undeniable, even from half across the hall—or because it was as if an impending doom was coming his way like a rolling black storm, Dirick wasn’t certain.
She seemed to sparkle gold: from the gossamer veil on her head to the long, wrist length sleeves of her gown. As she drew closer, he scrutinized her closely—absentmindedly rejoining the conversation with Merle as he held onto the rapidly disintegrating hope that he was mistaken. But, no, the nearer she came the clearer his error was. A warm flush began to settle over Dirick’s features as he recalled the rude and angry words he’d shouted at her the night before. The fact that he’d nearly flattened her.
His next question—who was she?—was soon answered, but not before he privately agonized over whether he’d insulted his lord’s wife, his mistress, or—God help him—the daughter, Maris.
When she reached the dais, her gaze flitted over him with impersonal coolness before settling on her father.
“ Ah, my love,” Merle stood to take her hand. His affection for her was evident in the tone of his voice as well as the gleam in his eyes.
That Dirick even more uncomfortable. He rose stiffly beside his host, trying desperately to think of something to say in defense of his actions. After all, what the hell had a noble lady been doing dressed in peasant clothes, wandering through the town alone—in the middle of the night?
Then the thought struck him. Mayhap she no more wished for Dirick to acknowledge their meeting than he did. What had she been doing out in the night alone?
“ Sir Dirick de Arlande, may I present you with my daughter, Maris Lareux, Lady of Langumont,” Merle said.
His daughter . God’s teeth, of all the women he could have accosted….
“’ Tis a pleasure, my lady,” he managed to say, pressing a light kiss to her fingertips, wondering what on earth had possessed Bernard to reject the beautiful creature standing before him. He noticed the stains and scratches on what should have been a lily white hand with interest and wondered what she did other than embroidery.
“ Good evening, Sir Dirick,” she said steadily.
Her refusal to meet his gaze fueled Dirick’s suspicion that she wished to ignore their previous meeting and he relaxed slightly.
As she took a seat on the far side of her father, Merle said, “Sir Dirick is lately arrived from France—Paris, I believe. I knew his father quite well, and he’ll be staying with us for some time.”
Lady Allegra, Merle’s wife, arrived at that moment. Dirick was immediately struck by the difference between the two women who now sat at the high table. Other than the same sensual shape to their mouths and a similar creamy complexion, ’twas hard to recognize that they were mother and daughter.
While the lady of the manor was certainly beautiful, it was in a soft, almost faded way that was only partly due to her age. Her daughter, however, sparkled not only through her choice of clothing and jewels, but also in her eyes and countenance. She was vibrant whilst her mother was soft-spoken and demure.
Dirick shared a bread trencher with Lady Allegra, and as his mind raced, he occupied his hands by serving her as elegantly as the fine courtier he was. No sooner had she sipped from her wine than he refilled it. Her meat was cut swiftly into bite sized chunks with the knife that he kept at his waist. She had the choicest pieces of bread, the sweetest smelling pieces of fish. And she had charming, lightly flirtatious conversation—something at which Dirick was highly skilled.
He didn’t realize until near halfway through the meal that he’d been holding his breath, waiting to hear the roar of fury from Merle as Maris told him of their encounter. When it didn’t come, he began to relax and enjoy Allegra’s company. Though she didn’t talk much, she asked several questions and giggled like a girl at his jests. Her
She seemed to sparkle gold: from the gossamer veil on her head to the long, wrist length sleeves of her gown. As she drew closer, he scrutinized her closely—absentmindedly rejoining the conversation with Merle as he held onto the rapidly disintegrating hope that he was mistaken. But, no, the nearer she came the clearer his error was. A warm flush began to settle over Dirick’s features as he recalled the rude and angry words he’d shouted at her the night before. The fact that he’d nearly flattened her.
His next question—who was she?—was soon answered, but not before he privately agonized over whether he’d insulted his lord’s wife, his mistress, or—God help him—the daughter, Maris.
When she reached the dais, her gaze flitted over him with impersonal coolness before settling on her father.
“ Ah, my love,” Merle stood to take her hand. His affection for her was evident in the tone of his voice as well as the gleam in his eyes.
That Dirick even more uncomfortable. He rose stiffly beside his host, trying desperately to think of something to say in defense of his actions. After all, what the hell had a noble lady been doing dressed in peasant clothes, wandering through the town alone—in the middle of the night?
Then the thought struck him. Mayhap she no more wished for Dirick to acknowledge their meeting than he did. What had she been doing out in the night alone?
“ Sir Dirick de Arlande, may I present you with my daughter, Maris Lareux, Lady of Langumont,” Merle said.
His daughter . God’s teeth, of all the women he could have accosted….
“’ Tis a pleasure, my lady,” he managed to say, pressing a light kiss to her fingertips, wondering what on earth had possessed Bernard to reject the beautiful creature standing before him. He noticed the stains and scratches on what should have been a lily white hand with interest and wondered what she did other than embroidery.
“ Good evening, Sir Dirick,” she said steadily.
Her refusal to meet his gaze fueled Dirick’s suspicion that she wished to ignore their previous meeting and he relaxed slightly.
As she took a seat on the far side of her father, Merle said, “Sir Dirick is lately arrived from France—Paris, I believe. I knew his father quite well, and he’ll be staying with us for some time.”
Lady Allegra, Merle’s wife, arrived at that moment. Dirick was immediately struck by the difference between the two women who now sat at the high table. Other than the same sensual shape to their mouths and a similar creamy complexion, ’twas hard to recognize that they were mother and daughter.
While the lady of the manor was certainly beautiful, it was in a soft, almost faded way that was only partly due to her age. Her daughter, however, sparkled not only through her choice of clothing and jewels, but also in her eyes and countenance. She was vibrant whilst her mother was soft-spoken and demure.
Dirick shared a bread trencher with Lady Allegra, and as his mind raced, he occupied his hands by serving her as elegantly as the fine courtier he was. No sooner had she sipped from her wine than he refilled it. Her meat was cut swiftly into bite sized chunks with the knife that he kept at his waist. She had the choicest pieces of bread, the sweetest smelling pieces of fish. And she had charming, lightly flirtatious conversation—something at which Dirick was highly skilled.
He didn’t realize until near halfway through the meal that he’d been holding his breath, waiting to hear the roar of fury from Merle as Maris told him of their encounter. When it didn’t come, he began to relax and enjoy Allegra’s company. Though she didn’t talk much, she asked several questions and giggled like a girl at his jests. Her
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