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My Lady's Favor
Joanne Rock
No Man Would Own Her,Elysia Rougemont swore, though she knew the vow to be mere fancy for a noblewoman such as herself. Now, although fate had spared her one unwanted union, she found herself bound to Conon St. Simeon by virtue of his valor, his chivalry–and the secret stirrings of allconsuming passion!Conon St. Simeon, knight of legendary prowess, would pledge his heart and soul and strong sword arm to Elysia, Countess of Vannes, an independent beauty cloaked in secrets–if she could accept a man with mysteries of his own. For she was a woman like no other…and he wanted no other but her!
“You tempt me, my lady. Too much.”
Elysia did not want him to go. She knew they would not speak again before his departure. Now she couldn’t bear to see Conon leave. Forever.
“But—”
He sealed her protests with one calloused finger laid over her lips. “I will not fail you, Elysia. I promise.” He cupped her cheek in his palm.
It required all her strength not to close her eyes and lean into that strong palm. “God speed, my lord.” She straightened, needing to escape the temptation of his touch. “And thank you.”
Elysia burrowed more deeply into the folds of his surcoat as she watched him walk away, praying he possessed the deep sense of honor she’d glimpsed in him.
By granting Conon her favor, Elysia had also given him a dangerous weapon—all the power he needed to break her heart…!
Praise for Historical author Joanne Rock
“Charming characters, a passionate sexual relationship and an engaging story—it’s all here.”
—Romantic Times on Girl’s Guide to Hunting & Kissing
“Joanne Rock’s talent for writing passionate scenes and vivid characters really sizzles in this story. Even the hot secondary romance has chemistry!”
—Romantic Times on Wild and Wicked
The Wedding Knight
“The Wedding Knight is guaranteed to please! Joanne Rock brings a fresh, vibrant voice to this charming tale.”
—New York Times bestselling author Teresa Medeiros
The Knight’s Redemption
“A highly readable medieval romance with an entertaining touch of the paranormal…. The plot is pleasantly complex, the setting well developed, the heroine and hero traditional and romantic and the ending happily interesting.”
—Romantic Times
My Lady’s Favor
Joanne Rock
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Catherine Cavanaugh, Anne Sheehan and Hollis Seamon, fantastic professors at the College of St. Rose who helped me recognize my love of writing and literature through their support and encouragement. Thank you so much for making English classes such a rich and exciting experience.
And for RoseMarie Manory, who helped history come alive for a non-major. I can’t thank you enough for infusing those lectures about European history with plenty of drama and intrigue!
Also, with loving appreciation to Dean, who appears in some small facet in every hero I’ve ever created, but most especially in Conon St. Simeon.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Chapter One
Brittany, France
Spring 1345
T he garden looks more promising than the groom. Elysia Rougemont stood outside Vannes Keep, admiring the profusion of plants in well-tended rows, hoping to distract herself from thoughts of her upcoming marriage. Thyme and rosemary stood shoulder to shoulder with more frivolous herbs like lavender and sweet marjoram.
Elysia had little use for lavender or marjoram.
The fragrant patch of earth signified the only redeeming feature Elysia could discern about Vannes, the monstrous château that would officially be her home by nightfall—when she would marry the ancient Count of Vannes, Jacques St. Simeon.
She peered back at the keep, a massive structure of stone that went far beyond a simple fortified manor house. Nay, her new home could only be called a fortress, built for war and defense with its abundance of gates and projected fighting galleries that dominated the walls. Her future husband had told her he was a man of peace, but his home did not seem to uphold his words.
Swiping a slipper-clad foot through the warm earth, Elysia tried to concentrate on the pleasing quality of the fertile soil and not her aging sot of a future husband.
She could almost pretend she was back at her own keep in England. No matter that she and her mother had been subject to the will of their overlord since her father’s death six years ago, Elysia had enjoyed their way of life. She’d built a small but thriving linen trade with the help of her mother, a venture she took both pleasure and pride in, a way to distinguish herself in a world that held little appreciation for the feminine arts.
And although now Elysia’s wealth rivaled the most sought-after heiresses on the continent, she could not touch a farthing of it. That right belonged to her overlord, the Earl of Arundel, and would soon pass to her husband.
If her brother hadn’t died last fall before arranging a marriage for her, Elysia might have been home reviewing the progress of her flax fields instead of contemplating the uses of Vannes’s fanciful herbs.
Her wishful vision vanished at the sound of a deep masculine voice.
“Be of good cheer, my somber lady. You are quite fortunate the count is but two steps from the grave.”
Whirling around with a start, Elysia sought the speaker of the callous words. A fragrant gasp of air caught in her throat. Surely the speaker was not the golden vision of a man across the boxwood hedge.
“Excuse me?” Elysia managed, certain she must have misunderstood.
“With any luck, chère,” he continued, “you will be rid of the count before the year is out.”
Of all the foul, crude things to say. She might not desire the marriage, but that did not mean she would wish any man dead. She searched her mind for the most cutting set-down she could give the intruder until he stepped over the boxwoods to stand before her, looking infinitely more intimidating at close range.
Tall and imposingly built, the newcomer was a warrior in his prime. He dressed in deference to the wedding day except for a sword at his waist. The sun shone on his tawny hair and crisp white shirt, lending him the luminous glow. Limned in bright light he appeared a favored son, smiled on by God and nature.
Elysia took a step back, wondering at the wisdom of loitering in the garden alone with a strange knight, no matter how intriguing his intense blue eyes. A niggle of fear forced her to clamp down the retort that rose to her lips. “Please excuse me, sir, I really do not think—”
He drew his knife and Elysia’s heart stopped. There was nowhere to run from a man twice her size and no doubt twice as fast.
