Never Love a Lord Page 4

  “What is it, Oliver?” Cecily asked, glancing toward the doorway and seeing only a sliver of the proper Argo’s form.

  Her husband glanced at her. “One moment, love.” He strode back to the door, shared a few quiet words with Argo, and then closed the door once more. He sighed and leaned his back against the wood.

  “Edward’s men gained Fallstowe last night after we left.”

  Cecily brought a hand to her throat, almost afraid to ask. “Did they attack?”

  “No,” Oliver said. He pushed away from the door and began searching the floor around the bed, presumably for the rest of his clothing. “No, they did not. In fact, they are no longer at Fallstowe. They’re here.”

  Cecily frowned. “Here? Whatever for?”

  Oliver stood upright and shook out his white shirt. “Apparently Lord Julian Griffin carries Edward’s banner, and he is currently in residence at Fallstowe with Lady Foxe,” Oliver emphasized.

  “Edward’s doorman at court, you mean? With Sybilla?” This was getting stranger and stranger. “But why would the man sent to take Fallstowe from my sister send his soldiers to Bellemont?”

  “Because your husband is an imbecile,” Oliver muttered. Then a bit louder, “It seems our king is prepared to accept my gracious offer of support. I am to rally Bellemont’s soldiers and be prepared to descend upon Fallstowe at Julian Griffin’s signal. In the meantime, we are to house three hundred of the king’s men whose siege has been postponed. Half of the army that was at Fallstowe.”

  Cecily looked out the window once more. “But he’s at Fallstowe? Alone with Sybilla?”

  Oliver stilled his motions, facing her now with his boots in one hand. “I am obviously not the only imbecile in the land.”

  Cecily felt her lips press together in a thin line. “Oh my. The poor man.”

  Chapter 5

  Julian groaned into his pillow in response to the polite rap on his door. It felt as though he had only closed his eyes a moment ago. In truth, the bit of hair beneath his cheek was still damp from his frigid bath.

  He heard the door scrape open, and he raised his head slightly. Sweet yellow light streaked through the window to his left in a rectangular beam, signaling that dawn had indeed already come, as had the morning maid, bearing a heavily laden tray to the small table. She turned toward the hearth without a greeting and immediately set to work laying a fire.

  Julian pulled himself upright and glanced at the table; whatever was inside the large silver tureen seemed to make up the bulk of his morning meal, although he was glad to see a corked flagon and cup. He shivered once violently. It would take hours for the small fire to warm him sufficiently.

  “I would break my fast in the hall with Lady Foxe,” he called out to the maid’s back. “You may take the tray away.”

  The maid straightened but only glanced at him, an annoyed expression on her face as she went about the room gathering up his discarded clothing and rolling them thoughtlessly into a tight bundle.

  “Madam doesn’t breakfast,” the woman informed him curtly, and then turned toward the door.

  “She doesn’t eat?” Julian scoffed.

  “Your daughter and her nurse are in the great hall at their own meal,” the maid said, almost grudgingly, then walked to the door.

  “The tray!” Julian called after her.

  “Take it yourself,” the woman muttered, and slammed the door shut behind her.

  Julian pursed his lips for a moment and then nodded once to himself. He should have expected such a response. After all, he was the villain in this scenario—the evil lord sent to steal Fallstowe away from their lady. They didn’t want him here.

  He threw back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He would likely have to make some changes in staffing, should this attitude persist.

  But in the meantime, he was hungry. By the time he was dressed and to the hall, Lucy would be ready for a bit of play and then a morning rest, and she would not tolerate waiting on Julian to finish his meal. He would eat in his chamber quickly then, so as to have time to spend with that sweetness before engaging the lady of Fallstowe. He visited his trunk first and quickly laid hand to a suit of warm clothing, dressing in front of the hearth.

  Then he went to the table and pulled out one of the chairs, sitting down and rubbing his palms together swiftly, blowing warm breath on them in preparation for loosing the cork of the flagon. It was straight wine inside, not watered, and it ran rich and red into the cup. Julian savored the first mouthful, filling his cheeks until they burned before swallowing the warming liquid. He gave a satisfied sigh and filled the cup to the brim once more.

