Pleased ... yes, that was what Justina needed. For the man to be satisfied with her. A ripple of something that felt very much like resentment went through her. The emotion surprised her because she had banished such feelings long ago. If she had not, she would have gone insane.
The Church would tell her that she deserved what Biddeford gave her for being so relieved when her husband died. She had been relieved and overjoyed and a hundred other emotions that had nothing to do with grief. But such elation had been short lived. The viscount had sent for her, and the moment she appeared at court, the man had begun directing her to use her cursed beauty to snare the secrets that he desired.
The maid returned with a simple over-partlet that was little more than a yoke, sewn at the shoulders with a collar. It fit perfectly on top of the dress and tied beneath her arms. The maid used pearl-topped pins to secure it at the center front of the neckline. Constructed of silk, the fabric covered her breasts up to her collarbones, leaving only a slim inch of skin on display where the two fronts met. It was set with a collar that had lace edging and more pearls.
“That should meet with her highness's approval.” The maid had spoken before she thought, and ducked her chin when she realized that she had indeed uttered her thoughts without being asked for her opinion. She hurried to finish dressing her and Justina remained silent.
They were both caught in the net of rules that held them down. Just because she was addressed as a lady made little difference. She was a servant as sure as the woman fussing with her cuffs.
The other maid had dressed her hair and Justina moved to the door the moment they both stopped picking at the details of her dressing. At least going to attend the princess was not a horrible thing. She would save her hesitating for times when the viscount pointed her toward truly sordid things.
Brandon ... she thought of her son and her lips lifted with true joy. No one need know why she smiled.
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Curan Ramsden, Lord Ryppon, stood on his front steps to watch his second in command take leave of the castle for the final time.
“I believe I shall miss Synclair. He's served me as a second in command very well, I shall be hard pressed to find anyone as skilled.”
His wife, Bridget Newbury, drew a quick jerk from him because he had been so focused on the knight making ready to leave. His wife offered him a slight curving of her lips as she joined him. The minx enjoyed being able to sneak up on him.
“Synclair has performed his duty with honor. It is time for him to return to his family.”
“That isn't where he is going.” Bridget kept her voice low so that it would not carry. His wife was the model of submission except for when no one else might hear her.
Curan admitted to enjoying that facet of her personality quite well behind the closed door of their chamber.
“Synclair didn't say where he was going, and he owes me no telling of what is on his mind now that his time of service is finished.”
His wife smothered a small sound of amusement. “You choose not to ask because we both know full well that he is going to pursue Lady Wincott.
“We do? I am not certain of any such thing.”
His wife frowned at him. “I see, my lord husband, then am I to understand that you gave him a parchment, sealed with your crest, to deliver to the King because you expect him to ride to his lands and hand it over to a rider there?”
Curan chuckled softly. “I didn't ask him, but in the event that he does go to court, I sent the missive with him. You are too concerned with others' affairs, Wife.”
Bridget offered her husband a calculating glance; he returned a guarded one that she answered with a widening of her eyes and a flutter of her eyelashes. Bridget offered him a sweet smile that held no more meaning, nor intelligence, than a springtime duckling. Curan laughed, his rich voice full of amusement.
Bridget waved one hand in the air and allowed her features to return to normal. “I am also not simple, and you like that too much, Husband.”
“That is true, even if I find your ability to mask your thoughts quite entertaining ... that is when it is being directed at someone else.”
Curan reached down to where his wife's belly was gently rounding. Their first child was growing in spite of the winter closing its grip over the land. Snow flurries drifted in the air, melting when they made it to the ground. Synclair was tense, the knight intent on checking his horse before he mounted. He reached out to tug on a strap and then another, walking all the way around the horse before nodding with approval.
That had always been the man's way. Synclair left nothing to chance, no detail overlooked. He had served out his time with a diligence that was worthy of the knight's chain he wore. Synclair lifted one booted foot and placed it in the stirrup before rising in a single fluid motion to gain the saddle. His body was powerful and accomplished the task with ease, giving testimony to the years the man had trained. Two white plumes topped his helmet, proclaiming his rank to anyone approaching him.
Somehow, Curan didn't think that Lady Wincott needed to see Synclair riding toward her. Unless he missed his guess, the lady would feel the knight closing in on her. His own sister had gifted her mare to Justina so that she might flee back to court. Curan wished Jemma hadn't interfered. One more day and Synclair would have been free to claim the lady.
Synclair never looked back but set his spurs into the belly of his stallion and leaned down low over the neck of the animal when it lunged forward. A small party of men followed the knight newly released from service. These were Harrow retainers, men who had been waiting for their lord to finish his sworn duty.
“I do hope Justina is looking over her shoulder, Husband.”
“Come now, Wife, do you wish her to be any easier to bring to heel than you were?”
His wife frowned at him. “Bring to heel?”
Her complexion darkened as she chewed on his choice of words. “I was attempting to be a dutiful daughter.”
Curan felt his own mood darken. “I believe Justina feels she is doing the same, but I for one hope Synclair can interfere in that duty.”
His wife lost her annoyed look. “As do I.”
For love was worth the sacrifice of pride.
