“You hurt his feelings, Father,” she said softly, knowing she might as well be talking to a stone wall.
William snorted, accepting another goblet of fine wine. “He will overcome his foolish emotions. I shall not coddle my son’s temperamental state as if he were a weakling. He’s the future earl and damn well better start acting as such.”
There was no use in speaking with the man and Arissa turned away from him. Concerned with her brother’s mental condition, she moved away from the table intent upon seeking him. Richmond reached out and grasped her arm as she passed him by.
“Where are you going, Riss?”
“To find Bart,” she passed an angry glance at her father. “Regine is comforting him and so shall I. Together we will prove to him that at least two members of his family care about his craft.”
Richmond shook his head faintly. “He has Regine to console him for the moment. Stay and enjoy your party and we shall seek him later.”
She pulled her arm free, hurt and angry on her brother’s behalf. “I would find him now, Richmond.”
He snatched her once more, more firmly this time. “Leave Bart to regain his composure. For now, I feel like dancing. Will you join me, or must I seek out another willing partner?”
She gazed at him, her mood instantly moving from frustration to one of uncertainty. “You…. you would dance with another?”
He smiled, moving to take her hand. He kissed it softly before placing it on his arm. “Perish the thought, kitten. Unless, of course, you refuse me.”
She gripped his arm tightly, her eyes bright. As much as she was concerned for her brother’s feelings, there were few things in life that took precedence over the young man’s emotions. And Richmond was one of them.
“I would never refuse you,” she whispered.
In spite of the fact that Richmond hadn’t danced in years, he was a marvelous dancer. He held his own quite nicely through two folkdances and one slow ballad until Arissa had to sit down because she was beginning to breathe laboriously. He brought her a chalice of cider, fending off two would-be dance partners who were unfortunate to venture too close.
Arissa watched Richmond with sparkling eyes as he intimidated the young noblemen, giggling into her goblet when they scattered like frightened chickens. He never had to utter more than a word or two, and his menacing glare usually precluded even that. One look from Richmond le Bec was enough to send the fear of God into the heartiest of men.
“Why are you laughing?” he had knelt beside her chair, his amused gaze upon her.
She fought off a broad grin. “Because you are so entirely nasty. They simply wished to dance with me, Richmond, not propose marriage.”
He looked away, his eyes roving across the moving dance floor. “They shall not touch you. No man will, ever.”
Her grin broke through the restraint, warm and tender. “Except you.”
He slanted her a gaze. “I am the only man worthy of you.”
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. “I do love you, Richmond,” she whispered.
His gaze turned smoky and deep. “And I love you, kitten.”
A pretty flush mottled her cheeks as she tore her eyes away from him, draining the contents of her chalice. Richmond allowed his gaze to linger on her a moment longer, moving his attention to the crowd of dancers as one ballad stopped and another immediately commenced. It was a slow, lovely song and he rose to his feet, intent on taking Arissa in his arms once more until he was stopped dead in his tracks.
“Murderer!” came a harrowing cry.
The room slowed, voices hushed as all eyes turned towards the source of the accusation. Richmond had been in the process of helping Arissa to her feet when the shout was heard; still clutching her hand, he turned in the direction of the howl.
Ovid de Rydal stood in the massive archway leading into the gallery, his fat face coated with perspiration and grief. Richmond did not think it strange that he seemed focused on him until Ovid began to stumble in his direction.
“Murderer!” he croaked again, pointing a meaty finger at Richmond. “You have all but killed my boy!”
Richmond stiffened as an odd silence settled over the gallery. The music, the dancers, had come to a halt as Ovid de Rydal ranted and swayed like a madman, and the object of his accusation was apparently none other than the mighty Richmond le Bec. Arissa watched, shocked, as Ovid came to an unsteady halt a few feet away from Richmond.
“You did this!” Ovid hissed, a wild gleam to his eye. “You killed him, you bastard. I demand justice!”
“You will do me the courtesy of telling me what has occurred before you proceed with your wild allegations,” Richmond’s voice was characteristically controlled. “I do not appreciate public slander.”
Ovid swallowed hard, licking his dry lips. Tucked into his wide, gold-link belt was a slip of crimson; he pulled it free, waving it in Richmond’s face. “This is your crest, is it not? Henry’s standard!”
