Suzanne Robinson
Authors: Lady Defiant
Blade snatched up her hand. “Come,
chère
, don’t take on virginal airs after setting me afire. You’ve let me go too far to turn back.”
“I’ll call for my cousins.”
“And the upright Lord George will see us wed this very night.” Blade pulled her to him so that his lips nearly touched hers, and whispered to her. “Then surely would I gain release from this pain in your bed instead of in this chair.”
Twisting her body, Oriel ducked down and escaped the circle of his arms. He reached for her again, but she slapped his hands away.
He chuckled and called after her.
“You’re a lovely, kissable coward, Oriel Richmond. Come back and let me teach you how to play my lute.”
A door slammed in the library, and he heard her footsteps in the gallery fading rapidly.
Something was wrong with him. His only purpose in wooing Oriel was to gain entry to Richmond Hall, yet he risked being tossed out by pursuing her so relentlessly that he nearly had her on the floor of the withdrawing chamber. God rot her. She tempted him by her refusals and her defiance and her scorn.
He would show her that virtue was a pallid and tedious thing that evaporated when boiled in the cauldron of passion.…
LADY DEFIANT
This edition contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED
LADY DEFIANTA Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Doubleday edition published September 1992
Bantam edition / January 1993
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Beowulf, The Oldest English Epic Translated into Alliterative Verse with a Critical Introduction
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by Baldesar Castiglione, translated by George Bull (Penguin Classics, Revised edition, 1976), copyright © George Bull, 1967 Reprinted by permission of Penguin Books Ltd
The Art of Courtly Love
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Life in Medieval Times
by Marjorie Rowling (G P Putnam’s Sons, 1979) Reprinted by permission of G P Putnam’s Sons and Batsford Ltd
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Copyright © 1992 by Lynda S Robinson
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v3.1
Chapter
1
When I was fair and young, and favor gracèd me,
Of many was I sought, their mistress for to be
.
—
Elizabeth I
Northern England
December 1564
Since young noblemen had always gazed through her as if she were a window, Oriel couldn’t stomach them looking at her as they would a fat rabbit now that she was an heiress. She had spent the last eight of her twenty years as an orphan cast into the lair of two aunts and dependent upon their mercy. Aunts were one of God’s plagues.
In order to avoid the plague, on this bright and icy morn on the last day of December, Oriel had taken refuge with Great-uncle Thomas in his closet where he kept his papers, books, myriad clocks, and other instruments. Oriel had burst in upon him, out of breath from running as usual, and caught him directing the hanging of his newest picture, a portrait of Queen Anne Boleyn.
She smiled at him when he glanced at her over his shoulder. He sighed, for he always knew when she was hiding.
“Little chick,” he said, “how many times have I admonished you not to gallop about? Such unseemly haste little befits your dignity and degree.”
“Aunt Livia searches for me,” she said as she wandered over to examine a model of a printing press. She picked it up, feeling its weight in her hands. “Uncle, why do you suppose things fall down instead of up?”
Sir Thomas waved his serving man out of the room while he straightened the portrait. “Is this a new riddle?”
“No. I just bethought me of the question.”
“You’re always thinking of unanswerable questions. You won’t find a worthy husband if you’re too clever.”
Oriel glanced at the likeness of Anne Boleyn. “She was clever—a great wit, so you say—and she married King Henry VIII.”
“And got her head cut off.”
Sir Thomas subsided into his chair, groaning as his body met the cushions. His great age was a marvel to Oriel, for he had seen more than sixty-one years. Walking-stick thin, his skin almost transparent, his hands shook, yet he could still set quill to paper and produce a fine Italian script. He had taught her Greek and Latin in her girlhood, and given her solace when Aunt Livia cuffed her for answering back or Aunt Faith had made fun of her wildly curling hair and its auburn hue.
“God’s toes, Uncle, I won’t get my head cut off.”
From the ground floor came the sound of a bellow honed by years of shouting at hapless grooms on the hunting field.
Sir Thomas lifted his brow at her. “Get your ears boxed, more like.”
“She wants to put me in a farthingale and stomacher.” Oriel wrinkled her nose and looked down at the scandalously plain and comfortable wool gown she
wore. “And she wants me to put on a damask gown, so I told Nell to give out that I’d gone riding. I think another suitor comes today, but I’m not certain. Uncle, I hate suitors.”
From the floor beside his chair Thomas picked up his journal, a book bound in leather and decorated with gilded oak leaves. “You must be patient. Some girls come into their beauty late. The young men won’t ignore you forever.”
Oriel looked down at her hands. She was twisting her interlocked fingers. “Did you—” She gathered her courage. “Did you know that I’m twenty and no one has ever tried to kiss me? I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Uncle Thomas held out his hand, and she went to him. He took her hand and patted it. “It must be quite terrible to fear being unwanted.”
Oriel nodded, but found she couldn’t reply.
“I think you’re pretty.”
“You do?”
“Upon my soul I do.”
“Even if I don’t wear brocades and silks?”
“Even without the brocades and silks, but you could do with some new gowns,” Thomas said. “Look at that one. It binds your chest, girl.”
Oriel knew how to avoid chastisement. “Tell me about your new picture. You knew Queen Anne long ago, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Thomas rested his head on the back of his chair and gazed at the portrait. “You can’t tell from the portrait, but she was all wildness and courage, was Anne Boleyn. And our good Queen Bess takes after her. It was her wit and fey courage that captured old King Harry’s heart.”
Thomas sighed and glanced at Oriel. He seemed about to speak, but didn’t. After a short silence, he continued.
“He never captured hers, though. It had been taken, and Henry Percy had it always, may God rest his soul.”
“How so?” Oriel asked. This was a story she’d never heard.
“I forget. Have I told you about that Italian fellow, da Vinci?”
“Ohhh—ri—el!”
“God’s toes, she’s coming.”
Oriel bounded for the door, threw a kiss to Uncle Thomas, and scurried through his chamber, the withdrawing chamber, and a short passage, then down a side stair. Hugging herself, she scampered along the frost-ridden lawn beside the east wing of Richmond Hall, through the gardens and back into the house.
