The Widow's Kiss

by Jane Feather

  “So, Hugh of Beaucaire, are you going to arrest me?”

  Hugh had a sudden picture of what awaited Guinevere in London. What was he doing? Conspiring in the downfall of this woman and her children?

  A cloud that had obscured the moon drifted away and the garden was bathed in silver moonlight. Guinevere's upturned face had a translucent beauty as she threw her challenge at him. And it happened to him again, that bewildering sensation of losing his balance, his focus, so that he was certain of nothing but a confused swirl of emotion. He saw that she had read his expression, that she had seen the abrupt unbidden surge of desire in his eyes.

  Without volition, he bent and took her mouth with his own. For a moment the world receded. His hands spanned her narrow back, pulling her against him, and her mouth opened beneath his. He tasted her warm richness as her tongue explored his mouth; he inhaled the fragrance of her hair and skin. His senses spun and as she leaned into him her body quivered with her own responding desire. Their tongues moved in a greedy dance of passion and she sucked on his lower lip as if it were a ripe plum.

  Then she broke away from him. The passion died slowly from her eyes, a strange horror taking its place as she stood looking at him like a cornered fox; then she was gone.

  Hugh touched his mouth, then he swore beneath his breath. How had that happened?

  DON’T MISS ANY OF THESE TANTALIZING ROMANCES BY JANE FEATHER

  THE WIDOW'S KISS

  “Typical of Feather's novels, the story succeeds as romantic fiction, with fine characterizations, sound historical background, and an effective evocation of the precarious times when a king's favor or disfavor meant life or death. Striking cover art, romantic yet dignified, will draw readers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Rich characters, sophisticated sensuality, and a skillfully crafted story line: a first-class historical romance, wonder fully entertaining.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Filled with period detail and dynamic characters, Feather's appealing historical romance exemplifies the qualities that make her perennially popular.”

  —Booklist

  “Feather, whose millions of readers eagerly await each new book, is at the top of her form here.”

  —The Brazosport Facts

  “One of the most intense romances I’ve read … from the opening scene to the final pages I was glued to this book. I had one of those nights where you keep reading no matter how late it's getting. You keep looking at the clock thinking, ‘If I turn off the light right now, I’ll get six hours of sleep.’ Then it's five hours, then four, and if you’re lucky, you’ll have finished the book before you get to three.”

  —All About Romance

  THE LEAST LIKELY BRIDE

  “Feather's writing is quick, vivid, and upbeat…. Her hero is dashing and articulate; her heroine is headstrong and intelligent and ends up saving her lover; and it all adds up to a perfect light historical romance.”

  —Booklist

  “Ms. Feather's latest is full of intrigue, passion and adventure—a lively read.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “A charming, fast read.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “I highly recommend The Least Likely Bride, and I plan to search out the other books in Feather's Bride trilogy immediately.”

  —All About Romance

  “The third in Ms. Feather's Bride Trilogy reunites Portia and Rufus, Cato and Phoebe, and brings together Olivia and Anthony in this powerfully crafted story filled with romance and enough adventure to keep the reader turning pages. A keeper.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Add a bit of ‘wrecking’ by a dastardly nobleman who wants to marry Olivia for her fortune, along with the skullduggery of a stepbrother she loathes, and you have a typically engaging romance à la Feather.”

  —The Brazosport Facts

  A VALENTINE WEDDING

  “A fast-paced book that will keep the reader entertained.”

  —Denver Rocky Mountain News

  THE HOSTAGE BRIDE

  “The first in Jane Feather's ‘Bride’ trilogy is a feather in her cap and one of her best stories ever.”

  —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  THE SILVER ROSE

  “Well-written and fast-moving … entertaining.”

  —Booklist

  “Feather's writing style is spirited and her plot is well-paced.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  VICE

  “Vice offers everything from sensual romantic scenes to hilarious misadventures to an exposition on the problems facing ladies of the evening in the mid-18th century…. Readers will love it.”

  —The Brazosport Facts

  VIOLET

  “Great fun … Feather's well-paced plot generates lots of laughs, steamy sex, and high adventure, as well as some wryly perceptive commentary on the gender stereotypes her heroine so flagrantly defies.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  VALENTINE

  “Four out of four stars … Valentine … comes much closer to the Austen spirit than any of the pseudo-sequels that have been proliferating lately.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  VIXEN

  “Vixen is worth taking to bed … Feather's last book, Virtue, was good, but this one is even better.”

  —USA Today

  VIRTUE

  “Jane Feather is an accomplished storyteller…. The result—a rare and wonderful battle-of-the-sexes story that will delight both historical and Regency readers.”

  —Daily News, Los Angeles

  Also by Jane Feather

  VICE

  VANITY

  VIOLET

  VALENTINE

  VELVET

  VIXEN

  VIRTUE

  THE DIAMOND SLIPPER

  THE SILVER ROSE

  THE EMERALD SWAN

  THE HOSTAGE BRIDE

  A VALENTINE WEDDING

  THE ACCIDENTAL BRIDE

  THE LEAST LIKELY BRIDE

  ALMOST INNOCENT

  TO KISS A SPY KISSED BY SHADOWS

  and soon in paperback

  VENUS

  Prologue

  Derbyshire, England—September, 1536

  The woman stood by the open window, the soft breeze stirring the folds of her blue silk hood as it hung down her back. She stood very still and straight, her dark gown shadowy against the dense velvet of the opened window curtains.

