September 1077 London, England
Simone du Roche perched upon her gilded stool in the king's
grand ballroom, her rich velvet kirtle puddling in deep,
green pools at her feet. Her black mane was intricately
braided and twined around her headpiece, held at a lofty
angle, and her cat-green eyes beheld the other guests with
barely concealed disdain as they pranced about to the
twanging music.
'Twas the third and final evening of King William's
birthday celebration, and Simone was infinitely glad. With
the conclusion of tonight's fete, she would finally be
freed from the curious stares and hushed whispers aimed in
her direction by the petty and spiteful lords and ladies
that infested the English court.
Simone ground her teeth into a tight smile as a flabby
noble nodded toward her.
He tries to be charming, Simone fumed to herself, and yet
the dunce knows not that I understood every scathing word
his companion said about me.
"He is too fat, Sister," Didier whispered to her in their
native French tongue. "He would smash you, were he your
husband."
Simone hid a wicked grin behind the veil attached to her
headpiece and whispered back, "Didier, quiet! You are too
young by far to have such knowledge of a husband and wife."
Keeping her head turned to hide her mouth, she added to the
boy, "Would that you had stayed behind in our rooms as I
asked. I cannot help but feel you will yet cause me trouble
this night."
Didier merely shrugged his bony shoulders. His elfin face
was a younger version of Simone's, with identical green
eyes and a mop of unruly, raven hair.
"I dislike being left alone, and no one has noticed me thus
far," the boy reasoned.
"Regardless, you must not speak to me so freely
here. 'Twill draw attention I do not wish." Simone smoothed
her veil back into place and rested her hands demurely-she
hoped-in her lap.
The set ended and the soft, old lord who had earlier caught
Simone's eye parted from his companion. His fine, fur-
trimmed tunic billowed from his considerable backside as he
waddled toward her. At least he has a kind face, Simone
conceded.
Didier snickered beside her. "Speaking of unwanted
attention, the fat one cometh."
Simone steeled her face into a calm mask as the short,
round noble bowed before her. He addressed her in French.
"Lady du Roche, it does not seem appropriate for one of
your beauty to sit unattended at such a celebration. Your
father has given permission for you to join in the next
dance."
Of course he has, Simone thought to herself. You are a rich
old man and 'tis my duty to display the wares.
But aloud, she said only, "The pleasure is mine, Monsieur
Halbrook." And then she placed her fingers into his damp,
thick palm with an inward shudder.
He would smash you, were he your husband.
As Halbrook led her to the center of the ballroom and the
opening notes of the next set began, Simone struggled not
to bolt from the line of ladies she joined and run back to
the relative safety of her rented rooms.
Armand du Roche caught Simone's eye as the women sank into
a low curtsey. Simone's father inclined his head ever so
slightly, his auburn hair falling across the wicked scar on
his forehead, to indicate the portly lord opposite her. He
raised an eyebrow.
He will do, non?
Simone broke gaze with her father to plaster the required
smile to her face and concentrate on the set.
Oui, Papa, he will do.
It no longer mattered to Simone whom Armand chose as her
husband. Simone, her father, and even young Didier were
outcasts in this foreign country, oddities to be whispered
about by the gluttonous English. Her entire life was a lie.
Her feet followed the steps mechanically, and she wrapped
the coldness of the truth around her like an icy shield.
"You are late, Brother," Tristan scolded as Nicholas
approached. When Nick stumbled into a tall, delicate urn
near them, Tristan added, "And also quite drunk, 'twould
appear."
Nick caught the teetering vase just in time and sent
Tristan a lopsided grin. "I had some rather pressing
business to attend to, I assure you. Lady Haith, you look
ravishing this evening. Mother sends her love."
Nicholas took his sister-in-law's hand and leaned in to
peck her cheek. His lips barely landed on her ear and Haith
rushed to steady him.
"Lord Nicholas," she choked. "Would this business entail
dousing yourself in a vat of ladies' cologne?"
"My apologies, m'lady." Nick grinned despite Tristan's
glare, as his brother caught wind of him.
"Good God, Nick! You might have at least bathed. 'Twill not
be good for William to see you in this state. You know he
will wish to meet with you while you're in London."
Nicholas shrugged. "'Tis no matter. William will care not
that I have raised a cup or two-only that I bring word that
his border is safe."
Nick's beautiful sister-in-law looked to her husband. "My
lord, mayhap 'twould be best if we accompanied Nick to his
rooms. 'Twill not do for him to be seen in this condition."
"It cannot be helped, my sweet," Tristan replied to the red-
haired woman with chagrin. "The ladies have already spied
him. He is trapped, I'm afraid."
Nick turned to the room behind him and indeed saw several
pairs of feminine eyes pinned to him as the ladies
impatiently finished the current set.
He chuckled with unabashed glee. "Yea, I am trapped, and
what a gentle snare it is!"
"Nicholas," Tristan warned, "the purpose of your attending
the king's birthday celebration-of which you've not deemed
worthy of your presence until now-is to find a suitable
bride. Not to bed the entire female population."
