Battle-Torn Bride. Anne O'Brien

could I not flatter so lovely a lady? But it comes from a heart which you hold within these pretty fingers.” He tightened his clasp on her hand as they moved closer together in the dance.

      “Lord Richard!”

      “Mistress Hatton!”

      Perforce they separated again. But she never took her eyes from him. And then they were together once more, one of his arms firmly around her waist as they trod the lively steps.

      “I think I have fallen in love with you. What do you think?” He whispered the words against her ear.

      She glanced up. “Is your heart beating as fast as mine, my lord?”

      “Undoubtedly, lady. It beats for you.”

      “Then I think you could very well be right.”

      And he had been. Somewhere between the festive carol–dance and the intricate steps of the sprightly pavane, he had fallen in love. As effortlessly and completely as that.

      It had presented a soldier adept in military tactics with no difficulty at all to organise any number of private meetings with the lady. Where eventually he could persuade her compliance in a kiss, a close embrace. Although, as he recalled, she had needed little persuasion, only reassurance for her innocence. Her emotions were as engaged as his and they had yearned for more than a stolen kiss. He had wanted marriage, and so had she.

      They had discovered one particular gallery, little more than a corridor between one reception room and another in the vast Palace of Westminster. But it was blessed with window seats, and too cold for most to brave except through necessity. It had been witness to their exchanged vows of love. When she had shivered in a brisk draft he had taken off his fur–lined cloak to wrap it round her, to envelop her in its heavy warmth. She had sighed with pleasure and leaned in to him. Until a lady and gentleman had walked past, with slanted glances, knowing smiles.

      “We must go. I think I should not be alone here with you. My mother would not approve.” She had tightened nervous fingers on his arm.

      “And your father would probably have me whipped from the palace!” He had smiled his understanding. “My lovely Beatrice—will you grant me one privilege before we go?”

      “I might.” Her teeth gleamed in the shadows.

      “Your hair, lady. Will you let me unpin your hair?”