If such an appointment came, there would be no turning back.
He had avoided ordination because he knew that if he made the required vows to God, if he became one of God’s representatives on earth, he could never forsake those vows. Unlike other clerics, who made vows and broke them, sometimes in the same breath, he could not—he would not.
He was not ready for that final step, for that final commitment. Maybe he would never be ready. Or maybe he was afraid to make such vows, afraid that ultimately he would fail both God and himself.
And Geoffrey, like all the de Warennes, could not tolerate failure. It was unacceptable, impossible.
Geoffrey realized that Adele was leaving the hall. He ordered himself to go back to the table. Where she was going—even to whom—was not his concern.
But he was aching, an ache in his chest that he wanted to confuse with the ache in his loins. He followed her.
He did not have far to go. On the landing below the hall he found her staring out of the window, her back to him. Her shoulders were shaking. Geoffrey was startled when he realized she wept. He walked closer, almost touching her. “Lady Beaufort?”
She jumped. She saw him and batted her thick black lashes furiously. He was surprised to see her features ravaged by her tears. “You have startled me!”
“That was not my intention.” He almost touched his finger to her damp cheek. She pulled back before he could make contact, squaring her shoulders. “Why do you cry?” Geoffrey asked. How well he understood her. She hated him seeing her in a moment of weakness.
“The King gives me to Henry Ferrars!” she cried, then she wept again.
Geoffrey hesitated, then, as her distress was real, he took her into his arms. He was well aware that Ferrars was not comparable to Stephen. The knight had been awarded a huge estate at Tutberry for his loyalty, and he was a great soldier, but of humble origin. “He is a good man, Adele. I imagine he is in love with you—or he soon will be.” He held her almost gingerly. This was a role he was not used to.
Adele pushed back to gaze at him, startled. Then her nostrils flared. “I care not what he feels! The King has insulted me—and all because of my damned brother, Roger! And Stephen and Mary, even now, they make a fool of me with their open show of love and lust!”
“Lady Beaufort,” Geoffrey said, trying very hard not to shake, his body impossibly aware of her, “no one would ever laugh at you.”
She did not move. In that instant her attention shifted; he knew she became aware of him and his growing lust. “You have avoided me,” she whispered, placing her hands on his shoulders.
“Yes. I have.”
“Why?”
“You would not understand.” And Geoffrey regretted touching her, knowing he was poised on the brink of surrender to his lust—and simultaneously he did not regret it at all. How could he survive this battle he was forever waging, one far more important than any other, the battle he waged for control of his own soul? If he had an ounce of holiness in him, he would back away. He did not move.
Adele gripped his shoulders tightly. “Why are you being so kind to me?”
“You were distressed.”
She blinked as more tears seemed to fill her eyes. “No one has ever been kind to me, not once in my entire life. Is that not amusing?”
“You exaggerate, Lady Beaufort.”
“No.” She shook her head wildly. “My parents were indifferent as I was not the boy they so greatly desired. Then my father died when I was still in swaddling and my mother was given to William Beaufort. When I was ten I was orphaned—you did not know? Beaufort and my mother were killed in an ambush by rebels in the North. Mystepbrother—” she spat the word “—did not even come to see me for two long years—and he was my guardian. Then, then he only wanted one thing.” Her mouth formed into an ugly line. “Do not speak of what you do not know! I do not exaggerate!”
“I am sorry,” he said, and he pulled her up against his body, kissing her as he might a lover, with thorough gentleness.
The kiss meandered lazily, then abruptly changed course. Their tongues thrust deep, mating. Adele withdrew, gasping. “I thought you hard and dangerous. I did not think you kind.”
“I do not feel kind right now, Lady Beaufort.” His blue eyes blazed.
She stared into his eyes. “I do not want your kindness just now, my lord.”
“Then let us celebrate the nuptials together,” Geoffrey said. But even as he took her mouth with his, he knew that he could only assuage the ache in his loins, not in his chest. He knew that afterwards the emptiness inside him would be far greater than before.
Stephen attended Mary as if she were his lover. They shared the bride-ale, and every morsel that passed through Mary’s lips was chosen carefully for her by her husband and fed to her by him as well. It was not a time for words; indeed, Mary could not have found her tongue if she tried. It was a time of acute awareness and long, deliberate looks. Mary knew Stephen was thinking about the night to come, too.
Hours must have passed before the twelve-course meal was finished, but it seemed like minutes. There had been entertainment throughout—dancing, clowns, jongleurs, trick dogs, minstrels, and a monkey man. Now the crowd was frenzied in pursuit of their pleasure, in their dancing, in the last sweatmeats, in the mead and wine. Stephen gave her a look that was so blatant, so sexual, that Mary trembled. Surely they could leave now.
“Might I speak with my daughter and wish her well?”
