The Virgin Proxy Read Online Free PDF Page B

winter footwear, she thought—some fancy, frivolous Norman design. The sticky sweet odor of mead hung heavy about his person and she suspected he would have been parallel to the floor, if not for the amused soldiers standing close on either side of him. Somehow they all got through the service.
     
    * * * *
     
    At the wedding feast he occasionally caught her looking at him, but she always turned away quickly. Thierry sat beside her, at the far end of the long trestle table, and she was soon engaged in conversation with him. Then her face was animated, glowing in the light of the candles. He saw Thierry shift closer, probably using the excuse of not being able to hear above the general noise. They were almost touching. Watching from his distant place of honor, Guy tore another bite of roasted pheasant with his teeth, chewing hard, not tasting. He would have given all his victories and rewards tonight to change seats with Thierry.
    “Shall I pour you more wine, my husband?”
    The woman at his side was overly solicitous, stretching his nerves even thinner. He shot her a quick glance. Yes, she was pretty enough. During the chapel service he’d lifted her veil, folding it back over her hair to reveal a face of good symmetry and fine, translucent skin. He should be well satisfied with the bride he’d been sent. But she did not draw him in as the other did. She did not tempt him the same way.
    He nodded, holding out his empty flagon for more wine. His bride smiled, but it was shallow, self-conscious. Her eyes were guarded; they did not reach into his soul and demand attention.
    “Tell me, my lady Sybilia, who is your handmaid? A relative?” They had very similar coloring and build.
    “Deorwynn?” Her lashes fluttered. “Oh, she is a poor orphan from the convent. I let her come with me out of charity.”
    “Deorwynn,” he ran the name over his tongue, testing it.
    “Yes, my lord, a peasant girl the nun’s took in. A Saxon. Why do you ask?” She nibbled daintily on her bread.
    Because I’m thinking of fucking her senseless at the first opportunity , he mused, savagely biting into the meat again, his eyes on the girl at the far end of his table. She had just laughed at something Thierry told her and Guy felt a painful stitch in his chest. Was he eating too fast? Winded, he dropped the clean bone to his platter.
    The gown she wore was too closely fitted, the wool hugging her too intimately, as if she outgrew it a few years ago but never had a new one made. She wore a shift beneath—the white visible just above the neckline and at her wrists—but even that layer did not protect her modesty. Those delightful, rounded titties were accentuated whenever she moved and the material tugged, catching on a pert pair of nipples just begging for his lips. He rolled a small piece of juicy meat on his tongue and swallowed.
    “It seems your man has taken an interest in my handmaid. As you have. My lord.”
    He barely heard the words at his elbow, but her sharp tone was felt and noted. Turning his head he glowered down at the other woman. “What?”
    His “bride” exhaled a querulous half laugh. “Nothing, my lord. You are entitled to look as you please.”
    “Hmm.” And he would do more than look.
    “But I hope you are not disappointed in me.”
    Women. They always needed reassurance. Not like men, who didn’t care what a woman thought of them when they had her.
    “You’ll do very well, Lady Sybilia.” He burped. “We shall have many fine sons together.”
    She seemed temporarily appeased by his remark, soon bold enough to criticize the spices and the wine that she said was too strong for her. Fidgety and nervous, her fingers skimmed each plate, her teeth taking tiny bites, her nose frequently wrinkled in distaste. Sybilia Senclere was exactly what he’d expected—prim, fragile and whiney.
    In truth, if he must marry, he would have preferred to solidify his claim on this parcel of land, as other men like him had done