Gilbert who grinned and said, “I’ll see to it, my lady.” He took up the cake and carried it away for serving.
“Should the butler bring the fine rhenish, my lady?” Master Crowder in a waft of black gown appeared on the dais.
“Yes, indeed. I for one prefer it with a sweet dish.” She glanced pointedly at Lord Hugh as she said in an undertone, “Perhaps you would care to open the flagon and pour it yourself, my lord. That way you could be certain you were in no danger.”
Hugh, whose original barb had been intended only to make a sardonic point, said, low voiced and smooth, “I enjoyed the intimacy of our sharing, madam. It added greatly to my pleasure in the feast. I’d be loath to drink alone now.”
Guinevere felt her color rise as indignation warred with a resurgence of tormenting and unruly sensations. He had picked up her glove and, indeed, she had not expected him to do otherwise. But the lightly mocking taunt spoke so readily to her present confusion she was suddenly rendered mute. Did he feel any of this himself? she caught herself wondering.
She had sensed how he had responded to her when he first saw her in the chapel, and womanlike she knew what effect her smile and her soft melodious tones couldhave. They were the only weapons in her arsenal, and it was a pathetic enough arsenal compared with Hugh of Beaucaire's. But when she used them on this man she seemed to forget what she was using them for. Then just when they both slipped into a moment of ease, as they had while dancing, when her guard was down and she was powerfully aware of the humorous, warm, vibrantly attractive man, the fierce hostility and distrust between them would rise up like a tidal bore, sweeping away anything approaching accord.
She merely inclined her head and returned to her seat, supervising Pippa's consumption of marchpane and cake with a sharp eye. The butler with great reverence withdrew the stopper from the flagon of rhenish and poured it with appropriate solemnity into fresh goblets.
This time Hugh did not cover his goblet. He leaned back in his chair, watching the stream of golden wine glowing in the candlelight as it arced into the delicate crystal. There was enough worth in Venetian crystal on this table to build and fortify a small castle, he reflected. His eye roamed around the hall. The tapestries on the paneled walls were lush, their hues of varied blues and greens, gold, crimson, and silver thick and rich under the torchlight. The tapers on the dais table were wax not tallow and the air was perfumed with the scents of dried woodruff, watermint, and sweet herbs sprinkled lavishly upon the wooden floor.
King Henry's court was renowned for its show; nobles vied with each other to prove their wealth and standing, bankrupting themselves to dress their households in the finest garments. They displayed their possessions with an apparent disregard for their value that they believed only added to their consequence. Hugh had seen many a noble try to hide his wince as a priceless flagon of Venetian crystal was carelessly thrown to the floor on his own orders.
Guinevere Mallory was probably as wealthy as Privy
Seal but the display of luxury around Hugh was not done for show. It was part of the woman. Something she accepted as natural. She was not trying to impress him.
He glanced at Robin who was eating cake and marchpane with the dedicated concentration of the perpetually growing, perpetually hungry youngster. Robin would inherit a small estate in Kent, his mother's dowry. Hugh himself, the youngest son of a family of sons, had little of his own. For his service to the king he had been given the lands of Beaucaire in Brittany. They were fertile but not extensive. He had money, the king was generous when he remembered to be, but he hadn’t had the time to improve either the estate in Kent or his French lands, and he certainly didn’t have the money to acquire the trappings of wealth he saw around him tonight.
“Should the butler bring the fine rhenish, my lady?” Master Crowder in a waft of black gown appeared on the dais.
“Yes, indeed. I for one prefer it with a sweet dish.” She glanced pointedly at Lord Hugh as she said in an undertone, “Perhaps you would care to open the flagon and pour it yourself, my lord. That way you could be certain you were in no danger.”
Hugh, whose original barb had been intended only to make a sardonic point, said, low voiced and smooth, “I enjoyed the intimacy of our sharing, madam. It added greatly to my pleasure in the feast. I’d be loath to drink alone now.”
Guinevere felt her color rise as indignation warred with a resurgence of tormenting and unruly sensations. He had picked up her glove and, indeed, she had not expected him to do otherwise. But the lightly mocking taunt spoke so readily to her present confusion she was suddenly rendered mute. Did he feel any of this himself? she caught herself wondering.
She had sensed how he had responded to her when he first saw her in the chapel, and womanlike she knew what effect her smile and her soft melodious tones couldhave. They were the only weapons in her arsenal, and it was a pathetic enough arsenal compared with Hugh of Beaucaire's. But when she used them on this man she seemed to forget what she was using them for. Then just when they both slipped into a moment of ease, as they had while dancing, when her guard was down and she was powerfully aware of the humorous, warm, vibrantly attractive man, the fierce hostility and distrust between them would rise up like a tidal bore, sweeping away anything approaching accord.
She merely inclined her head and returned to her seat, supervising Pippa's consumption of marchpane and cake with a sharp eye. The butler with great reverence withdrew the stopper from the flagon of rhenish and poured it with appropriate solemnity into fresh goblets.
This time Hugh did not cover his goblet. He leaned back in his chair, watching the stream of golden wine glowing in the candlelight as it arced into the delicate crystal. There was enough worth in Venetian crystal on this table to build and fortify a small castle, he reflected. His eye roamed around the hall. The tapestries on the paneled walls were lush, their hues of varied blues and greens, gold, crimson, and silver thick and rich under the torchlight. The tapers on the dais table were wax not tallow and the air was perfumed with the scents of dried woodruff, watermint, and sweet herbs sprinkled lavishly upon the wooden floor.
King Henry's court was renowned for its show; nobles vied with each other to prove their wealth and standing, bankrupting themselves to dress their households in the finest garments. They displayed their possessions with an apparent disregard for their value that they believed only added to their consequence. Hugh had seen many a noble try to hide his wince as a priceless flagon of Venetian crystal was carelessly thrown to the floor on his own orders.
Guinevere Mallory was probably as wealthy as Privy
Seal but the display of luxury around Hugh was not done for show. It was part of the woman. Something she accepted as natural. She was not trying to impress him.
He glanced at Robin who was eating cake and marchpane with the dedicated concentration of the perpetually growing, perpetually hungry youngster. Robin would inherit a small estate in Kent, his mother's dowry. Hugh himself, the youngest son of a family of sons, had little of his own. For his service to the king he had been given the lands of Beaucaire in Brittany. They were fertile but not extensive. He had money, the king was generous when he remembered to be, but he hadn’t had the time to improve either the estate in Kent or his French lands, and he certainly didn’t have the money to acquire the trappings of wealth he saw around him tonight.
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