Callum was the man who made her blood race, who’d given her a forbidden taste of passion. The man she loved.
Marguerite touched the glass pendant and held it as she finished bathing. Her maids said nothing as they helped her don a clean blue gown and surcoat. Around her hips, she wore a slender golden girdle set with sapphires. They braided her wet hair and hid it beneath a veil.
Outside, she heard the commotion and the sound of horses approaching.
“The Duc!” one of the soldiers shouted, and a cheer resounded among the men as they gathered to greet him.
So. He’d returned early. Marguerite forced herself to go below stairs, her heart pounding. She feared that her father would recognize the guilt in her face, or worse, that someone might tell him where she’d gone.
With each step, her skin grew colder, until she stood at the entrance to greet him. Callum emerged from the stables and when the men arrived, he took their horses. Not once did he look at her, his face devoid of any expression. It was to protect both of them, she knew, but it bothered her more than it should.
Her stomach plummeted when her father approached, though she forced a smile upon her face. The Duc rode alongside another man, whose height equaled his own. The man, whom she suspected was the Earl of Penrith, had fair hair like her own, and he offered her a slight smile of welcome. He was impeccably dressed in a midnight blue silk doublet, with dun-colored chausses and a dark cape. A jeweled sword hung at his side, and Marguerite idly wondered if he knew how to use it.
Her father had chosen a man whom most women would consider handsome and strong. She ought to be well pleased, but all she wanted to do right now was weep.
Do not betray your feelings, she warned herself. Behave like a duke’s daughter.
Guy de Montpierre strode forward, the man at his side. “Marguerite, I would like to introduce you to Warrington, the Earl of Penrith.”
She curtsied to Lord Penrith, and he sent her a kind smile. Taking her hand, he brushed a kiss upon the back of her palm. “I am well pleased with this betrothal, my lady.”
He released her hand, and her insides felt as if they’d been turned into stone. Even standing before this man felt like a betrayal to Callum. She couldn’t even find the words to speak a simple greeting, so she nodded and stepped back.
“We will draw up the betrothal documents this evening and have them signed and witnessed on the morrow,” her father claimed. To her, he directed, “Arrange for a meal and good wine for us.”
Marguerite murmured her agreement, wanting to leave them both. Her mind was caught up in turmoil, and as she departed, she saw Beatrice moving closer to the Duc. Though her father gave no greeting, Marguerite noticed the subtle interest in his eyes. It was quite possible that Beatrice could influence him, and she had no doubt that her aunt would fill his ears with stories of her misbehavior.
But he could not punish her in front of the earl, thankfully.
While Marguerite gave the orders for their meal, she noticed Lord Penrith standing at the entrance, watching her. After she spoke to the servants, Marguerite cast him a look, wondering if the earl was the sort of man who would understand her wishes.
She felt nervous beneath his gaze, not knowing what to say to him. He crossed the Hall and when he reached her side, he asked, “We have a little time before the meal is prepared. Perhaps you might wish to show me the grounds until the food is ready?”
Though she nodded her agreement, leading him from the Hall, she didn’t want to spend any time with this man or lead him to believe that they could have a successful marriage.
The earl started walking within the inner bailey and offered her his arm. Marguerite took it, and he said, “You appear frightened of me. There’s no need.”
“We’ve only just met,” she admitted. “I don’t know you at all.”
He stopped walking and regarded her. “Your father told me many stories of your beauty and your virtue. I thought he was exaggerating, as all fathers do. But it seems, in this instance, he was right.”
Not about my virtue, Marguerite thought. As if in response to her thoughts, she saw Callum leading another horse into the stables. The look on his face was emotionless, as if he didn’t care whether she was there or not. It dug into her feelings, making her wonder if he knew that she had no choice. The invisible web of captivity was closing in on her, and she didn’t know how to unravel it.
“It has been a difficult year,” Marguerite confessed to the earl. “The last man I was betrothed to turned out to be a liar and a murderer.”
“Cairnross was a powerful man,” Lord Penrith said. “But anyone could see that he was cruel.”
“And you are not?” she prodded.
He sent her a chagrined smile. “I am a man of many complexities. But I am not cruel. And I have every intention of treating my wife with the greatest respect.” Though his tone was light, she sensed something else behind his claim.
Raising her eyes to his, she saw friendliness there, but nothing more. He did not look upon her with a lustful eye or as a man bent upon possessing her. She let out a slow breath. Even so, she would withhold judgment until she knew this man better.
As they continued walking throughout the grounds, she was intensely aware of Callum. Though he ought to understand that she had to be courteous to her father’s guest, she could feel the silent accusation. And she sensed his jealousy, burning into her with a darkness that chafed her heart.
It was wrong, letting the earl believe that she could possibly be his wife. Dishonorable to stand at his side and let the lies of omission make her into a woman she wasn’t. When they reached the garden, she stopped walking.
“Lord Penrith,” she murmured. “I wish to be honest with you.” She reached for the edges of her courage, hoping he would understand.
