‘By not repeating that disaster.’
‘Saints above, no! Lesson well learnt. I must say that temper of yours, Eleanor, is certainly something to behold, but it must only be unleashed very sparingly.’
She forced back a desire to laugh. She was indeed surprised to find that Hugh was such an elegant dancer, but more surprised that he could tease her about her quick temper during their ride. He was trying her to put her at ease and it was almost working. But it shouldn’t. It couldn’t!
She must remember that Hugh de Villiers was King John’s man and would always be...just as her first husband Sir Richard had been. He too had been young, virile and handsome. He too had been charming, kind and understanding at the beginning...
She remembered when she’d first met Sir Richard Millais and how she’d almost swooned at his smile and his gallantry. How lucky she’d felt, believing him to be her golden knight, come to save her from loneliness and uncertainty after her father’s death. But it had all been a lie. A huge, terrible lie. She had been so naïve...
Richard had been no heroic knight—more the devil incarnate. He had resented the fact that it was through her that he had gained all his riches and he had made her know it. And he’d had no need of her clever mind, sharp tongue or wilfulness. He’d wanted to break her in and teach her what it meant to behave like a real lady: docile, dutiful and obedient.
Of course, she’d refused to oblige. The more Richard had taunted, belittled and punished her, the more she’d stood her ground and taken whatever he’d proscribed without wavering. He’d wanted her to cry, to plead for mercy from him, but she’d deprived him of that. She’d never betrayed any fear of him, had never shown him any emotion, whatever he’d done to her. No tears—never any tears.
Eleanor flicked her eyes back to Hugh’s watchful gaze, saw wordless questions forming in it. After a short moment he sighed and took her hand again, turning her in time to the beat of the music.
‘I am afraid I have not been honest with you, my lady,’ he murmured softly as he stepped to the side and moved behind her.
‘Oh? How, exactly?’
He was standing close behind her. Very close. Close enough for his breath to tickle the side of her neck.
‘Have pity on me, Eleanor,’ he whispered into her ear.
‘What do you mean, my lord?’
He spread his long fingers around her small waist and lifted her in one swoop, turning her swiftly so she was in his arms. The guests clapped and cheered from all sides, tapping their goblets on the table.
‘You’ll promise that you will be gentle with me, won’t you?’
Ah, that lopsided grin again. ‘Gentle?’ she repeated.
He set her down slowly, so that his handsome face was close to hers. She looked away, confused, hardly able to breathe.
He guided her face back to his, his green eyes melting into hers, and shrugged. ‘Don’t forget I’m a novice husband and will need help and guidance from my new wife.’
He was doing it again—trying to put her at ease, trying to make her feel less anxious. No doubt he believed it would make her a more biddable wife.
Eleanor flushed. ‘Somehow I think you will fare well, my lord.’
‘I hope so, as I have been unlucky so far. But under your excellent tutelage...who knows?’
‘Who, indeed?’
Eleanor knew, though... She knew that she couldn’t trust this man; his silky words and easy smiles were not going to work on her. Why would they?
Hugh de Villiers was trying to appease her, probably because it was their wedding night and he wanted her to be willing when he took her to bed... And if she wasn’t willing? Would he take her anyway, as was his right?
Again, her nerves mounted.
He had promised her hopeful futures that would drown out disastrous pasts, on their ride back yesterday, but she didn’t really believe him. Hugh might be a knight, a modest hero of the Battle of Bouvines, believing in some dusty chivalric code, but he was not her hero.
Heroes didn’t exist. She’d learnt that a long time ago.
Hugh drummed his fingers on the trestle table, wondering how long he’d have to watch the fool juggle and tell customary lewd jokes about the wedding bed. Eleanor had left the hall moments ago, with her maid Brunhilde at hand to help ready her for the bedding ceremony, blushing as she did.
Hugh sighed. As much as he was eagerly anticipating this part of the evening, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of trepidation.
On the one hand, he wanted to bed Eleanor. The desire he felt for her every time he saw her, spoke to her or—God help him—touched her, as he had during their dance, was making him feel like a callow youth. When she had walked into the chapel earlier he’d had difficulty taking his eyes off her.
Eleanor had looked stunning in a green velvet gown, with her hair tightly bound under a gold circlet and a delicate veil. He’d had a ridiculous notion to touch and brush away the wisps of dark chestnut hair that had escaped, but had restrained himself.
And when they had been dancing, the warmth of her scent...flowers and spicy soap...had wrapped around his senses and he’d had the strongest urge to kiss her, but again he’d restrained himself. When he’d lifted her into his arms he had been overcome by a need to explore her body, yet naturally he had not.
Damn!
It was not just her captivating beauty that he was attracted to, but her quick intelligence as well. She was strong, resilient, and from all accounts extremely capable. She certainly challenged and intrigued him.
Yet, for all
