Page 38 of Betrothal

“He may have won the crown today,” Thomas continued, “but you have taken the greater prize.” He clapped as the music stopped, and Alyse and Valere hurried their way.

Geoffrey grunted, unconvinced, and faced Thomas, for the first time taking his eyes off Alyse. He plucked the goblet from his friend’s hand, disregarding his astonished look. After saluting him, he drained the cup. “As you say, I am the victor in that contest.”

Where’er her true affections lie, Alyse is mine, and what is mine, I hold.

Thomas shot him a curious look then nodded toward the returning figures. “Give your lady your most charming smile. Make her wish to abandon that popinjay with all haste. Make him wish you had never been born.”

Thomas spoke truth. His betrothed should see only his most ardent side—until he had occasion to confront her about her behavior. He flashed Alyse a broad smile of welcome.

Her eyes widened, she dropped Guy’s hand and extended hers to him. Her lips curled into a stunning smile, making that bewitching spot above her mouth jump as if it were elated. He kissed her hand then tucked it possessively into the crook of his elbow.

“My great thanks, Sir Guy, for bringing my beloved back to me. I missed her sorely even these few minutes we were apart.” He completely ignored the man, resting his gaze only on Alyse.

He squeezed her hand and led her over to the dais to claim her company at supper as the right of a victor. When the king granted his request, he shot a triumphant look at his foe. The French knight stared steadily at him and Alyse, a challenge in his eyes. Geoffrey grinned, nodded then swept his prize over to his table.

The time for reckoning was nigh.

* * * *

Sparks tingled along her arm and down into the pit of her stomach when Geoffrey squeezed her hand. The small movement, hidden by their bodies, had the intimacy of a stolen kiss. She drew a deep breath and glanced up at her knight, making her eyes promise so many things.

You are mine now, my lord. My oath on it.

He leaned toward her, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Mayhap I am too bold, fair lady. But I would beg the next dance of you, ere we dine. I fear too many rough swains will importune you whilst we sup.” A swift, dismissive glance at the others seated at the table consigned them to the outer reaches of hell.

Geoffrey returned his attention to her, his gaze softening. “Should I tarry at my task, my heart may yet take the most grievous of hurts—to watch while you favor another once more. ‘Twould be as death to me, lady.” He lifted her hand to brush his lips across the backs of her fingers. “An it please you to grant me this boon, I will do you any service to prove my worthiness of the honor.”

Completely preoccupied with Geoffrey’s charm and courtly manners, Alyse reached the far side of the Great Hall before realizing she had not bid Sir Guy good evening. No great loss in that. The further away she stayed from him, the better her night would end.

Geoffrey had seated her at the table between himself and Thomas, and now looked expectantly toward her. “Will you favor me with your answer, my lady?” He seemed to hang on her every word.

“Aye, my lord,” she replied eagerly, pleased at his unexpected good mood. “You may have as many as you wish, although I have promised at least one more to Thomas.”

“But to no one else?”

The sharp tone of his voice made her cast her eyes downward. “I had thought to dance with Patrick this evening, my lord. He has ever been one of my favorite partners. But he has not appeared tonight.”

Geoffrey’s short bark of laughter brought her head up. “I am sorry to bear sad tidings, but I must dash your expectations. Patrick is still…indisposed this evening due to his injury. When I left him earlier this evening he was contemplating the merits of sleeping upright.”

Alyse clasped her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle at the picture his words conjured. “Poor Patrick.” She smiled tentatively at Geoffrey. “Then, other than my dance with Thomas, all the rest are reserved for you, an it please you, my lord.”

He cocked his head. “Do you think me harsh because I would have you for myself alone, rather than on the arm of another man?”

Why would her words always have the opposite effect of what she intended? Would conversation with this man always be a battleground? “Nay, my lord. Harsh is the last word I would use to describe you.”

“Then what would be the first?”

“Handsome.”

Pray he not take that as empty flattery. ’Tis only the truth.

He chuckled and seemed to relax. “Think you so, truly? Do you not think my nose a trifle out of kilter?” He playfully showed her his profile. “’Twas broken once in a fall from a horse, and I have always been concerned it would discourage the ladies.”

Delighted by his change in temper, she warmed to the wordplay and continued in his vein. “Nay, my lord. ’Til you mentioned it, I could find no fault at all with your visage. My description still stands.”

“You are gracious, lady.” His gaze seemed to burn through her.

“Merely truthful, my lord.” She offered a smile that was not returned.