De Roche snorted. “That is hardly an argument that will persuade the men who matter.”
“I do not understand the resistance to King Henry,” she said. “There can be no sincere dispute as to his right to rule Normandy.” His right to rule all of France was not so clear, so she did not mention it.
De Roche patted her hand. “Do not trouble yourself with such matters.”
“But I want to be your helpmate in all things,” she protested.
“Leave the politics to me,” he said. “Your other duties will more than fill your time.”
At his signal, one of the servants brought a small bowl of water for him to rinse his fingers. De Roche kept his eyes on her as he wiped his wet fingers on the cloth the servant held out to him. Uncomfortable at the intensity of his gaze, Isobel set down the slice of bread.
“Come,” de Roche said, rising from the table. “I shall show you the house. I have an hour to spare before I must leave.”
The smell of ham and warm bread wafted up her nose. Stomach rumbling, she stood and took his arm. He was an important man with duties to attend to; she would not keep him waiting.
De Roche walked her past several rooms without giving her a chance to look in. There must be some part of the house that he was particularly proud of, a set of rooms he wished to show her first.
“Shall I meet your mother at supper, then?” she asked as he hurried her past yet another room.
“Hardly. She is in Paris.”
“Paris? Your mother is in Paris?”
“ ’Tis safer for her there, while Normandy is unsettled.”
Surely de Roche would not bring her to stay in his house without a female family member present.
“If your mother is not in the house, who is?” When he made no immediate response, she said, “You know I cannot stay here with no one to serve as chaperone.”
“It is a huge house,” he said, putting his arm around her waist and guiding her forward. “And with all the servants, you cannot say we are alone.”
How could he put her in this position? It was all she could do not to shout at him. Not that it would do any good now. After one night under his roof, the damage was done. People would think what they would.
“Come, I want to show you the new wing of the house, where I have my rooms.” He opened a heavy wood door and motioned for her to precede him.
She folded her arms and turned to face him. “You should have told me your mother would not be here.”
“We are betrothed,” he said, leaning down until his breath was hot against her ear. “As good as wed.”
Before she could get the words out to object, he hoisted her up and carried her through the timber-framed doorway.
“Put me down! Please!”
De Roche carried her through a large, richly furnished solar and into an adjoining room. Centered against the wall of this second room was an oversized bed with a dark wood frame and heavy burgundy curtains tied back with gold cords.
This was quite obviously de Roche’s bedchamber. And his bed.
He set her on her feet and walked her backward until she felt the high bed behind her. She arched back against it to keep from touching him; his sickly sweet scent filled her nose.
Reaching past her, he patted the bed behind her. “Your most important duty is here.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. She did not want this. When she turned her head away from his kiss, he ran his mouth down her throat. Then suddenly, he was all over her—hands squeezing her breasts, knee pushing between her legs, mouth sucking on her neck.
“Stop, you are hurting me!” she cried as she tried in vain to push him away.
He was pulling at her gown, yanking it up.
“You must let me speak!” she shouted at him.
