Carol Townend - Mistaken For A Lady

‘Her name is Mari, you say?’

‘Aye, Mari de Fontaine.’

Sir Gervase bowed his head. ‘Consider it done, my lady.’

‘Thank you.’

With a smile, Sir Gervase returned to the great hall.

Tristan glanced thoughtfully at their linked hands. Uncurling his fingers from hers, he stood back. ‘After you, my lady.’

Francesca went cold. His voice was curt and he was no longer meeting her eyes. ‘Tristan, what’s the matter?’

He looked down at her and gave her a tight smile. Her heart dropped to her toes, his smile was counterfeit and his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, weren’t smiling at all.

‘Tristan?’

‘After you, my lady.’

Swallowing hard, Francesca picked up her gown and started up the stairs. What was going on? She didn’t know what to think. Tristan’s kiss had felt like a kiss of welcome. And his voice, the voice that spoke so warmly to Sir Gervase, was utterly changed. She cast her mind back. What had she done? She couldn’t think of anything. Had Sir Gervase given him ill news? She thought she’d been attending to their conversation, however, it was possible something had slipped past her, she had been staring at Tristan much of the time.

Pausing halfway up a twist in the stairs, she turned. ‘Tristan, have I done something wrong?’

He looked blankly at her. ‘I don’t know, have you?’

What a strange reply! And to deliver it in that surly tone, it was as though he loathed her. Francesca searched his face, hoping to see a trace of the warmth she thought she had felt in the downstairs chamber. The torchlight shone full on his face, yet it revealed nothing, he might as well be wearing a mask. His blue eyes looked stony. Remote. Had she imagined the warmth? Had she wished it into being in some way?

With a sigh, she continued up the stairs. Brittany was far away, he must be exhausted. ‘How long did your journey take?’

‘A little over a week.’

She shot him a startled look. ‘Saints, you must have galloped full tilt the whole way. Did you sleep at all? When I travelled to Troyes with Lady Clare, we took ages.’

Tristan didn’t reply and they continued up the stairs.

Francesca gave a sad, reminiscent smile. Tristan never knew when to stop, he had exhausted himself. She used to watch him in the practice yard at Fontaine, sparring with Sir Brian and the other household knights. He’d dance round his opponent, sword flashing, darting this way and that as though his armour weighed little more than a feather.

Except—she frowned—she’d seen Tristan exhausted many times, yet not once did she recall him being surly. And she certainly didn’t remember him using that cold tone on her. What had she done?

She should never have kissed him. That was undoubtedly the problem. He had kissed her and she should have known better than to respond. Before their marriage, Mari had warned her never to forget that she was a lady. Ladies were expected to be quiet and modest, Mari had said. They must remain unruffled. Detached. Even if a lady came to love her husband, she must never tell him. And she must certainly never initiate their joining in the marriage bed.

All of which had sounded so easy before Francesca had met Tristan le Beau. The attraction between them had been overwhelming. She had felt such joy and she could have sworn it was mutual. It would have been easier for Francesca to fly than to pretend a coolness towards her strong and virile husband. She had loved joining with him in their marriage bed. She had loved talking to him long into the night. In short, her foolish sixteen-year-old self had tumbled head over heels in love with him.

No wonder Tristan had never replied to her letters. She had forgotten her training as soon as they married and in so doing had lowered his opinion of her. She’d been too eager. She hadn’t been ladylike. And with Lady Clare taking her place at Fontaine, Francesca’s true colours had been revealed to the world. I am not a lady, our marriage is over. I mustn’t let a handful of kisses delude me into hoping otherwise.

And if discovering that she was in truth no lady wasn’t bad enough, today she had behaved like a loose woman. The Count of the Isles needed a real lady—one with impeccable bloodlines and lands to bolster his holdings and revenues.

Tristan’s kisses meant nothing—he was ambitious, he needed a dynastic marriage.

How stupid she’d been down there in Sir Gervase’s office. She’d lost herself in his kiss. A kiss which had made her long for things which were not hers and never could be.

Tristan wanted a real lady. Francesca couldn’t excuse herself by saying she’d been overcome by passion, she should know better. She couldn’t even claim it had been the sight of his handsome face or his powerful body that had weakened her knees. It had been far too dark for her to see very much. Being in his arms had simply overwhelmed her.

Her mistake had been that she shouldn’t have let him know it. Mari would be well within her rights to call her a halfwit. She had forgotten her training and in responding with such heat she’d simply confirmed her lack of breeding. She’d made matters worse.

At the last turn in the stairs, they came to a studded oak door. Leaning past her, Tristan opened the door.

Candles were burning in wall sconces. The bedchamber was, as Sir Gervase had hinted, cramped. There was a decent-looking bed, a long, shuttered window and not much else.

* * *

Confirmation of Sir Joakim Kerjean’s identity had hit Tristan like a blow to the gut. Shaken by a bewildering combination of fury and anxiety, he’d barely heard anything else Sir Gervase had said.

Sir Joakim Kerjean was the very man who’d been asking after Francesca at des Iles. What had the man been planning when he had pulled her into the palace corridor? Had they spoken before this? Had she become his mistress?

Tristan cast his mind back to the moment he’d come upon them outside Sir Gervase’s office. He wanted to believe that Kerjean had lured an innocent Francesca into the corridor. He wanted to think that she had been cornered by an unwelcome and unexpected admirer. She had certainly slapped the man smartly enough. Unfortunately, it might not be as simple as that. Tristan must keep his mind open to all possibilities, however grim he might find them.

Think, Tristan, think. Francesca was still his wife. Their marriage was in tatters, yet he couldn’t help but be fond of her. That kiss had proved—as he feared it might—that their passion for each other wasn’t completely dead. And what Tristan was feeling now—the anger, the rush of loathing towards Kerjean, the terrible uncertainly that scattered clear thought—it felt very much like jealousy. Jealousy would not help here.

Think. When Tristan had followed them into the corridor, both Francesca and Kerjean had been wearing masks. The most harmless possibility was that neither of them knew the other’s identity, they had met by mere chance. In light of the enquiries Sir Joakim had been making in des Iles, the idea that Tristan had stumbled upon an innocent flirtation seemed extremely unlikely. Sadly, the idea that they had met by mere chance must be dismissed.

Tristan tore his gaze from Francesca as she looked about the bedchamber and forced himself to remember exactly what he had seen from the gallery. Kerjean had taken her by the hand and he’d been pulling her towards that corridor. Had she gone willingly? It might not have been an assignation.

He was starting to feel distinctly queasy. It had certainly been ill-advised of Francesca to allow Kerjean to lead her away from the safety of the crowd in the great hall. Perhaps what Tristan had witnessed had simply been a mild flirtation on her part, one that had got out of hand.