by Tamara Leigh
“Lady, come back to your bath,” called Bernadette, Alessandra’s recently acquired maid.
“I will not catch chill,” Alessandra said as she followed Lucien’s advance.
“For certain, not in this chamber,” the twelve-year-old girl muttered.
Alessandra grinned. The temperature suited her, even with the draft from the window. It was heavenly to be without garments and to not feel the English cold.
“Come, milady, I must needs rinse the soap from your hair. There is much to do ere the banquet.”
Not until the walls stole Lucien from sight did Alessandra comply. However, as she drew alongside the wooden tub, she paused.
The water from which she had emerged upon hearing the thunder of hooves was murky gray. The English way of bathing was something she did not think she would ever grow accustomed to. Rather than sitting on stools, allowing filth to be scrubbed from one’s body before finishing with a dip in water, one soaked, bathed, and rinsed in the same fouled water.
But though forced to use a tub, there was one thing upon which she could not compromise—the frequency of her baths. Worse than their mode of bathing, the English more often used heavy perfumes to mask the scent of unwashed bodies.
Days earlier, when Alessandra had called for heated water, Agnes had refused to allow the servants to deliver it. Thus, Alessandra had fetched the water up the stairs herself. If not for James’s intervention, she might still be doing so. Regrettably, his interference had added fuel to Agnes’s fire.
“Come, come,” Bernadette urged. “I must rinse your hair.”
“I am not going back in the tub,” Alessandra said, then knelt beside it, leaned forward, and instructed the maid to pour what remained of the fresh water over her head.
After it was done with much grumbling, Alessandra stood, crossed to her dressing table, and lowered to the stool.
“Ah, milady, have you no modesty?” Bernadette dropped a robe over her mistress’s bare shoulders.
Alessandra looked around. “There is only you in this room with me.”
“Aye, but ’tis improper for you to wander about with nary a stitch of clothing.”
As Alessandra fit her arms into the robe’s sleeves, she humored herself by casting Bernadette in the role of serving girl in a bathhouse. It would terrorize the poor thing to see so many naked women.
With an adeptness that surprised Alessandra, Bernadette made quick work of pressing the moisture from her lady’s hair and arranging it in thick braids that she wound around Alessandra’s head like a coronet. It was a compromise, for Alessandra refused to don the weighty headdress Agnes had sent to her. She was not ashamed of her hair’s color and had no intention of hiding it beneath that contraption.
An hour later, Alessandra fingered the jeweled necklace that had been her mother’s, finding consolation in knowing it had once been warmed by Sabine’s skin. Though tempted to wear belled bracelets and anklets as well, Agnes’s unmerciful chastisement of days earlier when Alessandra had worn but a single bracelet, precluded that.
Alessandra rose from her dressing table and began pacing her chamber. Though daunted by the great number of people she would soon face, it did not compare with the possibility of seeing Lucien again.
Melissant had promised to send word if he appeared, but thus far, none had come to announce his entrance into the great hall.
Glimpsing her reflection in the mirror, Alessandra halted. No paint, she had insisted, but had yielded to a light dusting of powder to cover her freckles. A mistake. What little color remained in her face was concealed beneath pasty white.
“God’s rood,” she muttered James’s favorite expression of astonishment, grabbed a cloth, dipped it in the washbasin, and scrubbed at her face.
Relieved to see the freckles resurface, she pronounced, “Better.” And she would have been content with the transformation had not the small wooden box on her dressing table caught her eye.
She lifted the lid and considered the kohl and rouge—simple enhancements compared with painting and powdering. Once more, she consulted her reflection and found it wanting.
When a knock sounded a short time later, Alessandra was pleased with her handiwork. Knowing it was likely her father who was to escort her belowstairs, she opened the door.
To her discomfort, James’s smile faltered at the sight of her. However, he quickly recovered and offered his arm.
“Something is wrong?” she asked. “The kohl?” Though she had more lightly applied it than when she had lived in the harem, it might still be a shock to those unaccustomed to the look.
James shook his head. “Everything is perfect. You are beyond lovely, Catherine’s daughter.”
Unconvinced, she peered down the front of her gown to the raised hemline. “I know I should not have”—she put a foot forward to show him the space between gown and floor—“but I feared if I did not shorten it, I might trip and embarrass you.”
James eyed her stockinged ankle. “I have always wondered why women wear gowns so long. ’Tis not practical, is it?”
She smiled. “Were it permissible, I would choose a caftan and trousers instead.”
James laughed. “Pray, give me fair warning ere you wear such garments in Agnes’s presence.”
Alessandra looped her arm through his, and as she walked beside him down the corridor, said, “Father, will the house of Falstaff be represented at the banquet?”
“Methinks you are asking if Lucien has arrived,” he said as they began their descent of the stairs.
With the excited buzz of hundreds of guests floating up to them, Alessandra said, “Why would you think that?”
He looked sidelong at her. “On the way to your chamber, I intercepted Melissant’s messenger.”
Inwardly, she groaned. “What was the message?”
“He is here.”
Gripped with apprehension and excitement, she asked, “Has he come in peace?”
