And then she said, “No, I cannot take credit for the gift that comes next. It is Isabel, Countess of Dumont, who was insistent. Please, Countess, come here to tell Mary and James.”
Isabel wanted to disappear, literally and figuratively.
She shook her head. “No!”
Gwen pointed at her. “Go get her, James.”
Being dragged center stage, at least a foot off the ground, was not exactly her idea of making a grand entrance. But that was exactly what James did, Mary clapping and laughing the entire time.
“My pardon, Countess,” James said as he set her down. “But you have been summoned by the queen.”
“I will get you for this. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, but I will get you,” she said to Mary’s new husband. “So watch your back.”
“I will, Countess. I am truly shaking.”
She wanted to glare at him, but how could she? “Bend down,” she said.
He did and she kissed his cheek. “Happy days, James. You make her happy or you answer to me.”
“Now
“Good.”
“This is ridiculous,” she told the crowd. “Your king and queen are responsible, not me.”
“Not true,” Arthur said. “As we all pondered gifts for Mary and James, it was the countess who suggested the one the queen and I offer. So, Countess, please let them know.”
Isabel turned to the couple, then she couldn’t help it. She held up her pinky finger to Mary. Mary laughed and the two hooked up. And then Isabel looked at Gwen. “Your Highness?”
“You know I dislike when you call me that,” Gwen said, but smiled and wrapped her little finger around theirs. “Friends!” the three said, holding their entwined fingers in the air.
They broke apart, laughing. When Isabel finally glanced up, she saw just about everyone in the hall gaping at them. Including Arthur.
Isabel ignored him and cleared her throat. “What the king and queen are too modest to admit is that their gift to Mary and James is not merely the cottage for the night. The gift is the cottage, for the two of them to live in as long as they desire.”
Mary gasped. James staggered a bit. The stunned expressions on their faces were priceless. Good gods, she wished she had her camera.
Mary reached for her and Isabel held her, waiting for Mary’s heaving sobs to settle.
“Mary, it isn’t my gift. It is from the king and queen. You should be thanking them.” She pulled the hanky from her wrist and wiped Mary’s eyes. “Mary. King. Queen. Gift. From them.”
Mary pulled herself together and turned to Arthur and Gwen. She tried to curtsy, but her legs were obviously a little shaky.
Arthur took her arm. “Enough of that.”
“We cannot,” Mary hiccupped, “thank you enough.”
“You may try,” Arthur said, grinning. “I will not be offended.”
Isabel shot him a disgusted look, but then he pulled the big move on her. He winked. And once again she was a goner.
DEAD on her feet did not even begin to describe how Isabel was feeling.
Without Mary there to help her out of this gawdawful gown, she was in trouble.
She contemplated just dropping down in bed, gown or not, when there was a knock on her door. “Thank you, Jenny, I need so badly help out of these clothes. Come in.”
And in walked Arthur. “I am not Jenny, but I will gladly help you undress.”
She smiled, but it was pretty weak. “Arthur, I am so exhausted, but I will gladly accept your help out of this contraption.”
“My pleasure, madam.”
She turned her back to him so he could work the back laces. “This could be a problem. Jenny might show up here at any moment.”
“I gave Jenny the night off.”
“Jenny is Gwen’s girl.”
“She is. Gwen gave Jenny the night off an hour ago. Just afore Gwen and Lance disappeared.”
“Oh, I am so sorry.”
“For what reason are you sorry?”
“That Gwen . . . that Lance . . . that you . . . oh, hell, I’m just sorry.”
He flipped her back to face him. “Why are you sorry, Isabel? Tell me.”
“I guess, just that it still has to hurt at some level.”
“Do you know what hurt tonight? That I was unable to introduce you as my love and my wife. And that this pretense is killing me. That you are not my queen.”
“I do not give a flying fig about being a queen, Arthur.”
“Do you give a flying fig about being my wife?”
She gaped at him. “News flash. You are already married.”
“Let us just pretend for a moment. If I were not already married and I asked for your hand, would you say yea or nay?”
“Are you asking me to pretend whether I’d marry you?”
“Of a sort,” he said, although his expression was a wee bit wary. “If I were able to ask, would you accept, Isabel?”
“That depends.”
“Upon?”
“Whether you would really want to marry a woman who is not a virgin.”
He seemed to ponder. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“I suppose on how much I crave that woman.”
“Craving and loving are two different issues.”
“Not necessarily,” he said, holding up a finger. “If the craving is born from the feelings, the loving, then they are intertwined.”
She hated when men made sense. They were supposed to be idiots.
“Okay,” she admitted. “That is one logic point for you.”
He looked mighty pleased with himself. He kissed her senseless, which was also a foul in her book. Senseless was not a good place to be when scrambled brains did not work in her favor.
Catching her breath, she said, “Arthur, this is a moot point.”
“It is not. It is a simple enough question, Isabel. Will you marry me?”
She stared at him. “Are you serious? Or are we still pretending?”
“I am serious.”
“Since you’re already—”
“No! Today, now, we are both free to marry.” He stopped. “Okay, that’s a little bit of pretend since it would not exactly be today. But it can be soon. Would you agree to be my wife? Will you marry me, Isabel?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “In a heartbeat.”
He smiled, picked her up and twirled her around until she almost fainted. “See, was that such a hardship?”
She was still seeing stars. “Parts of it, yes.”
He set her back on her feet. Isabel had to hold on to his arms for balance.
He kissed her again, then held her face. “Do you mean it, Isabel? Truly?”
She took his hands and pulled them from her head. “Arthur, please tell me what this is all about. You are not free to marry me. Not even free to ask, actually.”
He grinned. “I might be. Very soon.”
“How so?”
“I poured over the legal papers pertaining to this matter. I may not divorce her without cause. That cause
