defensively, though her eyes were glassy. ‘Well, yes. Maybe a little. It is a wedding, after all.’

‘But not a love match.’

‘They never are, dearest.’ Kate smiled at her indulgently. ‘I am certain you could be happy with Master Elton though. If you allow yourself to be.’

Margerie caught her wrist as Kate bent to tweak her skirts. ‘Kate, are you happy with Master Langley?’

‘You have met my husband. He is a man in his middle years, balding and portly. But he knows who I am and does not hold me to account for my occasional indiscretions. And there is affection between us. We deal well enough together.’

She kissed Margerie on the cheek. ‘Virgil will not be cruel forever. He is just angry, as men so often are when they feel trapped into marriage. And when you tell him the child is his—’

‘What difference would it make to tell him the truth now? He would never believe me, and will only suspect me of trying to make a fool of him. No,’ Margerie insisted, choking slightly as emotion got the better of her, then collecting herself with an effort, ‘let Master Elton make of this marriage what he will. Better for him to think me only wanton, and not dishonest to boot.’

‘Very well then,’ Kate said, handing her the fur-trimmed mantel she had chosen to wear to the chapel, for the weather was still sharp despite signs of spring everywhere about the palace. ‘If you are ready, it is time for you to leave off your old name and become Mistress Elton.’

Margerie shivered at the unfamiliar sound of her new title, but did not resist when Kate led her to the door. She had made her peace with this marriage overnight, after planning first how she would run away under cover of darkness . . .

But then Margerie had fallen asleep, wearied beyond thought, and when the light of dawn crept into her chamber, cold and grey, it had brought sense with it. She would marry Master Elton today, and her grandfather would be pleased enough with the match, for while Virgil was no great lord, he did attend upon the king. And there were still many at court who respected and were wary of him, despite this unwise marriage.

Virgil did not love her, that was clear. The cold and abrupt manner of his proposal had cut her to the heart, yet what had she expected? Rose-petals strewn before her door and a passionate suitor down on his knees?

She was a wanton he had used from time to time, and now he was being forced to marry her. She had seen the icy sneer on his face, the glitter in his eyes, and understood at once.

How he must hate her!

She had meant nothing to Virgil Elton except a release for his sexual needs. She might as well have been his whore – except then he would have paid her to yield, and none would have questioned the transaction. As it was, she had gained nothing from their affair but this shameful disgrace – and forced marriage to a man who should have wed his childhood sweetheart instead.

She had a new life to consider now, growing within her. She must marry Virgil Elton for the child’s sake. But that did not mean she must
feel
anything for the man who would soon be her master.

He felt nothing for her, so in that at least they would be equal.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Virgil had an air about him, she thought, glimpsing him in deep and earnest conversation with the priest as she and Kate entered the echoing palace chapel. An air of quiet determination and authority. And in bed it became . . . not forcefulness, exactly, but a pleasing sexuality that appealed to her own curious need to be dominated yet cosseted at the same time.

Nonetheless, the knowledge that Virgil did not love her and would forever resent this marriage haunted her as she made her obeisance at the threshold, and entered the chapel.

Lord Wolf was there by the arched stone doorway, his friend Hugh Beaufort to his left.

‘Mistress Croft,’ he greeted her formally, both men bowing while she curtseyed, just as though she were a lady and not a wanton being forced to marry her lover.

Wolf was wearing a fine doublet and black velvet cap, no sword by his side today. His body was taut, muscular, powerful, barely concealed by his hose and codpiece, and it was hard not to think the nobleman rather attractive as he offered her his arm.

Lady Eloise was a very lucky woman, she realised, yet still could not find it in herself to feel any true desire for Wolf. Not with Virgil waiting only a few feet away, a thought which was sufficient to make her blush.

‘I shall give you away, with your consent,’ Wolf said softly, meeting her surprised gaze. She guessed a little of her panic and trepidation must have shown on her face, for his brows drew sharply together.

‘Unless this union is no longer what you want, Margerie. Give me the word, I can call a halt at any moment until your vows have been said and witnessed before God.’ He seemed genuinely troubled. ‘To state the matter plainly, you do not need to marry Master Elton if it will make you unhappy. Indeed, I myself would be glad to see you installed in some quiet country house for your confinement, if you prefer.’

She shook her head. ‘I am content to marry Master Elton, my lord. And I fear your lady Eloise would never consent to such a scheme, lest it bring you censure at court. But I thank you. You have been very good to me. Both you and your friend,’ she added, glancing at Master Beaufort.

‘Not good enough, by God. Or you would never have found yourself in this fix.’ His look was grim. ‘It was I who ruined you as a girl, Margerie, and did not stop to count the cost of your lost virginity.’

‘And it was I who refused your perfectly honourable offer of marriage,’ she reminded him, then took a deep breath. ‘No, this is how things must be. Lead on, Lord Wolf. I am keeping my husband waiting.’

‘He is not your husband yet. And besides,’ Wolf added with a sudden grin, ‘this is the last time you will be able to keep Master Elton waiting and not be chastised for it. So let the man sweat and fear you have changed your mind.’

She almost laughed, but then remembered where she was. And now they were being watched. With a nod to the absurdly handsome Hugh Beaufort – could any man’s shoulders truly be that broad? – she allowed Wolf to lead her towards Virgil.

Not all the ornate wooden pews were empty, as she had assumed. Several of the other ladies of the royal wardrobe were there, smiling in approval and whispering among themselves as she walked the length of the intolerably long aisle between door and rood screen. Virgil too appeared to have brought a number of groomsmen with him, some of whom she recognised as physicians – Master Greene, Master Bellamy – and loitering at the back, his servant, Ned, who winked at her.