“As far as I can tell. Still, I have set men to watch him and those accompanying him.”
“Then you and Lucien have not spoken?”
“We have not.”
Alessandra sighed.
James halted a half-dozen steps up from the hall. “You think he has come to make trouble?”
She shrugged. “I would not be surprised if he moves to reclaim what was taken from him.”
“Neither would I.”
“What will you do?”
He patted her hand and led her down the last steps. “I have always intended that De Gautier lands be returned, but it must be by way of marriage to a Breville.”
“The peace is important to you.”
He nodded. “The feud ends with me. That is the promise I made Catherine ere she disappeared. Though many times since I have broken it, as when I believed the De Gautiers responsible for her disappearance, I am determined to secure this current peace.”
Alessandra wanted to know more, but found herself before an audience whose conversation rippled into silence.
“Smile, Alessa,” her father used the pet name he had adopted for her shortly after her arrival at Corburry. “Let them see that Catherine lives in you.”
She pushed a smile to her lips and lifted her chin.
Before her, nobility flanking nobility, men and women considered her lined eyes and the hem of her gown. The faces of the former reflected appreciation, while those of the latter more often shone with disapproval.
As only once before had she been faced with so many intent upon her—at the slave auction in Tangier—Alessandra almost wished her father had ordered her to pull out the stitches in her hem and wipe away the kohl.
“Allow me to introduce my daughter,” James boomed. “Lady Alessandra Breville.”
A murmur of acknowledgment rose, along with whispers and judgmental mutterings. Though some stepped forward, most remained aloof.
“Worry not,” James whispered. “Once I have taken you around and all know your charm, they will clamor to stand al
ongside you.”
Agnes’s sudden appearance boded no good. However, her eyes shone with satisfaction rather than disapproval. “Your daughter is most becoming, James.”
Alessandra’s suspicions echoed those her father voiced. “Are you laying down your sword, wife?”
“Wrongly you have judged me,” Agnes said. “Never did I take it up.”
“Is that so?”
Increasing her smile, Agnes slipped her arm through the one to which Alessandra held. “Come.” She tugged James free. “The steward wishes a word ere the banquet commences.”
“Whatever for?”
“Several knives have gone missing.”
James’s eyebrows met.
Knives and spoons were precious articles, Alessandra had learned during her first meal at Corburry. They represented a good portion of the portable wealth of a castle, and it fell to the steward to hand the utensils out prior to each meal and collect and count them afterward.
James motioned his younger daughter forward. “I should not be long,” he assured Alessandra. “In the meantime, Melissant can introduce you.” Agnes on his arm, he disappeared among the throng.
“Clever,” Melissant said, eyeing the hem of her sister’s gown. “Though I would never be brave enough to do it myself.”
“Bravery had naught to do with it,” Alessandra said. “It is a matter of function.”
“You need not explain it to me. Now come, there are scores to introduce you to ere the call to feast.”
Alessandra leaned near. “And Lucien?”
Melissant grinned. “As was my message, he is here. Though I have yet to lay eyes upon him, I am told he has created a stir.” At Alessandra’s frown, she added, “Turning up alive when all thought him dead.”
Having to content herself with that, Alessandra allowed herself to be led through a whirlwind of introductions. To her further discomfort, she was followed and watched closely by a man wearing the lavish robes of one who held high office in the Church.
“Who is that?” she asked after Melissant extricated them from a group of giggling young women.
Melissant followed her gaze. “Bishop Armis.”
“There is only one of him?”
“Thank the heavens. Why do you ask?”
“He seems everywhere at once.”
“Ah, I imagine the good bishop wishes to be certain you share the Holy Church’s beliefs, not those of Islam.”
What must he think of me clothed and made up as I am? Alessandra wondered. “And if I were of that faith?”
Melissant’s mouth flattened. “Do not even think such thoughts, Alessandra. Did your mother never tell you the Church is tolerant of only one religion—theirs?”
Alessandra was surprised by her vehemence. True, Sabine had spoken of the Church’s staunch position, but she had never detailed the consequences of holding conflicting religious beliefs. “I do not understand.”
Melissant steered Alessandra away from the bishop. “I shall explain later.”
A man who looked to be a male rendering of Agnes, though some years older and sporting a good-natured demeanor, appeared before them. His stare engulfing Alessandra, he said, “I would not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.”
In spite of his advanced years, he was handsome. Short, liberally peppered hair waved back from a face that captured the elements of masculinity without sacrificing beauty. The trim beard tracing his jaw was silver gray, his mustache raised with a smile.
“Uncle Gavin.” Melissant stepped forward and kissed his cheek.
He slid his gaze from Alessandra to his niece. “You have grown since last I was at Corburry.” He ruffled her hair as if she were a pet.
“Did you visit more often, you would not even notice.”
“True, but then I would have to endure your mother’s matchmaking.”
Melissant giggled. “It would be good for a laugh, would it not?”
“At my expense.”
“How are Grandmother and Grandfather?”
He shrugged. “Well, I would guess. They have been in London at court for over a month now.”