  Then he turned his attention to the tureen. He picked up the engraved eating knife with his right hand, lifted the lid with his left, and peered down.

  An entire, shiny black eel lay coiled in a weak saffron-colored broth, bits of black seaweed half floating on the liquid and half stuck to the slick-looking body.

  Julian made an audible sound of disgust. Eel at the morning meal. And there wasn’t even any bread.

  “Well, it’s not my favorite,” he admitted aloud. But perhaps it was still hot, and he was hungry. He reached into the tureen with his left hand, preparing to grasp the neck and remove the head with his knife.

  The onyx body flashed in the morning light as the eel whipped its head around and snapped at Julian’s fingers.

  He shouted his surprise as he snatched his hand away, and then in the next instant brought his eating knife down, at last subduing his breakfast. The broth turned murky with bright red swirls of blood and the body writhed for a moment.

  Julian stood abruptly, his chair falling back behind him with a loud crack. He glared at the tureen as he swiped his cup from the table and drank the wine inside it straight down.

  He was becoming annoyed with Sybilla Foxe’s hospitality.

  Sybilla rarely left her chamber so early in the morn, but the idea that Julian Griffin presently resided under her roof placed her in such a foul mood that she was unable to tolerate her own company beyond a single cup of tea. After her hair was dressed and coiled atop her head, she dismissed her maids even though she was still in her silk wrapper. She felt the need for privacy as she dressed herself, choosing a gown the color of the darkest moss.

  She stepped through the panel hidden in the wall behind her dais and was pleased that the hall was presently empty save for the Griffin infant and her nursemaid.

  And Graves, of course, standing patiently near her chair.

  Neither mistress nor servant spoke, each having determined long ago that banal pleasantries suited neither and were patently unnecessary between them first thing in the morn.

  Sybilla sat down in her chair, and almost instantly a cup of her preferred tea and a small silver plate with toasted bread was set at her elbow. Sybilla nudged it away with the back of her hand, choosing instead to concentrate on the fidgeting girl seated at a table on the floor, who glanced furtively in Sybilla’s direction several times.

  At last she seemed to find her courage and nodded toward Sybilla. “Good morrow to you, milady,” she offered solemnly.

  “Nurse,” Sybilla replied in kind. She glanced down at the infant, who sat on the girl’s lap playing with what seemed to Sybilla to be a knot of trailing, colorful ribbons. “What is its name again?”

  The nurse’s forehead creased slightly. “Lucy, milady.”

  Sybilla nodded. “How long have you been Lucy’s nurse?”

  “Since she was born, milady. One hundred and twenty-six days.” The nurse smiled down at the child, who was frowning and jerking the knot side to side in a very uncoordinated manner. It sounded as though there might be a small bell hidden inside the riotous cluster. Then the nurse glanced up at Sybilla again while she absentmindedly stroked the baby’s head cap. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Sybilla felt her nose wrinkle slightly but then turned her attention to her heretofore neglected tea. She picked up the cup and blew on the su
rface, speaking to the nurse over the rim. “Bring her to me so that I might see her properly.”

  The girl hesitated for only an instant and then rose, one forearm around the infant’s middle and the other hand supporting its bottom, and Sybilla was reminded of how one might hold a piglet, if one was of a mind to do such a thing. It was rather round and pink.

  The nurse walked up to the edge of the dais, and then, seeming not to know what else to do, grasped the baby under each arm and hoisted her up so that the infant’s gowned feet kicked just above the edge of Sybilla’s table.

  Sybilla placed her cup back on the table and leaned forward in her chair, her hands on her thighs. She peered at the infant’s face, and to her surprise, the baby’s blue eyes seemed to peer right back. It was quite an appealing thing when viewed up close, Sybilla determined, and she wondered if the child resembled its mother.

  “Good day, Lady Lucy,” Sybilla said levelly.