  She heard him in the corridor outside, his heavy lumbering step. She could picture his large frame lurching from side to side as he approached. Now he was outside the great oak door. She could hear his labored breathing. She could picture his bloodshot eyes, his reddened countenance, his lips slack with exertion.

  The door burst open. Her husband filled the doorway, his richly jeweled gown swirling about him.

  “By God, madam! You would dare to speak to me in such wise at my own table! In the hearing of our guests, of the household, scullions even!” A shower of spittle accompanied the slurred words as he advanced into the chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. It shivered on its hinges.

  The woman stood her ground beside the window, her hands clasped quietly against her skirts. “And I say to you, husband, that if you ever threaten one of my daughters again, you will rue the day.” Her voice was barely above a whisper but the words came at him with the power of thunder.

  For a second he seemed to hesitate, then he lunged for her with clenched fists upraised. Still she stood her ground, a slight derisive smile on her lips, her eyes, purple as sloes, fixed upon his face with such contempt he bellowed in drunken rage.

  As he reached her—one fist aimed at her pale face beneath its jeweled headdress, his only thought to
smash the smile from her lips, to close the hateful contempt in her eyes—she stepped aside. Her foot caught his ankle and the speed and weight of his charge carried him forward.

  For a second he seemed to hover at the very brink of the dark space beyond the low-silled window, then he twisted and fell. A shriek of astounded terror accompanied his plunge to the flagstones below.

  The woman twitched aside the curtain so that she could look down without being seen. At first in the dark depths below the window she could make out nothing, then came the sound of upraised voices, the tread of many feet; light flickered as torch men came running from the four corners of the courtyard. And now, in the light, she could see the dark crumpled shape of her husband.

  How small he looked, she thought, clasping her elbows across her breast with a little tremor. So much malevolence, so much violence, reduced, deflated, to that inert heap.

  And then she seemed to come to life. She moved back swiftly to the far side of the chamber where a small door gave onto the garderobe. She slipped into the small privy and stood for a second, listening. Running feet sounded in the corridor beyond her chamber. There was a loud knocking, then she heard the latch lift. As the door was flung wide she stepped out of the garderobe, hastily smoothing down her skirts.

  An elderly woman stood in the doorway, her hair tucked beneath a white linen coif. “Ay! Ay! Ay!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “What is it, my chuck? What has happened here?” Behind her, curious faces pressed over her shoulder.

  The woman spoke to those faces, her voice measured, calming. “I don’t know, Tilly. Lord Stephen came in while I was in the garderobe. He called to me. I was occupied … I couldn’t come to him immediately. He grew impatient … but …” She gave a little helpless shrug. “In his agitation, he must have lost his balance … fallen from the window. I didn’t see what happened.”

  “Ay … ay … ay,” the other woman repeated, almost to herself. “And ’tis the fourth! Lord-a-mercy.” She crossed herself, shaking her head.

  “Lord Stephen was drunk,” the younger woman said evenly. “Everyone knew it … in the hall, at table. He could barely see straight. I must go down.” She hurried past the woman, past the crowd of gaping servants, gathering her skirts to facilitate her step.

  Her steward came running across the great hall as she came down the stairs. “My lady … my lady … such a terrible thing.”

  “What happened, Master Crowder? Does anyone know?”

  The black-clad steward shook his head and the loosened lappets of his bonnet flapped at his ears like crows’ wings. “Did you not see it, my lady? We thought you must have known what happened. ’Twas from your chamber window that he fell.”

  “I was in the garderobe,” she said shortly. “Lord Stephen was drunk, Master Crowder. He must have lost his footing … his balance. It was ever thus.”

  “Aye, ’tis true enough, madam. ’Twas ever thus with his lordship.” The steward followed her out into the courtyard where a crowd stood around the fallen man.

  They gave way before the lady of the house who knelt on the cobbles beside her husband. His neck was at an odd angle and blood pooled beneath his head. She placed a finger for form's sake against the pulse in his neck. Then with a sigh sat back on her heels, the dark folds of her gown spreading around her.

  “Where is Master Grice?”

  “Here, my lady.” The priest came running from his little lodging behind the chapel, adjusting his gown as he came. “I heard the commotion, but I …” He stopped as he reached the body. His rosary beads clicked between his fingers as he gazed down and said with a heavy sigh, “May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Lord Stephen's wife. She rose to her feet in a graceful movement. “Take my lord's body to the chapel to be washed and prepared. We will say a Mass at dawn. He will lie in state for the respects of the household and the tenants before his burial tomorrow evening.”

  She turned and made her way back through the crowd, back into the house, ducking her head as she stepped through the small door that was set into the larger one to keep the cold and the draughts from invading the hall.

