The Champion. Heather GrothausЧитать онлайн книгу.
set ended then, and the crowd was dispersing evenly from the floor. Nick raised his commandeered chalice to his lips, but his arm paused halfway as he glimpsed the delicate creature being led from the crush by elderly Lord Cecil Halbrook.
She appeared impossibly tiny, even when paired with her portly partner, and Nick fancied that the crown of her head would not reach his shoulder. Her green gown trailed behind her in a regal swath, and when her downcast face tilted slightly in Nick’s direction, his breath seized in his throat.
The greenest eyes he’d ever seen pierced him with their gaze. The lady only glanced at him, a fact that pricked at his pride, before bowing her raven-tressed head once more.
“Fetching, is she not?” Lady Haith asked lightly, once more addressing the brothers.
“Hmmm,” Tristan replied.
Nick shook his head slightly as if to clear away the cobwebs that had enveloped it. “Who is she?”
“Lady Simone du Roche,” Haith said. “Arrived recently from France with her father.”
“Is she game?” Nick’s eyes followed the beauty as Halbrook deposited her on a stool some distance away. Her partner immediately dismissed her and stepped away to speak to a tall, bullish man standing nearby. Left to her own devices, the woman averted her face into her veil, hiding her porcelain features.
“Indeed, she is game,” Tristan replied. “The odd-looking brute to her left is her father, Armand du Roche. ’Twould seem her most recent dance partner has taken more than a passing interest in her.”
“But why would she be presented at English court?” Nick asked. “Surely there was no dearth of French suitors for a titled lady as lovely as she?”
Tristan shrugged and then inclined his head toward his wife. “My lady?”
Haith’s eyes sparkled as she leaned closer to Nick. “There was a fantastic scandal in her homeland. She was betrothed to an old, noble family, but the contract was broken by her intended on the very day they were to wed.” Haith lowered her voice even further. “’Tis said she’s quite mad.”
“Mad?” Nick was only partly listening to the information about the woman he could not take his eyes from.
“’Tis rumored that she hears voices in her head—speaks to people who aren’t there.” Haith sniffed. “But I do not believe that for an instant. I think—”
Nick shoved his brother’s chalice at Haith, effectively silencing her. “I must speak to her,” he said before straightening his slightly rumpled tunic and striding in her direction.
After Nick had departed, Tristan turned to look down at his wife, who still stared intently at the dark-haired woman.
“What think you, my lady?” he asked. “Will Nick make yet another conquest out of the girl?”
A devious smile curled Haith’s lips. “I think mayhap if he is not wary, Nicholas could find himself the one conquered.”
“Might I visit the other hall, Sister?” Didier asked as soon as Simone was returned to her stool. “I saw some wondrous cakes I’d care to sample.”
Simone dropped her chin and turned her head slightly before murmuring, “Nay, Didier. You shall remain here with me until Papa says ’tis time to depart.”
“Why-y-y?” the boy whined, causing Simone to wince. “I’ve not had a sweet in so long—none shall notice me, I swear!”
Simone gave an unladylike snort. “Oh, verily, no one at all would notice tiny morsels of food rising from the buffet and then falling upon the floor.” As soon as the words left her lips, Simone regretted her sarcasm. She softened her tone. “You’ve told me before that you can no longer taste, Didier—what would be the purpose?”
“I can imagine it,” the boy said, casting hurt eyes to the marble floor beneath his feet. “If I try very hard, I can almost recall the taste of honey.”
His words wrenched Simone’s heart, and she smiled sadly at him through her veil. “Mayhap when we return to our rooms, I will have a tray sent up and then you can play a bit.”
Didier sighed. His head popped up once more, and a devilish smile lit his gamine face. “Who’s this coming to visit, I wonder. I’ve not seen him before.”
Simone glanced out of the corner of her eye to see whom Didier was referring to, and nearly gasped aloud.
A large man, easily a half-head taller than Simone’s father, was weaving his way through the crowd toward her. She noticed with an odd sensation in her middle the way the ladies he passed followed him with their eyes in a most familiar manner.
And it was no wonder that he held the female guests’ attention—he certainly had Simone enthralled. From the dark hair curling to his shoulders, the penetrating gaze of his blue eyes that captured Simone’s and held them, the hard line of jaw that chiseled the planes of his face into a sculpture, the man was a god.
His full lips cocked at one corner into a sleepy smile, and the warmth it created in Simone was as delicious as it was unsettling. His fine tunic and cloak indicated that he was a man of wealth and status—or had been, at any rate. The embroidered cloth was stained and wrinkled, and Simone thought she might have glimpsed the straggling threads of a poorly repaired hem. But his gait was confident—even a bit arrogant—as he drew nearer and nearer Simone and her brother.
“Didier,” she hissed in warning. “Not a word.” Simone calmly turned her face from her veil to look at the magnificent man who had stopped before her and was now bowing deeply. He nearly tipped sideways.
“My lady,” he said, the rich timbre of his voice sending warm ripples over Simone’s skin. “I hope you do not perceive me as bold in approaching you without introduction, but I fear I could not restrain myself. Your beauty drew me to you like the lowly moth to a brilliant flame, and I felt I must seize the opportunity to speak to you lest you vanish like the vision you appear to be.”
“Oh, la-la!” Didier laughed directly into Simone’s ear. “Methinks the man wishes your gown to vanish, the way he ogles you!”
Simone’s smile faltered at Didier’s bawdy comment, but she quickly recovered and placed her fingertips in the man’s offered palm.
He bent once more to brush warm, dry lips across her knuckles, his eyes never leaving her face. Simone’s skin tingled even after his touch, and when he spoke again, her stomach felt as though a litter of piglets had been set loose within.
“I am Nicholas FitzTodd, Baron of Crane,” he offered, flashing a glimpse of white, even teeth.
“Oooh,” Didier said in a singsong voice. “A baron!”
Simone stopped gritting her teeth to open her mouth and give the man her name, but he raised a silencing hand.
“Again, forgive me, Lady du Roche,” he offered with a boyish grin. “I must admit that I asked after you upon my arrival.” He gestured discreetly across the breadth of the hall toward a handsome couple. “My brother and his wife are my informants.”
Simone eyed the large blond man and striking redhead warily and was quite disarmed when the woman raised a hand near her face and wiggled her fingers at Simone. Simone inclined her head in acknowledgment before turning her attention once more to the baron.
“Then I must be sure to extend my thanks to them before departing London,” Simone said, her voice husky with the enchantment the man’s very presence seemed to cast over her.
On the floor near her stool, Didier howled. The boy clutched at his ribs and hiccoughed with laughter.
“Do you thirst?” the baron asked. “Might I fetch you some wine?”
“Merci,” Simone replied. The man nodded with a heart-stopping grin and disappeared through the throng once more, and Simone whipped her head about