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The palace, despite being full of people, was unnaturally hushed. Justina made her way through the hallways, feeling the eyes of the people she passed rest on her. They inspected her, critiquing her poise and every detail about her person from the position of her hands to the angle she held her chin. Fans lifted and ladies leaned closer together to whisper about her, not really caring if she noticed. When one was at court, it was simply best to expect to be talked about; when one did the things that she had done, gossip was sure to follow.
“Lady Wincott.”
Francis de Canis drew her name out in a low tone that left no doubt in her mind that the man was debating just how high her price was. He was a dangerous man, one who sold his services to high-born nobles and didn't quibble over spilling blood in the process of delivering what he'd promised.
He didn't wait for her to offer her hand but instead reached out and captured it while she was completing her curtsy.
“I must say, it is a delight to see you gracing these hallways once more.”
“How kind of you to say.”
Justina didn't tug on her hand; resistance would only encourage a man such as he. He thrived on making conquests, and putting up a fight was sure to cause him to double his efforts to claim her. He raised her hand to his lips and pressed an overly long kiss against the back of her hand, but he stared into her eyes while his mouth lingered over her skin. Lust darkened his eyes along with the unmistakable flicker of arrogant intention to have her at his mercy.
Justina offered him naught save for a bland expression. His fingers tightened around hers before releasing.
“We must see more of each other, now that you are returned. You will have to tell the Viscount that.”
“The Viscount Biddeford is my most dear cousin by marriage. His very great kindness to me since my husband died makes it impossible for me to do anything so bold as to tell him what to do.”
Justina lowered her lashes to conceal just how revolting she found his suggestion. The man hunted amid the court for any woman he considered to be wanted by other men. Well, she knew a thing or two about how to survive at court, and one was to use formal politeness to gain her way. It pleased her to be able to give a man such as de Canis such empty words because he was a man that enjoyed having women kept beneath the heels of other men. Let him watch that same meekness being used against him for a change.
“But does he show his appreciation of your devotion as well as I might?” There was a hint of a promise in his voice but one she would be foolish to take sanctuary in. She would only be trading one monster for another. De Canis would use her and then sell her without a care to who bought her favors, so long as he was well pleased with the transaction.
“As I said, he is most dear because of the great concern he lavishes upon me. I do not believe there is a single hour of the day that he is not sure of where I am. He is very careful to make sure I am well settled in every moment.”
Aye, well settled and well paid for ...
“Yes, I have heard that he keeps you close, Lady Wincott. Which accounts for my surprise in discovering you here. Quite alone as it seems.”
“I am to attend her majesty the Princess Mary.”
“Ah ...” He boldly reached out and trailed one finger across the surface of her partlet. Beneath it, the swell of her breast felt his touch, and she fought the urge to cringe.
“That would explain you covering up such delightful treats.”
He was daring her to show her true temper and abandon her meekness. Justina brushed by de Canis but not before she heard him chuckle. The man had a habit of decorating his lovers with expensive jewelry, proving that in spite of his common birth, he was a man of means.
He wasn't the only one walking the halls of Whitehall Palace. There were new men of means who owed their fortunes to the sacking of the monasteries and cathedrals. King Henry Tudor handed out the riches to those who aided him in driving the last of the Catholic Church from England, but he took much of that money back when those common men came to him to buy titles.
It was a petty circle, one fueled by greed, and now that King Henry Tudor was dying, the fighting over what was left was growing more frantic. The King's only son, Edward, was a boy of nine. True power would be held by the men named in the King's will to govern for the young prince whom King Henry had spent so much effort trying to have.
Justina turned a corner and discovered the Princess Mary strolling on the green with her half sister, the Princess Elizabeth. The weather was cold now and the grass more brown than green, but the two sisters walked side by side while surrounded by onlookers.
Justina had to force a lump down her throat before she could walk any further. The onlookers sickened her with their sly glares and whispers. Mary Tudor was a grown woman now, but her father had never seen her wed. Both sisters had spent many years labeled as bastards while the King married again and again in pursuit of more sons. Only now, at the end of his life, was Henry Tudor spending time with his daughters. It was Queen Catherine Parr who urged her husband to do so but Justina couldn't do anything save pity the two princesses for the rough road both had been given by life.
“The Lady Justina, Dowager Baroness Wincott.”
The chamberlain announced her and struck the stone walkway with his white staff while Justina lowered herself. Neither princess even looked at her, but several heads turned in her direction as she joined the crowd. Newly arrived daughters stood in their fine dresses near their mothers or guardians while they hoped to be noticed by someone important. Justina moved through the crowd, offering curtsies to many but avoiding engaging in true conversations. People were pressed almost too close in their quest to be near the royals, everyone talking in hushed tones while they tried to think of ways to gain whatever they wanted. Justina moved through them, intent on the same thing, to gain enough of the princesses' attention to satisfy Biddeford.
“Lady Wincott.” Another chamberlain struck the stone walkways, startling her.
Justina faltered for a moment because she had not expected her name to be called so soon. She recovered quickly, hurrying to the man wearing the tabard of the King. She lowered herself and waited for the princesses to raise her, but it was an older woman who spoke.
Queen Catherine Parr was much younger than her husband, and she sat beneath a canopy with her ladies. In fact, there was not a single gentleman beneath the fabric, the chamberlain standing a full twenty feet away.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
The Queen set her embroidery aside, looking disgusted by it. She changed her expression quickly, as though she had made a great error in allowing any emotion to show. A smooth expression appeared on her face as she looked at Justina.