Bending, he applied the blade to the stem of a pink rose blooming on a low trellis. Exuding perfect courtly manners, he extended the blossom to her.
“I mean only to compliment your auspicious marriage.” His scornful blue eyes contradicted the deferential air of a brief bow. “It seems a fair bet your husband will leave you a very wealthy widow by Yuletide.”
Appalled at his audacity, Elysia could only stare at the insincere token he’d given her. “What wealth can any woman truly claim, sir? Widow or not, I will forever be ruled by one man or another.”
The knight reached toward her. An inner voice screamed at Elysia to move away from him, but he possessed some compelling quality that left her rooted to the spot.
His fingertip grazed the egg-size emerald dangling from a necklace her betrothed had presented to her as a wedding gift. She could almost fancy that she felt the heat of his hand through the impassive stone.
His eyes were alight with an emotion Elysia could only guess at. Perhaps it was wistfulness she spied as he stared first at the jewel, and then at her. “You stand to inherit a centuries-old dower property, my lady. I shouldn’t think you are too disappointed in this match.”
The news of it had almost killed her, in fact, but what would this coarse man understand of her dreams?
“And the rewards would be even better,” the stranger continued, fingering a fragrant blossom, “if you can only manage to bear an heir—”
“Enough.” She barely whispered the sentiment, anger robbing her of her voice. It did not matter that his words mirrored those of her overlord, the Earl of Arundel, when he had announced she must wed the lord of Vannes Keep a scant two moons prior. Elysia threw the rose at his feet, but not before one of its sharp thorns tore her thumb.
“You think I purposely sought the lord of Vannes for a husband?” Ever since her father died, she had told herself she would only wed a man who recognized a woman’s true worth and not just the size of her bridal portion. Her parents had found the fulfillment of true love, and while it hurt to lose her father while she was naught but a girl, she’d consoled herself that at least he had been happy. “As if I were so eager to trade every shred of pleasure I’ve ever known. How dare you?”
“No, lady, there will be some gossips who whisper how dare you, when you walk away with a lucrative property after a scant year at the count’s side.” His grin remained as disarming as the first moment she saw it, at odds with his scathing remarks. “But not I.”
She considered fleeing, but some part of her feared offending her husband’s wedding guest, no matter how discourteous. She was no longer mistress of her own actions—she had a husband to answer to now. A husband who had seen naught but her bridal portion when he looked at her.
So much for the idle dreams of her girlhood.
The stranger lifted her hand to examine the small cut on her thumb. Blood trickled down to her knuckle in a crimson stream against her pale skin. Wiping the red trail away with his finger, he stepped closer still.
Never had anyone dared to touch her in so brazen a manner. She became aware of the heat of his body, her own racing pulse.
He retained his hold, lifting his gaze to hers. “The bride has my complete and heartfelt best wishes.”
The slight lift at the corner of his lips mesmerized her. He loomed nearer as he bent over her hand and kissed the soft pad of her injured thumb.
Her flesh tingled under his lips for one frozen moment, and then indignation reared through her at his impudence. She wrenched her fingers from his grasp.
He bowed with mocking reverence. “Good luck, chère.”
Infuriated by his disrespect, more upset by her own inaction, Elysia could no longer hold her tongue. Who was this man? And why did he seem so intent on piercing her with his disdain, his words finding their mark as effectively as the rose’s thorny stem?
“You can be certain the count will hear of your taunts, sir.” Thankfully, her voice did not quaver the way her insides did. Although his words stung and his kiss was meant to be insulting, Elysia could not help wondering why her future husband could not look more like this man, whom she guessed to be some ten years older than her eighteen summers. “May I tell him whom among his guests thinks so little of him that they would accost his bride and insult the sacred nature of his wedding vows?”
His smile came as easily as it had before, as if the man was long accustomed to charming his way out of trouble.
“Tell him his nephew, Conon St. Simeon, has been kind enough to welcome our English guest on this momentous day.” He made a curt bow. “I am certain he will approve.”
“Are you, my lord?” Recklessness crashed through her in time with her anger. She ignored the discomfiting thought of this imposing creature as her nephew by marriage. “I am not so certain he will appreciate your speculation on his demise. Perhaps you would be wise to keep your distance.”
The golden-haired stranger quirked a brow. “Perhaps you would be wise to hold your tongue with my uncle. I assure you he will not find your wayward mouth half as…entertaining as I do.”
Bowing again, the knight turned on his heel and left, disappearing into a grove of yew trees on the garden’s south end.
The cad. Oddly, they had agreed on one thing. The younger St. Simeon opposed this marriage as adamantly as she did. Elysia bent to retrieve the flower he’d given her. She caressed its soft petals, telling herself the bloom should not be wasted merely because it had been presented by a churlish knave.
Did he stand to lose his position in the family now that she would wed his uncle? Perhaps that’s why he’d been rude. Didn’t he realize he could follow his dreams? He was not dependent upon a man as she was. No matter how successful her linen trade had grown, she’d known the day would arrive when her overlord would steal it out of her hands and make her wed. Now that the day had arrived, she had little patience for Conon’s taunts when he had the world at his feet.
She grazed the rose across her cheek, reminding herself that resentment would not alter the outcome of this day. She was fated to become the next Countess of Vannes, to wed a man older than her father would be now.
God have mercy on him. She thought of her father and smiled, knowing that if he were alive, she would not be forced to wed the count. Or if she had wed someone last fall, before her brother, Robin, died, she might have had some choice in the matter. But she had put the matter off, happy to immerse herself in pleasant labor, consumed with running the linen trade. Now she would pay the price for failing to choose a husband.
Only one thing could halt the wedding to Jacques St. Simeon today, and she planned to try it right away.