Lady Haith rolled her eyes at the crude conversation and
turned her back to the brothers, sipping her wine and
admiring the dancers.
"'Tis only what I've been doing, Brother," Nick
insisted. "I've been most harried, attempting to determine
each lady's worth." Nick wiggled his eyebrows. "My
investigations have been quite thorough."
Tristan leaned closer, and through the haze of drink, Nick
caught a glimpse of concern-or was it disapproval-in his
brother's blue eyes.
"This is no good, Nick," Tristan advised quietly. "You can
drink and wench until the end of your days and 'twill not
bring Lady Evelyn back to you."
"Do not mention the cow's name to me," Nick growled, all
tipsy good humor gone. "Her deceit has no bearing on how I
choose to entertain myself. She means naught to me."
"Really?" Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Is that why all the
ladies presented to you thus far have been too dark or too
wide, too tall, or having eyes of the wrong shade?"
Nick glared at his brother. "Mind your own affairs."
"I am merely suggesting-"
"Well, do not." Nick seized the chalice Tristan held and
took a healthy gulp. His eyes scanned the bobbing, twirling
crowd with less enthusiasm now, his earlier joviality
diminished after his brother's meddling observations.
Many of the ladies in attendance openly stared at him,
their eyes issuing blatant invitations-particularly those
whose favors he'd already sampled. There were some new
faces among the dancers, he noticed-young girls recently
put out to market by their families and eager to make a
profitable match. Although several were quite fetching and
would make for enjoyable sport, none sparked any real
interest in Nicholas.
'Twas as if he gazed over an open field dotted with cattle-
each cow having slightly varying features, but when viewed
as a whole, none were discernable from the herd.
Evelyn's face came to his mind's eye totally unbidden, as
it was wont to do. Heavy shocks of wavy, auburn hair
framing the calm, blue eyes of a winter sky. The delicate
constellation of freckles across her rosy cheeks haunted
him here when faced with the carefully composed masks of
the ladies before him.
For the thousandth time, he scolded himself. Would that I
had seized her from the convent, he thought. The very night
I learned of her flight, I should have ridden to the priory
at Withington and brought her back to Hartmoore, willing or
nay.
But just as quickly as the thought blossomed, it withered
and died. He would not press his suit to a woman who so
obviously didn't want him. Even now, Evelyn's messages to
him remained unopened. He could not bring himself to read
the excuses and apologies the letters surely contained. She
had deserted him, refused him.
Humiliated him.
The set ended then, and the crowd was dispersing evenly
from the floor. Nick raised his commandeered chalice to his
lips, but his arm paused halfway as he glimpsed the
delicate creature being led from the crush by elderly Lord
Cecil Halbrook.
She appeared impossibly tiny, even when paired with her
portly partner, and Nick fancied that the crown of her head
would not reach his shoulder. Her green gown trailed behind
her in a regal swath, and when her downcast face tilted
slightly in Nick's direction, his breath seized in his
throat.
The greenest eyes he'd ever seen pierced him with their
gaze. The lady only glanced at him, a fact that pricked at
his pride, before bowing her raven-tressed head once more.
"Fetching, is she not?" Lady Haith asked lightly, once more
addressing the brothers.
"Hmmm," Tristan replied.
Nick shook his head slightly as if to clear away the
cobwebs that had enveloped it. "Who is she?"
"Lady Simone du Roche," Haith said. "Arrived recently from
France with her father."
"Is she game?" Nick's eyes followed the beauty as Halbrook
deposited her on a stool some distance away. Her partner
immediately dismissed her and stepped away to speak to a
tall, bullish man standing nearby. Left to her own devices,
the woman averted her face into her veil, hiding her
porcelain features.
"Indeed, she is game," Tristan replied. "The odd-looking
brute to her left is her father, Armand du Roche. 'Twould
seem her most recent dance partner has taken more than a
passing interest in her."
"But why would she be presented at English court?" Nick
asked. "Surely there was no dearth of French suitors for a
titled lady as lovely as she?"
Tristan shrugged and then inclined his head toward his
wife. "My lady?"
Haith's eyes sparkled as she leaned closer to Nick. "There
was a fantastic scandal in her homeland. She was betrothed
to an old, noble family, but the contract was broken by her
intended on the very day they were to wed." Haith lowered
her voice even further. "'Tis said she's quite mad."
"Mad?" Nick was only partly listening to the information
about the woman he could not take his eyes from.
"'Tis rumored that she hears voices in her head-speaks to
people who aren't there." Haith sniffed. "But I do not
believe that for an instant. I think-"
Nick shoved his brother's chalice at Haith, effectively
silencing her. "I must speak to her," he said before
straightening his slightly rumpled tunic and striding in
her direction.
After Nick had departed, Tristan turned to look down at his
wife, who still stared intently at the dark-haired woman.
"What think you, my lady?" he asked. "Will Nick make yet
another conquest out of the girl?"
A devious smile curled Haith's lips. "I think mayhap if he
is not wary, Nicholas could find himself the one
conquered."