  The infant’s eyes seemed to widen at the sound of Sybilla’s low voice. It stopped the futile cycling of its legs for a moment.

  “Bah!” Lucy Griffin replied, then proceeded to blow a stream of spittle between her pink lips.

  Sybilla felt one of her eyebrows rise.

  “What on earth are you doing, Murrin?”

  The baby’s head whipped around at the sound of her father’s voice, and Lucy began once more to frantically kick her legs, as if she would run to the lion-haired man if only the insufferable nurse would put her down.

  “Lady Sybilla wished to examine Lady Lucy,” Murrin replied in a rather unsure voice.

  Sybilla leaned back in her chair and picked up her cup once more as Julian Griffin strode toward them. Under one arm he carried a thick, bound leather packet, which he laid on Sybilla’s table before turning to the nurse and taking charge of his daughter. He smiled down at the infant, and Sybilla could not help but catch her breath at the way his face was transformed.

  “Good morning, my darling angel! Good morning!” he repeated softly and kissed each of the baby’s cheeks and then her head through her small white cap.

  Lucy reached up and grasped a handful of her father’s hair. “Bah-bah-bah!” she shouted as she jerked forcefully on the lock.

  Julian chuckled. “I should say so,” he agreed. He turned his eyes to Sybilla, and she realized that she had been staring at him, studying him. The idea startled her nearly more so than his next words.

  “Would you care to hold her?”

  Sybilla’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Lucy.” He bounced the baby on his forearm. “Most women cannot resist her prettiness, which is why, I assume, Murrin was dangling my daughter like a leg of lamb before you. Would you care to hold her?”

  “No.” Sybilla took a slow sip. “I’m not terribly tempted at the idea. You will find, I think, through our time together, Lord Griffin, that I am quite unlike most women.”

  “Oh, I’m already aware of that, Lady Foxe,” he replied evenly, and Sybilla glanced up to find him now studying her.

  Sybilla cleared her throat delicately. “I trust your first night at Fallstowe was enjoyable? How did you find your chamber?”

  His lips quirked slightly. “In truth, I—”

  Suddenly, Graves spoke from behind her chair. “Where is that boy?” he muttered. Sybilla turned her head to catch him disappearing through the doorway which led to the kitchens.

  She turned back to see Julian Griffin also regarding Graves’s hasty departure. The expression on his face was shrewd, thoughtful. But he shook it off and looked at Sybilla once more.

  “Everything was as I expected it to be. Thank you,” he said, with a nod of his head.

  Lucy Griffin had apparently grown weary of their talk, as she chose that moment to voice her displeasure at her father’s lack of attention. Murrin stepped to the lord’s side, her arms held open.

  Julian kissed the child more times than were necessary, in Sybilla’s opinion, and then handed her over to the nurse. “Sweet dreams, my precious,” he said, his hands trailing away from the baby as if loath to release her. “Papa shall come for you straightaway at noon.”

  Murrin made the silly motion of lifting the baby’s hand to wave at her father, before giving Sybilla a quick curtsy and departing from the hall. Sybilla wanted to roll her eyes—it was simply nauseatingly sweet.

  Julian turned his attention back to the leather packet still lying on the table. He reached for it and then used it to gesture toward Sybilla.

  “Shall we begin the interview?”

  Sybilla’s eye narrowed. “What’s that?”

  Julian glanced down at the thick, ledger-like bundle, and then back at her. “Your life, Lady Sybilla.”

  She chuckled, disbelieving. “My life, you say?” She set her cup back down on the table. The tea was ice-cold now, although the handle had grown warm from her gripping fingers, which she placed on her lap beneath the tabletop, out of sight. “I daresay my life comprises more than a hand’s-breadth of pages.”

  “My penmanship is quite fine,” Julian countered. “I needed to keep my findings compact for transport.”

  “All the way from London?” Sybilla said snidely.

  “No.” Julian’s eyes found hers. “All the way from France,” he corrected her quietly.

