Tori Phillips by Midsummer's Knight

wine.
    “Ha!” Brandon barked. “Does the devil speak the truth? Is this Sir John Stafford who instructs me in love? He, whom the whole court calls the Jack of Hearts? He that has wooed three times the number of maidens that I have ever met, and who has tumbled more women than even the great Royal Bull himself?”
    Jack glared at Brandon. “You should know, my friend. We have shared a wench or two in our time.”
    “Aye, but in my youth.” Brandon push aside those memories. Ever since the results of his indiscretions had come home to roost, he had been as celibate as a monk—almost. “Lay all posturing aside, Jack. What do you think of the lady?” He could not bring himself to call Katherine “wife” as yet. It stuck in the craw of his throat.
    Jack regarded his companion with a serious expression. “I swear upon God’s holy book, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh is beyond peer. In a word, she is...adorable...sweet... virtuous...beguiling.”
    “Those are four words, not one,” Brandon remarked. God’s teeth! What ailed the legendary Jack of Hearts? He meant what he was saying. Katherine’s relative youth had been a pleasant surprise, but “adorable” or “sweet”?
    Jack ignored the interruption. “And she is far younger than we were led to believe. In faith, we need to hang Scantling up by his heels when we return to court. He has played the fool with you.”
    “Aye, he did, indeed.” Brandon stared moodily into the fire. “Methinks he wears a dagger in his words.”
    Jack’s eyes softened. “Looking at the Lady Katherine, ’tis hard to believe that she has ever been bedded, let alone by two husbands. You are a lucky dog, Brandon, and that is no mistake.”
    “Am I?” Brandon lifted one brow slowly. He didn’t feel particularly lucky. More like trapped.
    “What do you mean?”
    “The Lady Katherine. She is fair, she is fine, she is reasonably young.” He gave Jack a piercing look. “She may also be a witch.”
    “Go, hang! If you were not nose deep in a crock of wine, I might take you seriously, and be forced to challenge you to combat for the lady’s honor,” Jack growled in a low, dangerous tone.
    Brandon leveled his gaze at his friend. “Think, not with your lusting fancy, but with that brain God saw fit to give you, man. How do we know that who we saw today was the true lady?”
    “You are horn-mad,” Jack observed. “And you speak with a voice soused in wine.”
    Brandon leaned toward him. “Listen to me, clodpate. Perhaps Lady Katherine has conjured up an apparition, and she puts on this pleasing look of youth and innocence, as a woman would don a gown for a feast. Perhaps she fed you a love charm in your quince sauce, and thereby hangs the tale. In truth, I have known you to take many a woman merrily, but never have you taken one seriously.”
    Jack stared at him for a moment, then grinned and shrugged. “Methinks you are the one who is charmed—by too much ale at supper, and too much wine in your cup now. On the morrow, all will be well when you reveal your true identity.”
    Brandon cocked his head. “How now?”
    Jack snorted. “Are you deaf, as well as thickheaded, my friend? Tomorrow, at the earliest convenience, we shall beg that sweet lady’s forgiveness for the foul trick we have played upon her. You will tell her the truth of your parentage. The game is up. ’Tis too cruel by half to deceive her any further.”
    Brandon poured himself another cup, but this time he merely sipped the contents. Jack was right about one thing. By tomorrow morning, Brandon’s head would be thick and pounding from too much imbibing. But fall upon his knees in front of that whey-faced milksop who could barely stammer out two sentences together? Never! At least, not until he knew her better.
    Fenton was a lying cur—of that, there was no doubt. But the flap-eared knave may have woven a warp of truth amid the woof of lies. Better to marry a dishcloth than a witch, if one had to get married at