Mistaken for a Lady Read Online Free PDF

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    Unless—Francesca’s stomach sank—Tristan was extremely possessive. Perhaps he had come to tell her their union was to be dissolved and he had claimed her only because until their marriage was over she remained his. Sad to say, the decision was in Tristan’s hands, she would have little influence. Tristan le Beau was Count of the Isles, she was no one.
    Pushing the news from Fontaine to the back of her mind, she cleared her throat. ‘Have you called for an annulment, my lord?’
    â€˜Not yet.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Why the hurry?’
    She gave a quiet laugh and felt the happiness slowly ebb away until there was only the familiar uncertainty. What were his intentions? ‘Why the hurry? Tristan, it’s been two years since we have been in each other’s company, that is hardly a hurry.’
    A loud knocking made her start.
    The door rattled and Tristan groaned. ‘Holy hell.’
    Another bang had the door jump on its hinges. ‘Who’s in there?’ It was a man’s voice, edged with impatience. ‘Open up!’
    Tristan made for the door.
    â€˜Tristan, a moment, if you please.’ Cheeks scorching, Francesca straightened her gown. Heaven help her, she had lost her veil and dropped her mask and the lack of light meant she had no hope of finding them.
    â€˜Open this door!’
    â€˜Gervase, is that you?’ Tristan asked.
    â€˜Aye, open up. Open up at once.’ The door shook. ‘Hurry, or I’ll have the guard smash their way in.’
    â€˜Calm down, man. It’s Tristan, Tristan des Iles.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Tristan des Iles.’
    â€˜What in Hades are you doing here? I thought you were in Brittany.’
    Tristan gave a curt laugh. ‘I’ll be out shortly. Then you’ll understand.’
    Francesca dropped to her knees and groped around on the floor, desperate to find her mask and veil. Nothing. The cool flags, the edge of the chamber, the wooden desk leg—it was hopeless. With a sigh, she straightened and smoothed her hair. She could hear more rustling. Tristan was doubtless tidying himself too. She had an unsettling recollection of dragging his tunic free of his belt so she could run her hands over his chest.
    Why had he kissed her? He hadn’t denied that he needed an annulment. He would need a more propitious marriage. He shouldn’t have kissed her!
    And she should not have responded.
    â€˜Ready, Francesca?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    The bolt scraped and the latch clicked. Light filled the chamber as Sir Gervase crossed the threshold, a lantern in hand. Glancing over his shoulder—half the palace seemed to be congregated in the corridor—Sir Gervase pulled the door firmly shut. His mouth curled into a knowing grin.
    Francesca’s heart ached and her cheeks were on fire. It was obvious what she and Tristan had been doing. In truth, it looked as though they had done far more than kiss—her veil and mask lay in a corner and Tristan was adjusting his belt.
    Sir Gervase’s eyes danced. ‘Tristan, you devil.’ He gave Francesca a puzzled look. ‘Who is this lady?’
    â€˜This, Gervase, is my wife, the Countess Francesca des Iles.’
    * * *
    By the time they left the chamber, Francesca had put on her veil and her mask was firmly in place. Tristan’s appearance had her mind in a shambles. Not only that, she was mortified, it was obvious that Count Henry’s steward thought he had interrupted a passionate tryst. Grateful that the mask would hide the worst of her blushes, she let Tristan take her hand in a firm grip and march her through a boisterous and nosy crowd. Grinning onlookers stood aside to let them pass.
    Tristan didn’t trouble to replace his helmet, everyone knew exactly who he was. There were several sniggers and, out of the corner of her eye, Francesca saw a lewd gesture.
    Someone hissed. ‘Tristan le Beau.’
    â€˜Aye, but