Page 40 of Wed By Proxy

He was restless at supper. Would she have expected him to ride over today? Twice, Temur was forced to repeat himself as Guy was not keeping up with the conversation at the table. Firmin confined himself to one comment about the impending Allworthy visit before Guy’s sour expression curtailed that topic altogether. Then Waldon started talking about his visit that day to Wickhamford town. Guy was unheeding at the beginning of the tale, but soon realized all eyes were now on him.

“What was that?” he said lowering his cup.

“I said he asked after you, and ‘your young friends,’ most particularly.”

“Who did?”

“That young master Thurston, the merchant’s son.”

“Did he, be damned,” muttered Guy, whose mood took a turn for the worst. He slammed down his goblet.

Waldon scratched his ear, looking abashed, Firmin merely disapproving.

“Wasn’t he the one as stopped the carter from taking the Lady Mathilde’s horse?” piped up Temur, not at all sensitive to any shift in mood.

Guy glared at him. “It was,” he said brusquely.

“You should have put him in his place, Waldon,” said Firmin, pressing his lips together thinly. “He’ll be dragging Guy’s reputation through the mud.”

“It’s a rare tale,” said Temur. “If you only knew the half of it! Why, that—”

“That’s enough,” Guy interrupted him with a frown. Then he levelled a look at Firmin. “I’m not concerned about my reputation.” And he wasn’t. The fact he had a mistress was bound to get out. He wasn’t going to fret overlong about it. Skulking around in fear of discovery would turn something sweet into something sour, and he wasn’t about to ruin everything. Not when it was the first taste of sweetness he’d had in years. He wasn’t that fucking stupid.

In truth, Temur was right. He owed Thurston a debt. He just didn’t like the fact the young merchant was so interested in his affairs. He remembered the younger man’s bold gaze and evident amusement when he realized his captive was a female. Perhaps he should pay Thurston a visit and make plain to him how things stood. Mathilde was not anyone else’s business, save his own. Looking up from his plate, he saw all eyes were still trained on him, and cleared his throat.

“Waldon, you’ll need to get over to the lodge at some point tomorrow to help young master Robin execute some plans for a hen keep,” he said. “They nearly had a fox break in last night.”

“Oh aye,” said Waldon easily enough, but Guy could see Firmin was startled at him raising the lodge so casually at table. He’d best get used to it, he thought grimly. He wasn’t going to lie about where his interests lay.

“How’s that old nag of hers?” asked Temur.

“Destrian,” Guy corrected him unthinkingly. Temur guffawed and Guy glared at him. “It’s his name,” he enunciated belligerently.

“You should hear what they’ve called the chickens,” said Waldon with a grin.

XIV

Mathilde glanced out of the window again, as Prudie cleared away the table. Night had fallen and Guy clearly wasn’t coming. Again. She looked down ruefully at the low-cut blue gown she had donned for supper. For modesty’s sake, she had thrown a scarf around her shoulders, to spare Robin and Prudie’s blushes. She had slashed the neckline to the point of outrage.

The only decent dress she owned now was the original dark green wool gown she had been given. She had taken to wearing that in the day, then for supper she would don one of her scandalous numbers and sit in the vain hope Guy would appear. It had been some three days since she had last seen him. Waldon had been over and helped Robin secure the hens and restock the log pile. Another delivery been received by Prudie, of spices this time, and sugar. Mathilde had received a parcel of soft leather shoes and embroidered slippers with long pointed toes from a shoemaker in Wickhamford. Their fit had been surprisingly accurate.

Otherwise, she had spent her time mostly in the kitchen, which frankly held the fascination of the unknown for her. She had never actually spent time in one after all. She would sit next to the kitchen fire with a book or a little needlework that Prudie had supplied her with, as her maid busied herself with household chores in the background. Sometimes Robin’s little cat would keep her company, but mostly she was left to her own devices. Really, Mathilde needed a loom and some tapestry work to keep herself occupied, but she had no supplies and felt a little lost without her usual pastime.

She took daily rides through the woods, slowly on Destrian and briskly on the bay mare she had named Sabrina. Strange to say, she had never managed to find Old Helga’s hovel again, though she could have sworn she had hit on the same route she and Robin had taken once or twice, she never ended up at the clearing. It was most strange.

Mostly she longed for her husband to make an appearance. Where was he? Why had he not ridden over since their night together? Had it not been as pleasurable for him as it had for her? She considered this possibility anxiously. He had seemed pleased, but perhaps he had been simply humoring her? Or perhaps, she thought anxiously, the novelty of an inexperienced virgin soon palled on a man? Ought she to return to Old Helga’s book and consult Sir Pelomon’s adventures for some further advice on the matter? The widow had taken good care to give Pelomon a constant reminder of her charms, lest he forgot them, but how was she supposed to do that when Guy was in another residence?

She worried her lip, and bade Robin a good night as she mounted the steps with a heavy heart. It was growing heavier by the day. He could not want her as she wanted him, she thought despairingly. Then you must make him want you, a little voice told her. You must find a way. You are not the shrinking maid you once were! Fleetingly, she remembered her friend Willard’s advice to her. To remind oneself that you are fully equal to everyone else. Nay, to tell oneself, that you are better! You are bold, she told herself, as she rounded the top of the stairs. You are a fully-grown woman and a wife. You are the mistress of your own destiny!

Now where the hells was that book? Robin had lit a fire in her room before supper, so her bedchamber was warm and cozy. Casting off her scarf, she hurried over to the chest at the foot of her bed and flung the lid open. It was filling up now with all her new possessions, and she was just lifting out a bunch of multi-colored stockings, when she heard the discreet knock on the door. “Who is it?” she called out, casting around for her discarded shawl. She didn’t want to embarrass Robin with her breasts spilling out of her tight bodice.

“It’s me,” rumbled back a voice that most definitely was not Robin’s.

Mathilde gasped and let the lid of the trunk fall back in place.

“Guy!” she blurted, as the door squeaked open tentatively.

“Are you decent?” he asked politely, before his eyes fastened on her scantily clad self.