PROLOGUE
Year of Our Lord 1224
St. John the Baptist’s Church
Symondsbury, Dorset, England
“He’s not coming.”
She’d heard him.
Words coming forth from a cold man, colder still by the expression on his frozen face as he gazed steadily at her grandfather. He wouldn’t even look at her mother or at the bride herself. That icy, calculating gaze was fixed upon Lord Oscar de Bulverton, Earl of Sidbury, as if willing the man into accepting his truth.
The truth that this marriage would never happen.
Even as Oscar looked at the man in disbelief, Randa, Lady de Camville, wasn’t quite so controlled or so silent. She exploded out of her seat.
“What do you mean he’s not coming?” she said. “Hemustcome, Lord de Bosque. He has a bride awaiting him!”
Edward de Bosque looked at Lady de Camville, his gaze finally moving to her daughter. The young woman was dressed in pale green that brought out the green in her eyes, a delicateshade to indicate purity. She was a beautiful girl by anyone’s standards, accomplished and articulate. Perhaps a bit too headstrong sometimes, but that was to be expected. She was a de Camville and everyone knew they had big mouths and a bold manner. Her father certainly had possessed those traits, and they had contributed to his unfortunate death. In fact, the family seemed to have very little good fortune as a whole.
Today was just another example of that.
The Curse of the de Camvilles.
“I realize he has a bride awaiting him,” Edward said steadily. “You state the obvious, Lady de Camville. But I am here to tell you that my son is not coming. He departed for Glastonbury this morning from what I was told.”
Randa’s expression was twisted with incredulity. “You weretold?” she said. “You do not know when your own son departed his home?”
Edward shook his head. “Nay, my lady,” he said, eyeing de Bulverton as if wondering just when the man was going to let loose with a fist to his head. “I had my own duties this morning. I was informed by his manservant that he had departed for Glastonbury Abbey. Lady de Camville, it is no secret that a monastic life was his destination before he met your daughter. In the past year, I have watched him wrestle with it terribly. He wanted to serve God. But your daughter provided a… diversion. Clearly, it was not permanent.”
Standing a few feet from his daughter in stunned silence, Oscar had had enough. He whirled on his daughter, pointing fingers at her. “Itoldyou this was a mistake,” he hissed. “I told you that this marriage was a folly, but you would not listen. You insisted it was for Lia’s own good. Now look what you have done.”
Randa was aghast. “WhatIhave done?” she cried. “I’ve done nothing! This is not my fault!”
“It is your fault,” Oscar snapped. “It is your fault for listening to your daughter and letting her dictate her future, and it is de Bosque’s fault for forcing his son to do something he did not wish to do!”
Now, Edward was being attacked as well, which was what he had expected—and he was prepared. “Cecil is my heir,” he said as calmly as he could. “I wanted what any father would want, what it is our right to want.”
“A marriage your son did not want!”
“A marriage to continue our family legacy,” Edward said, trying not to raise his voice. “Cecil understood this. He understood his role.”
Oscar threw up his hands, and given that he was a big man with a big voice, that was saying something. He was intimidating in his anger. “He may have told you that he understood, but here we are,” he said, throwing a finger in the direction of his granddaughter. “She is to be shamed now. Shamed byyourson. What about Lia? Or do you not care about anyone other than your son?”
Somehow, the only person at the church who wasn’t up in arms was, in fact, the bride. Lady Ophelia de Camville, known as Lia since infancy, watched her grandfather rage, her mother fall apart, and Edward de Bosque try to defend that which was indefensible.
A son who had left her standing at the altar.
On their wedding day.
But somehow… she wasn’t surprised. As Ophelia watched the scene before her, strangely, she wasn’t surprised in the least.
If there was anyone at fault, it was her.
Cecil de Bosque was a handsome man, one she’d known for many years. He’d fostered with her at Okehampton Castle, a strapping young knight who had been particularly pious. Not a day or minute or second went by that Cecil hadn’t been prayingone way or the other. He was more devoted to God than to the knighthood, though he was a decent knight. He was brave and bright. Ophelia had focused her attentions on him, flirted with him, and finally received the response she’d been hoping for even though rumor had it that Cecil was destined for the cloth. He made a yearly pilgrimage to Glastonbury, but Ophelia refused to believe that he was truly destined for the priesthood.
Not when he had her to be his willing life companion.