“Stuffy,” Melissant said, then asked, “Does Mother know you are here?”
“I have just come from her.”
“I am sure she was surprised to see you since you so dislike these events.” Melissant turned back to Alessandra. “As you know, this is my half sister, Lady Alessandra.”
“Catherine’s daughter.” He stepped from his niece’s side and caught up Alessandra’s hand. “You are even lovelier than your mother.” He brushed his lips across the backs of her fingers.
He would have known her, of course, Catherine having been raised in his home following the death of her parents.
Gavin released her hand. “So, what did she tell you of me?”
Alessandra searched her memory for mention of Agnes’s brother, with apology said, “I fear I do not recall.”
He shrugged. “Ah, well, as I was several years older than she and not often around due to my knighthood training, it does not surprise she would have forgotten me.”
“I—”
“Pray, excuse me.” He peered past her. “There is an old friend with whom I must speak.” He inclined his head and stepped away.
“Let us hope it is a lady friend he seeks,” Melissant said.
“He is not wed?”
“He is not and has never been.”
“But surely he is most eligible?”
Melissant pursed her lips. “Mother said he loved once and lost to another, and he waits to find such love again.”
Alessandra was struck with sorrow, for Gavin as well as herself. Would she also wander the rest of her days in search of the love Lucien denied her? Would she grow old never knowing the happiness of a love returned?
“Do not worry over him. Uncle Gavin is content with his lot.” Taking Alessandra’s arm, Melissant pulled her through the crowd, a moment later halted.
There, two strides distant, stood Lucien.
Alessandra’s heart lurched. Such fine clothes he wore, and so well groomed was he that he hardly seemed the man who had brought her out of Algiers. But it was he, the same brilliant eyes that had once shone with desire now as flat and condemning as when she had revealed her parentage.
As he scrutinized her more thoroughly than Bishop Armis had done, his eyes also lit with disapproval. On the ship, he had warned her about the use of kohl and forbidden her to stitch up her hem, saying it was not English. She knew that now.
Pressing a smile to her lips, she pulled free of Melissant and stepped forward. However, before she could greet him, the call to feast came.
The press of men and women eager to take their places at the well-laid tables forced Alessandra back, and she bumped into her sister.
“’Twas him, was it not?” Melissant said with awe.
Alessandra turned to her. “Aye, but where did he go?”
“Likely to his table, as we should be doing.”
Alessandra’s discomfort doubled upon finding herself seated beside the bishop. When he stood and said grace, she knew without raising her bowed head that he watched her. When she answered a question put to her by the knight on her other side, she sensed the man attended to their words. Then there was Lucien.
A lady on either side of him, he sat below the dais at a side table—likely the first time a De Gautier had dined with a Breville, Alessandra mused. But she corrected herself upon recalling that, in his youth, he had been James’s prisoner.
Turning her attention from Lucien, she marveled as she often did over the experience of dining among men. Most were without manners, including her father. They overfilled their mouths, spoke before swallowing, wiped dribbled chins on sleeves, and seemed more likely to loose a belch than suppress it. For this, she guessed women of the harem dined separate from men. Still, she preferred dining amongst them, for during meals that always took too long to draw to a close, they were a good diversion—at least, for a w
hile.
Boredom descending, Alessandra turned to Sir Rexalt and once more engaged him in conversation. The man was talkative and inclined to bouts of laughter, and he often touched her hand and arm. Though the latter seemed innocent enough, it unsettled her.
When her father stood between courses to toast Lucien’s return to the living, Alessandra glanced at the man she struggled to shake from her thoughts—and met eyes brimming with reproach.
“I welcome home to England,” James bellowed, “he who has delivered unto me my daughter born of my dear, departed Lady Catherine—Lucien de Gautier.” He raised his goblet. “To everlasting peace and the union of our families.”
Lucien remained seated while the other men in the hall rose—all but two seated near Lucien.
Relations? Alessandra wondered. Though smaller in stature, the features of the younger one were too similar for him not to be Lucien’s brother. And the other was surely the middle brother, Vincent. Lucien had said he was handsome—the cause of two broken betrothals—and Melissant had concurred, telling that he was beautiful. He was.
She returned her gaze to Lucien. Although a half smile turned his mouth, she felt the anger beneath the facade.
In unison, goblets were carried to a hundred pairs of lips. However, few found their mark as Lucien surged upright.
“To the return of my lands!” He raised his vessel high. “And then peace.” Eyes fixed on James, he took a long draught.
Silence enveloped the hall, the tension Lucien had brought to it increasing tenfold until James lightened it with forced laughter.
“Do you hope to escape marriage, young Lucien, the return of lands that now belong to me will cost you much coin.”
Coin that all knew the De Gautiers lacked due to Vincent’s gambling.
Lucien’s smile broadened. “Better coin than a Breville,” he said.
Gasps sounded around the hall, mostly from women who cast pitying looks in Melissant’s direction.
Alessandra swept her gaze to her sister who appeared more like a girl than the young woman she had earlier. Coloring prettily, she sat erect beside her brother, mouth trembling, moist eyes on the giant of a man who had insulted her.
