The emerald necklace glittering about her neck answered that question clearly enough. His uncle’s betrothed might have intrigued him, but she was no doubt as greedy as every other minor heiress that had traversed Vannes’s threshold the last five years. Women of all ages were willing to wed a drunken old man for the security of his money. Why would Elysia be any different? Tonight she would assure her future while Conon questioned his own, but for love of his uncle, Conon vowed he would harbor no malice. Tomorrow he would obtain freedom from Vannes forever. The niggling of temptation Elysia presented would be easily ignored once Conon was on the other side of the continent.
As he watched the dignified woman in green wend her way through the crowd to join Uncle Jacques, Conon knew he had to thank her even as he resented her. She might be effectively ending any hopes for inheritance, but she would also provide him with the only extended independence he’d ever known.
If he used that freedom wisely, perhaps he would be the one greeting a breathless bride on the chapel steps in a few years’ time.
Heaven help him, he hoped his bride welcomed him more warmly than the aloof Lady Elysia.
Heaven help her, Elysia hated being a bride.
The wedding had passed in a blur of Latin and rice, until at last she and the lord of Vannes were seated at their banquet table.
She perched beside her new husband in the glow of the evening’s torchlight and watched him down the contents of his cup for at least the tenth time. After he called for a refill, Elysia pretended not to notice as he pinched the wine bearer’s backside. Although she resented having to marry such an odious creature, Elysia would not allow her dignity to crumple because of him.
The count was a huge man. He was reputed to have been a formidable warrior in his day, but it had been many years since he gave a care to his health. His jeweled sword belt did nothing to hide his girth, one of many indications that he indulged himself too freely. His ruddy nose and the high color in his cheeks suggested that he consumed great amounts of wine along with his ravenous appetite for food.
For this, Elysia did not condemn him. His penchant for ogling every woman under fifty, however, gave her a sense of impending doom.
Shuddering, she turned away from him to sweep the great hall with her gaze. She tried to ignore her husband’s arrogant nephew. Conon St. Simeon sat at the table closest to the dais, a giggling beauty wrapped about him. The younger St. Simeon displayed none of the defects of the elder. Strong, handsome, articulate, he held the crowd at his table in thrall with some tale or another, his animated face and wild gestures bespeaking only good humor, not drunkenness.
Elysia knew from his behavior in the garden this morning that he was not the angel among men he appeared. His lingering kiss and forward manner proved his lack of chivalry.
She did not mention Conon’s behavior to the count. Nor did she have any intention of doing so. She spoke little to her husband, who seemed just as happy to immerse himself in good food and abundant wine.
Elysia’s overlord, the earl of Arundel, leaned close on her other side. “You must admit, Vannes Keep is far more sophisticated than your little stone tower at Nevering.” The earl smiled benevolently, as if ready to forgive her for not wanting to come to France.
“Nevering is far more than a little stone tower, my lord, and we are both well aware of it.” Elysia could not help the edge to her voice since she had striven for years to make Nevering a strong keep as well as a gracious home. Besides, fear about the night ahead knotted her belly.
“Ah, but here you will be a lady of leisure,” her former overlord countered. “The count will provide well for you, and you will not have the worries associated with the linen trade. You can rest easy knowing Sir Oliver Westmoor will take good care of Nevering and watch over your mother.”
He will soak up all the profits until he runs the holding into the ground. She mustered a tight smile that hurt her face to bestow. Did he expect her to thank him for reminding her of the greedy neighboring lord back home who coveted Nevering and its modest wealth?
A tall knight approached them, bowing deeply before the dais table. “My lord,” the newcomer addressed the count, though he wore Arundel’s colors on his sleeve. “Might I hope for an introduction to the bride?”
The count leaned close to Elysia. “My dear, this is Sir John Huntley, Arundel’s right arm in battle.”
Elysia took in the looming height of the tall knight, his angular features and sandy brown hair pleasant enough, though his eyes held a lingering familiarity that uneased her. Her new husband draped a heavy arm about Elysia’s shoulders to draw her near to him, his bejeweled surcoat scratching her skin through her fine silken garment. The informality of his manner announced his drunkenness to the entire hall while the attending knight bowed again.
Arundel leaned over to whisper, “He is as important to me on the field as Sir Oliver is to me back home.”
Even if John Huntley had not been looking at her as a cat eyes a caged bird, the comparison to Sir Oliver would have put her on guard.
“Huntley,” Jacques continued. “The new Countess of Vannes, Elysia St. Simeon.”
She had no choice but to offer her hand, which the well-favored warrior quickly kissed.
“I am pleased to meet you, sir.” She smiled so as not to offend her husband, but her fear and apprehension of the coming night grew to painful proportions as the count squeezed her to him in a proprietary gesture.
“It is the greatest of honors, my lady.” Huntley straightened. “I beg you to consider me your champion and protector should you ever be in need of one.”
“Gallant words, son.” The count laughed, allowing his touch to stray down Elysia’s hip. “But I daresay she has all the man she needs.”
The lavish jewels on the count’s fingers snagged in her gown. His rotund body radiated warmth as if she were seated near a brazier. Elysia tilted her head to one side to escape his pungent breath on her cheek.
Bowing, Huntley departed, though Elysia felt his eyes upon her at all times.
Through the count’s uproarious mirth, Elysia heard a persistent ringing in the hall. As others became aware of it and quieted to listen, all eyes turned to Conon St. Simeon, banging his knife against his silver cup for the guests’ attention. Elysia edged away from the count, eager to put as much distance between them as possible.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Conon called, rising to his feet as the hall paused in its merrymaking. “A toast to the count and his bride.”
“Conon is my nephew,” the count whispered, wrapping one heavy arm about her waist and pulling her close to him once again. Elysia tried to mask the shudder that went through her at his touch. His breath nauseated her while his sweaty hands left damp imprints on the silk layers of her gown’s overskirt. Apparently his drunken state had robbed him of all sense of propriety.
Conon approached the table and raised his glass to the new couple. Elysia found it impossible to meet his gaze, as if he might be able to guess she had been thinking about him all day.
Intellectually, Elysia knew it did not matter whether she wed a handsome young man or an elderly lord. Marriage signified the end of a woman’s limited freedom, and a lifetime of domination by a man. Yet she couldn’t help but look at the count and wish fate had presented her with a more desirable groom.
“I wish you health and happiness and many babes to share your joy.” Conon’s voice rumbled through the hall as he made his pledge.
Elysia’s face flamed.
“May you make our name one to be feared and respected,” he continued. “And may your children be stalwart guardians of Vannes for another generation.