Read Online Chosen for the Marriage Bed by Anne O'Brien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne O'Brien
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portcullis, her hopes to be dashed again and again when the new arrivals proved to be only more wedding guests.
How could he matter so much to her? She had barely known him for longer than twenty-four hours in her whole life. She sighed as she surveyed the empty road, her fingers clenched against the stone coping. Perhaps he would arrive barely in time to exchange vows at the church door. It could hardly matter to him since this marriage was based on nothing but political necessity. It should not matter to her. She felt her temper rise. It would probably not matter to him even if he were wed in his campaigning gear, travel-soiled, sweat-stained and dusty from a week’s riding along the March. Why she should be concerned with her own appearance, she had no idea. Richard Malinder would only care that the alliance be made.
The days passed, the hour of the marriage drawing closer. What was he doing to be away so long? It came into her mind that Anne Malinder had known the truth. That Richard’s visit to Hereford involved a long-standing relationship with a woman called Joanna. It was like a cold hand closing its fingers around her heart. Elizabeth hid her anxieties behind an impassively solemn exterior, perfected with long practice. But her temper and her patience shortened by the day.
Meanwhile she was beleaguered by well-meaning attempts to improve her appearance and Anne Malinder’s less than subtle hints at her deficiencies.
‘I feel like a goose being fattened for a Twelfth Night feast,’ Elizabeth grumbled as another platter of little venison pasties, crisp and golden, appeared at her right hand as she sat and set the stitches in her wedding gown. Yet Elizabeth, grateful for the concern, duly tried to eat. She must do so if she did not want Richard Malinder to look aghast at the lack of covering on her bones. If he was able to count her ribs, surely he must turn from her in disgust. Doubtless Joanne was an enticing owner of sensual curves to lure Richard to her bed. So she ate.
She found herself under siege as she rubbed Jane’s salves and potions into her hands, as well as drinking, under protest, a bitter decoction of white willow bark to clear and brighten her skin. But it was entirely possible, she decided finally, with a little spurt of pleasure, that the bridal ring would slide easily past her knuckle rather than stick fast.
But it would take a miracle to improve the disaster of her hair. In her worst moments of depression Elizabeth remembered it as it had been. Long and thick and straight. Black with the shining iridescence of a magpie’s feathers. As black as Richard’s. She imagined, unable to resist a smile, his being able to run his fingers through the length of it, before she shook herself back to reality. It still hugged her head in an unlovely manner, a short fur covering. She washed it in the heady liquid of dried lavender flowers steeped in wine that Mistress Bringsty swore by as a tried-and-trusted remedy, but her hair’s growth would be a matter of time that she did not have before her wedding day. It would, she thought, be a matter of devising suitable veiling to cover the worst of the damage. She could not—would not—be wed in a nun-like veil and wimple.
The bridal gown was duly measured, cut and snipped and sewn, the luxurious velvet a deep red, the colour of the best Bordeaux wine, guar an teed to flatter and draw colour into her pale cheeks, a gown to disguise distressingly sharp collar bones and an unfortunately flat chest. And what a miracle, Elizabeth considered cynically, that Richard Malinder should have been thoughtful enough to provide it for her.
‘What a lovely gown this will be,’ Anne Malinder announced. ‘And what a shame you do not have the bosom to carry so fashionable a bodice. I could do so, of course. My own gown for this occasion is fashioned on one of Queen Margaret’s herself. Now her figure is magnificently proportioned.’ Anne allowed her gaze to rest
How could he matter so much to her? She had barely known him for longer than twenty-four hours in her whole life. She sighed as she surveyed the empty road, her fingers clenched against the stone coping. Perhaps he would arrive barely in time to exchange vows at the church door. It could hardly matter to him since this marriage was based on nothing but political necessity. It should not matter to her. She felt her temper rise. It would probably not matter to him even if he were wed in his campaigning gear, travel-soiled, sweat-stained and dusty from a week’s riding along the March. Why she should be concerned with her own appearance, she had no idea. Richard Malinder would only care that the alliance be made.
The days passed, the hour of the marriage drawing closer. What was he doing to be away so long? It came into her mind that Anne Malinder had known the truth. That Richard’s visit to Hereford involved a long-standing relationship with a woman called Joanna. It was like a cold hand closing its fingers around her heart. Elizabeth hid her anxieties behind an impassively solemn exterior, perfected with long practice. But her temper and her patience shortened by the day.
Meanwhile she was beleaguered by well-meaning attempts to improve her appearance and Anne Malinder’s less than subtle hints at her deficiencies.
‘I feel like a goose being fattened for a Twelfth Night feast,’ Elizabeth grumbled as another platter of little venison pasties, crisp and golden, appeared at her right hand as she sat and set the stitches in her wedding gown. Yet Elizabeth, grateful for the concern, duly tried to eat. She must do so if she did not want Richard Malinder to look aghast at the lack of covering on her bones. If he was able to count her ribs, surely he must turn from her in disgust. Doubtless Joanne was an enticing owner of sensual curves to lure Richard to her bed. So she ate.
She found herself under siege as she rubbed Jane’s salves and potions into her hands, as well as drinking, under protest, a bitter decoction of white willow bark to clear and brighten her skin. But it was entirely possible, she decided finally, with a little spurt of pleasure, that the bridal ring would slide easily past her knuckle rather than stick fast.
But it would take a miracle to improve the disaster of her hair. In her worst moments of depression Elizabeth remembered it as it had been. Long and thick and straight. Black with the shining iridescence of a magpie’s feathers. As black as Richard’s. She imagined, unable to resist a smile, his being able to run his fingers through the length of it, before she shook herself back to reality. It still hugged her head in an unlovely manner, a short fur covering. She washed it in the heady liquid of dried lavender flowers steeped in wine that Mistress Bringsty swore by as a tried-and-trusted remedy, but her hair’s growth would be a matter of time that she did not have before her wedding day. It would, she thought, be a matter of devising suitable veiling to cover the worst of the damage. She could not—would not—be wed in a nun-like veil and wimple.
The bridal gown was duly measured, cut and snipped and sewn, the luxurious velvet a deep red, the colour of the best Bordeaux wine, guar an teed to flatter and draw colour into her pale cheeks, a gown to disguise distressingly sharp collar bones and an unfortunately flat chest. And what a miracle, Elizabeth considered cynically, that Richard Malinder should have been thoughtful enough to provide it for her.
‘What a lovely gown this will be,’ Anne Malinder announced. ‘And what a shame you do not have the bosom to carry so fashionable a bodice. I could do so, of course. My own gown for this occasion is fashioned on one of Queen Margaret’s herself. Now her figure is magnificently proportioned.’ Anne allowed her gaze to rest
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