"Might I visit the other hall, Sister?" Didier asked as
soon as Simone was returned to her stool. "I saw some
wondrous cakes I'd care to sample."
Simone dropped her chin and turned her head slightly before
murmuring, "Nay, Didier. You shall remain here with me
until Papa says 'tis time to depart."
"Why-y-y?" the boy whined, causing Simone to wince. "I've
not had a sweet in so long-none shall notice me, I swear!"
Simone gave an unladylike snort. "Oh, verily, no one at all
would notice tiny morsels of food rising from the buffet
and then falling upon the floor." As soon as the words left
her lips, Simone regretted her sarcasm. She softened her
tone. "You've told me before that you can no longer taste,
Didier-what would be the purpose?"
"I can imagine it," the boy said, casting hurt eyes to the
marble floor beneath his feet. "If I try very hard, I can
almost recall the taste of honey."
His words wrenched Simone's heart, and she smiled sadly at
him through her veil. "Mayhap when we return to our rooms,
I will have a tray sent up and then you can play a bit."
Didier sighed. His head popped up once more, and a devilish
smile lit his gamine face. "Who's this coming to visit, I
wonder. I've not seen him before."
Simone glanced out of the corner of her eye to see whom
Didier was referring to, and nearly gasped aloud.
A large man, easily a half-head taller than Simone's
father, was weaving his way through the crowd toward her.
She noticed with an odd sensation in her middle the way the
ladies he passed followed him with their eyes in a most
familiar manner.
And it was no wonder that he held the female guests'
attention-he certainly had Simone enthralled. From the dark
hair curling to his shoulders, the penetrating gaze of his
blue eyes that captured Simone's and held them, the hard
line of jaw that chiseled the planes of his face into a
sculpture, the man was a god.
His full lips cocked at one corner into a sleepy smile, and
the warmth it created in Simone was as delicious as it was
unsettling. His fine tunic and cloak indicated that he was
a man of wealth and status-or had been, at any rate. The
embroidered cloth was stained and wrinkled, and Simone
thought she might have glimpsed the straggling threads of a
poorly repaired hem. But his gait was confident-even a bit
arrogant-as he drew nearer and nearer Simone and her
brother.
"Didier," she hissed in warning. "Not a word." Simone
calmly turned her face from her veil to look at the
magnificent man who had stopped before her and was now
bowing deeply. He nearly tipped sideways.
"My lady," he said, the rich timbre of his voice sending
warm ripples over Simone's skin. "I hope you do not
perceive me as bold in approaching you without
introduction, but I fear I could not restrain myself. Your
beauty drew me to you like the lowly moth to a brilliant
flame, and I felt I must seize the opportunity to speak to
you lest you vanish like the vision you appear to be."
"Oh, la-la!" Didier laughed directly into Simone's
ear. "Methinks the man wishes your gown to vanish, the way
he ogles you!"
Simone's smile faltered at Didier's bawdy comment, but she
quickly recovered and placed her fingertips in the man's
offered palm.
He bent once more to brush warm, dry lips across her
knuckles, his eyes never leaving her face. Simone's skin
tingled even after his touch, and when he spoke again, her
stomach felt as though a litter of piglets had been set
loose within.
"I am Nicholas FitzTodd, Baron of Crane," he offered,
flashing a glimpse of white, even teeth.
"Oooh," Didier said in a singsong voice. "A baron!"
Simone stopped gritting her teeth to open her mouth and
give the man her name, but he raised a silencing hand.
"Again, forgive me, Lady du Roche," he offered with a
boyish grin. "I must admit that I asked after you upon my
arrival." He gestured discreetly across the breadth of the
hall toward a handsome couple. "My brother and his wife are
my informants."
Simone eyed the large blond man and striking redhead warily
and was quite disarmed when the woman raised a hand near
her face and wiggled her fingers at Simone. Simone inclined
her head in acknowledgment before turning her attention
once more to the baron.
"Then I must be sure to extend my thanks to them before
departing London," Simone said, her voice husky with the
enchantment the man's very presence seemed to cast over
her.
On the floor near her stool, Didier howled. The boy
clutched at his ribs and hiccoughed with laughter.
"Do you thirst?" the baron asked. "Might I fetch you some
wine?"
"Merci," Simone replied. The man nodded with a heart-
stopping grin and disappeared through the throng once more,
and Simone whipped her head about to glare at her brother.
"Didier! Get up from the floor this instant!"
Fat, silvery tears of mirth rolled down the boy's
cheeks. "M-m-merci, lover!" he cried, reaching a spindly
arm after the departing man.
"Stop it, I said!" Simone felt the heat of her flush to her
hairline.
Her brother finally pulled himself together enough to
stand, wiping at his cheeks with the backs of both
hands. "Ah, Sister-that was wonderful! You forgot yourself
so that you spoke English!"
Simone cringed. That the guests assumed she spoke only
French was her single defense among the enemies. Should
their hosts find out her deception, her chances for a
profitable match would dwindle against their bruised pride.