Hal blinked
A few moments ago this woman could have blended very well into the gray shadows of the night; now she was brilliant with color. A Spanish grandmother would explain that shade of hair color, and the ripe mouth. Her figure, too, undisguised by her ill-fitting gown, was seductively proportioned and her skin, so creamily pale, also declared her ancestry. But how to explain those eyes—the color of autumn-touched beech leaves—or the clipped English voice?
Madrilene’s Granddaughter
Laura Cassidy
LAURA CASSIDY
followed careers in both publishing and advertising before becoming a freelance writer, when her first son was born. She has since had numerous short stories and articles published, as well as novels. She began writing for Mills & Boon Historical Romance™ after discovering sixteenth-century romantic poetry, and very much enjoys the research involved in writing in the historical genre. She lives with her husband, who is a creative consultant, and their two sons, near London.
Contents
Chapter One
In the fourth decade of their marriage, Bess and Harry Latimar decided they would mark this by gathering together all of their family for a grand celebration. It was worth so marking for it was unusual, even miraculous, that they should both have lived to such an old age and also that so many of their years had been spent within the confines of a happy and successful marriage. As was their custom, they discussed the idea in the small parlour of their manor house, after the last meal of the day and before a blazing fire.
“It must be only an intimate family affair,” Bess said thoughtfully. Their house, Maiden Court, was famed for its hospitality, but—these days—she felt lavish entertaining took its toll on the master and mistress.
“Mmm.” Harry was listening, of course, but he was also admiring the way the firelight shifted over his wife’s face, ignoring the lines of age and choosing to linger on the lovely bones, the pointed shadow of her eyelashes on her cheeks and her shining hair, once an unusual shade of silver gilt and now the true silver of old age. Bess ticked off each family member on her fingers:
“George and Judith, and their two children and grandchildren.” She paused, thinking yet again how unlike a great-grandmother she felt. “Then Anne and Jack must come from Northumberland with any of their offspring they can gather together. Hal, too, must be persuaded from Greenwich. Do you think the plan feasible, dearest?”
“Well, George and his brood have only to walk the short distance from the Lodge, so there will be no problem there.” Fifteen years ago, when it had become apparent that George and Judith’s two children, who had made their home in their parents’ house, were intent on raising a large family, Maiden Court Lodge, built on the Latimar estate, had been considerably extended to accommodate them. “But it may be difficult for Jack to get away, and his son, and I know Anne won’t come without them.” His son-in-law, Jack Hamilton, ten years since created an Earl to acknowledge his services to the English crown in commanding a defensive fortress on the Scottish border, was gradually relinquishing the reins of Ravensglass to his firstborn, but retained a strong sense of responsibility for his position. “But Hal will come from Greenwich if I have to personally go and haul the young vagabond home. After having settled his gambling debts yet again, no doubt.”
Bess smiled at this. After four years of marriage to Harry she had triumphantly produced twins, Anne and George, and then—to her great grief—no more live babies until Hal had been born eighteen years later. He was in his twenty-first year now, both a delight and a trial to his parents. A delight because, in the Latimar tradition, he was intelligent and handsome, excelling in both intellectual and physical pursuits; he surpassed any other young courtier in the games the ageing Elizabeth Tudor still so delighted in. A trial because he had inherited his fair share of his father’s attraction for the opposite sex and more than his fair share of Harry’s passion for gambling. In his day Harry Latimar had been the most reckless gambler in King Henry Tudor’s court. George, his heir, had never been a problem in this way, nor his sister Anne, so perhaps the taint—or extraordinary talent—had been concentrated in the youngest member of the family. Certainly from the time Hal could deal a deck of cards or roll a pair of dice he had been obsessed with any game of chance.
Catching Bess’s smile, Harry smiled in return. Bess always had a soft spot for a young gambler—after all, she had married one. She might not, he thought, be quite so sympathetic towards Hal’s other obsession—that of women. Apart from saving his younger son from penury every now and again, Harry had, in the last few years, been called upon to placate many an outraged father of a pretty daughter. These fathers would have been quite satisfied if the Latimar boy wanted a permanent liaison with their girls. Such an old established family, favoured by successive monarchs, would have been a welcome link. But Hal never had marriage in mind. No female ever held his interest for more than a few short months.
Harry closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair rest. The years had dealt very kindly with Latimar, but he was in his seventies now, still spare and upright, white-skinned and there was very little silver in his thick black hair. But lately he had had distressing symptoms—a sensation in his breast he could only describe as a hundred horses’ hooves galloping, occasional dizzy turns, and frequent lassitude.
Bess, vigilant as always over her beloved husband, asked immediately, “Are you tired, love?”
“I am,” he admitted. “It is after midnight, you know,” he added hastily. “Now, had you thought when this party might take place?”
“Well, ’tis April now. Allowing for the roads to be fit to travel should Anne and her family come, and before the harvest is upon us here, I thought…June?”
Harry rose stiffly, and stretched. “June…” he said thoughtfully. “That