  She held his gaze, but in her chest, Sybilla’s heart beat madly.

  “I only returned the month before Lucy was born.” He tucked the ledger under his arm. “Would you have us commence here in the hall, my lady?”

  “No,” Sybilla said, trying to keep the frown from her face, but she knew she had failed. She stood. “Let us retire to my solar, where we will not be disturbed.” Sybilla turned to walk from the dais.

  “Or overheard?” Julian offered from behind her.

  Sybilla’s steps did not pause. “That is correct, Lord Griffin. Although I am certain you and our king see my defeat as inevitable, I still have interests that I would protect from gossip.”

  “Your sisters, you mean.” His voice sounded directly behind her, although she had not heard his quickening footfalls or thought them to have gained on her so readily. She added stealthy to her mental list of Julian Griffin’s attributes.

  “Yes,” she said curtly. She glanced at him and found that he was studying her again, so she looked away.

  “You cannot protect them forever, Sybilla,” he said, and the genuine concern she heard in his voice caused her to glance at him once more. “From gossip, or perhaps more devastating, the truth. They will know eventually.”

  Sybilla laid her hand on the latch of the solar door, but instead of pushing it open she turned to face Julian Griffin, her hands anchored behind her back. Her heart was pounding. “And what exactly will they know eventually, Lord Griffin? That the king does not take loyalty to heart? That he would steal the home my mother held for him? That he would slander her? This they already know, I can assure you.”

  Julian Griffin was only a pace away from her, and he closed that distance with a single slow step, stopping to look down into Sybilla’s upturned face. She could feel the heat of him through the velvet of her gown, feel the corner of the leather packet brush along the curve of her waist as he stood nearly against her. The door was at her back, but she would not escape him.

  “And they already know that only a person of noble blood may hold lands and title for the king,” he said in a low voice, his eyes searching her face. “I find myself intrigued by you, Lady Sybilla.”

  She blinked at his sudden departure from the topic of the king, and for a moment no words would come to her. “Most men do,” she answered at last.

  “It must be deliberate. Do you encourage their attention?” he asked, his voice going even softer.

  “When it suits me.” She took her back away from the door, standing so that the velvet of her bodice brushed Julian Griffin’s tunic. She felt an atypical flush roll over her cheeks as she looked up at him. “Would it benefit me to encourage your attention, Lord Gri
ffin?”

  “I think it would,” he said, his face drawing nearer to hers. “But mayhap not in the way you are seeking.”

  “Meaning you would not return to Edward reporting that Fallstowe is innocent.”

  He shook his head almost imperceptibly. His nose brushed hers. “I promised to bring him the truth.” The breath of his words caressed her lips. “And we both know that Fallstowe is anything but innocent.”

  “Then I see no benefit at all to sleeping with you,” Sybilla whispered, her body screaming at her to pull the man to her fully. “Be warned, Lord Griffin—some say I am a dangerous woman.” She tilted her head.

  “What a coincidence—I had danger for breakfast just this morning.” His mouth was over hers now, his lips open, almost touching, and she took a breath of his hot exhalation . . .

  “Is the door stuck again, Madam?”

  In a rush of cool air, Julian Griffin pulled away from her and turned, revealing Graves standing disturbingly close behind him, a large meat cleaver dangling from one hand.

  Sybilla thought it would have been quite convenient had the old steward decided to make use of the tool a second ago. Although she would still feel the unfulfilled ache gifted to her by the masculine and imposing Julian Griffin, at least he would be dead and no further trouble to her.

  “No, Graves. The door is fine.” She let her breath out through her nose, slowly, inaudibly.

  “I say, old man,” Julian offered, gesturing to the weapon in Graves’s hand, “those must be terribly efficient for—oh, I don’t know—killing the errant eel, or what have you.”

  “Do you suppose, my lord?” Graves asked, cocking his head as if extremely interested in the idea.

  Sybilla frowned at the two men facing each other like adversaries, although their conversation was completely benign—even nonsensical. One would have to go very much out of their way to find a live eel in this season.