  Lady Guinevere was a widow once more.

  I.

  London, April, 1537

  How many husbands did you say?” The king turned his heavy head towards Thomas Cromwell, his Lord Privy Seal. His eyes rested with almost languid indifference on his minister's grave countenance, but no one in the king's presence chamber at Hampton Court believed in that indifference.

  “Four, Highness.”

  “And the lady is of what years?”

  “Eight and twenty, Highness.”

  “She has been busy it would seem,” Henry mused.

  “It would seem a husband has little luck in the lady's bed,” a voice remarked dryly from a dark paneled corner of the chamber.

  The king's gaze swung towards a man of square and powerful build, dressed in black and gold. A man whose soldierly bearing seemed ill suited to his rich court dress, the tapestry-hung comforts of the chamber, the whispers, the spies, the gossipmongering of King Henry's court. He had an air of impatience, of a man who preferred to be doing rather than talking, but there was a gleam of humor in his eyes, a natural curve to his mouth, and his voice was as dry as sere leaves.

  “It would seem you have the right of it, Hugh,” the king responded. “And how is it exactly that these unlucky husbands have met their deaths?”

  “Lord Hugh has more precise knowledge than I.” Privy Seal waved a beringed hand towards the man in the corner.

  “I have a certain interest, Highness.” Hugh of Beaucaire stepped forward into the light that poured through the diamond-paned windows behind the king's head. “Lady Mallory, as she now is … the widowed Lady Mallory … was married at sixteen to a man whose first wife was a distant cousin of my father's. Roger Needham was Lady Mallory's first husband. There is some family land in dispute. I claim it for my own son. Lady Mallory will entertain no such claim. She has kept every penny, every hectare of land from each of her husbands.”

  “No mean feat,” Privy Seal commented. “But of course there is a father … brother … uncle to advise and arrange matters for her.”

  “No, my lord. The lady manages her affairs herself.”

  “How could she do such a thing?” The king's eyes gleamed in the deep rolls of flesh in which they were embedded like two bright currants in dough.

  “She has some considerable knowledge of the law of property, Highness,” Lord Hugh said. “A knowledge the bereaved widow puts into practice before embarking on a new union.”

  “She draws up her own marriage contracts?” The king was incredulous. He pulled on his beard, the great carbuncle on his index finger glowing with crimson fire.

  “Exactly so, Highness.”

  “Body of God!”

  “In each of her marriages the lady has ensured that on the death of her husband she inherits lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “And the husbands have all died …” mused the king.

  “Each and every one of them.”

  “Are there heirs?”

  “Two young daughters. The progeny of her second husband, Lord Hadlow.”

  The king shook his head slowly. “Body of God,” he muttered again. “These contracts cannot be overset?”

  Privy Seal, himself once an attorney, lifted a sheaf of papers from the desk. “I have had lawyers examining each one with a fine-tooth comb, Highness. They are drawn up as right and tight as if witnessed by the Star Chamber itself.”

  “Do we join Hugh of Beaucaire in his interest in these holdings?” Henry inquired.

  “When one woman owns most of a county as extensive and as rich in resources as Derbyshire, the king and his exchequer have a certain interest,” Privy Seal said. “At the very least, one might be interested in adequate tithing.”

  The king was silent for a minute. When he spoke it was again in a musing tone. “And if, of course, foul play were suspected
with any of these … uh … untimely deaths, then one would not leave the perpetrator in possession of her ill-gotten gains.”

  “Or indeed her head,” Privy Seal murmured.

  “Mmm.”

  “As I understand it Lord Mallory adhered to the Church of Rome,” Privy Seal continued, stroking his long upper lip. “We could perhaps make some connection between him and the Yorkshire rebellion last year. What think you, Lord Hugh?”

  “You would have Mallory make common cause with Robert Aske and his Pilgrimage of Grace, Lord Cromwell?” Lord Hugh looked askance.

  “There's more than one way to skin a cat,” Privy Seal said with a shrug. “ ’Tis but an option … to confiscate the woman's wealth on suspicion of her late husband's association with Aske's northern rebellion. ’Tis a treason to question His Highness's decision to dissolve the monasteries. There's many a man been hanged for less, and many an estate thus confiscated for the royal exchequer.”

  “Aye,” the king rumbled. “And I’ll see Aske hang for it too.” He looked up once more at Lord Hugh. “But back to this widow. She intrigues me. Do you suspect her of foul play, my lord?”

  “Let us just say that I find the coincidences a little difficult to believe. One husband dies falling off his horse in a stag hunt. Now that, I grant Your Highness, is a not uncommon occurrence. But then the second is slain by a huntsman's arrow … an arrow that no huntsman present would acknowledge. The third dies of a sudden and mysterious wasting disease … a man in his prime, vigorous, never known a day's illness in his life. And the fourth falls from a window … the lady's own chamber window … and breaks his neck.”

  Lord Hugh tapped off each death on his fingers, a faintly incredulous note in his quiet voice as he enumerated the catalogue.