The Widow's Kiss

Hugh had a sudden picture of what awaited Guinevere in London.
What was he doing? Conspiring in the downfall of this woman and her children?

A cloud that had obscured the moon drifted away and the garden was bathed in silver moonlight. Guinevere's upturned face had a translucent beauty as she threw her challenge at him. And it happened to him again, that bewildering sensation of losing his balance, his focus, so that he was certain of nothing but a confused swirl of emotion. He saw that she had read his expression, that she had seen the abrupt unbidden surge of desire in his eyes.

Without volition, he bent and took her mouth with his own. For a moment the world receded. His hands spanned her narrow back, pulling her against him, and her mouth opened beneath his. He tasted her warm richness as her tongue explored his mouth; he inhaled the fragrance of her hair and skin. His senses spun and as she leaned into him her body quivered with her own responding desire. Their tongues moved in a greedy dance of passion and she sucked on his lower lip as if it were a ripe plum.

Then she broke away from him. The passion died slowly from her eyes, a strange horror taking its place as she stood looking at him like a cornered fox; then she was gone.

Hugh touched his mouth, then he swore beneath his breath.
How had that happened?

THE WIDOW'S KISS

THE LEAST LIKELY BRIDE

“Add a bit of ‘wrecking’ by a dastardly nobleman who wants to marry Olivia for her fortune, along with the skullduggery of a stepbrother she loathes, and you have a typically engaging romance à la Feather.”

—
The Brazosport Facts

A VALENTINE WEDDING

THE HOSTAGE BRIDE

THE SILVER ROSE

VICE

VIOLET

VALENTINE

VIXEN

VIRTUE

Also by Jane Feather

VICE

VANITY

VIOLET

VALENTINE

VELVET

VIXEN

VIRTUE

THE DIAMOND SLIPPER

THE SILVER ROSE

THE EMERALD SWAN

THE HOSTAGE BRIDE

A VALENTINE WEDDING

THE ACCIDENTAL BRIDE

THE LEAST LIKELY BRIDE

ALMOST INNOCENT

TO KISS A SPY KISSED BY SHADOWS

and soon in paperback

VENUS

Derbyshire, England—September, 1536

T
he woman stood by the open window, the soft breeze stirring the folds of her blue silk hood as it hung down her back. She stood very still and straight, her dark gown shadowy against the dense velvet of the opened window curtains.

She heard him in the corridor outside, his heavy lumbering step. She could picture his large frame lurching from side to side as he approached. Now he was outside the great oak door. She could hear his labored breathing. She could picture his bloodshot eyes, his reddened countenance, his lips slack with exertion.

The door burst open. Her husband filled the doorway, his richly jeweled gown swirling about him.

“By God, madam! You would dare to speak to me in such wise at my own table! In the hearing of our guests, of the household, scullions even!” A shower of spittle accompanied the slurred words as he advanced into the chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. It shivered on its hinges.

The woman stood her ground beside the window, her hands clasped quietly against her skirts. “And I say to you, husband, that if you ever threaten one of my daughters again, you will rue the day.” Her voice was barely above a
whisper but the words came at him with the power of thunder.

For a second he seemed to hesitate, then he lunged for her with clenched fists upraised. Still she stood her ground, a slight derisive smile on her lips, her eyes, purple as sloes, fixed upon his face with such contempt he bellowed in drunken rage.

As he reached her—one fist aimed at her pale face beneath its jeweled headdress, his only thought to smash the smile from her lips, to close the hateful contempt in her eyes—she stepped aside. Her foot caught his ankle and the speed and weight of his charge carried him forward.

For a second he seemed to hover at the very brink of the dark space beyond the low-silled window, then he twisted and fell. A shriek of astounded terror accompanied his plunge to the flagstones below.

The woman twitched aside the curtain so that she could look down without being seen. At first in the dark depths below the window she could make out nothing, then came the sound of upraised voices, the tread of many feet; light flickered as torch men came running from the four corners of the courtyard. And now, in the light, she could see the dark crumpled shape of her husband.

How small he looked, she thought, clasping her elbows across her breast with a little tremor. So much malevolence, so much violence, reduced, deflated, to that inert heap.

And then she seemed to come to life. She moved back swiftly to the far side of the chamber where a small door gave onto the garderobe. She slipped into the small privy and stood for a second, listening. Running feet sounded in the corridor beyond her chamber. There was a loud knocking, then she heard the latch lift. As the door was flung wide she stepped out of the garderobe, hastily smoothing down her skirts.

An elderly woman stood in the doorway, her hair tucked
beneath a white linen coif. “Ay! Ay! Ay!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “What is it, my chuck? What has happened here?” Behind her, curious faces pressed over her shoulder.

The woman spoke to those faces, her voice measured, calming. “I don’t know, Tilly. Lord Stephen came in while I was in the garderobe. He called to me. I was occupied … I couldn’t come to him immediately. He grew impatient … but …” She gave a little helpless shrug. “In his agitation, he must have lost his balance … fallen from the window. I didn’t see what happened.”

“Ay … ay … ay,” the other woman repeated, almost to herself. “And ’tis the fourth! Lord-a-mercy.” She crossed herself, shaking her head.

“Lord Stephen was drunk,” the younger woman said evenly. “Everyone knew it … in the hall, at table. He could barely see straight. I must go down.” She hurried past the woman, past the crowd of gaping servants, gathering her skirts to facilitate her step.

Her steward came running across the great hall as she came down the stairs. “My lady … my lady … such a terrible thing.”

“What happened, Master Crowder? Does anyone know?”

The black-clad steward shook his head and the loosened lappets of his bonnet flapped at his ears like crows’ wings. “Did you not see it, my lady? We thought you must have known what happened. ’Twas from your chamber window that he fell.”

“I was in the garderobe,” she said shortly. “Lord Stephen was drunk, Master Crowder. He must have lost his footing … his balance. It was ever thus.”

“Aye, ’tis true enough, madam. ’Twas ever thus with his lordship.” The steward followed her out into the courtyard where a crowd stood around the fallen man.

They gave way before the lady of the house who knelt
on the cobbles beside her husband. His neck was at an odd angle and blood pooled beneath his head. She placed a finger for form's sake against the pulse in his neck. Then with a sigh sat back on her heels, the dark folds of her gown spreading around her.

“Where is Master Grice?”

“Here, my lady.” The priest came running from his little lodging behind the chapel, adjusting his gown as he came. “I heard the commotion, but I …” He stopped as he reached the body. His rosary beads clicked between his fingers as he gazed down and said with a heavy sigh, “May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Lord Stephen's wife. She rose to her feet in a graceful movement. “Take my lord's body to the chapel to be washed and prepared. We will say a Mass at dawn. He will lie in state for the respects of the household and the tenants before his burial tomorrow evening.”

She turned and made her way back through the crowd, back into the house, ducking her head as she stepped through the small door that was set into the larger one to keep the cold and the draughts from invading the hall.

Lady Guinevere was a widow once more.