The King's Sister. Anne O'Brien

we not?’ Isabella smiled at me as she collected her women and followed the Queen.

      She was so very beautiful even if she lacked inches. It made a man protective of her, I supposed. If that was so, no man would be protective of me. I had inherited my father’s generous height.

      I hated that Isabella thought I was a rival for John Holland’s attention. But after today I was not. He had shown me that I was of no value to him. What had made me think otherwise? As Princess Joan had observed, I would benefit from some maturity.

      ‘Will you dance with me, Countess?’

      His lips curved confidently. His hand, extended, had an element of command about it, as if it would be impossible for me to refuse an invitation from the victor of the joust. I looked at him, at the hand, finely boned, the fingers that had today gripped a lance with intent now heavy with gems. I looked at his face, the saturnine lines that spoke of temper and passion. At the knowing gleam in his eye, dark as a kestrel’s.

      Infinitesimally I tilted my head.

      The insufferable arrogance of the man. Don’t trust a man who is arrogant. My father was a man of arrogance, but that was an entirely different matter. I would not trust John Holland ever again. Had I not known that he would make this invitation, as if he had not spent the afternoon as the prime object of Duchess Isabella’s lust?

      I smiled.

      I curtsied to John Holland, more deeply than was entirely necessary from one of my rank.

      ‘It would be my pleasure to dance, Sir John.’ It was in my mind to turn a chilly shoulder but that would put me too much into his power. I knew he would make much of the slightest indication that I knew full well that today he had slighted me, after seeking me out yesterday. Ignore a woman and she will come to your hand out of pique, as a lonely lapdog will come to be petted. I recognised the game and I would not play it.

      ‘The music has begun,’ he remarked, his smile quizzical as I lingered. ‘We will miss it unless you step smartly.’

      ‘I am honoured. Thank you, sir,’ I said. Then seeing a perfect alternative presented to me. ‘But I will dance with my husband.’

      ‘Does he know?’ The eloquent brows rose.

      ‘Of course. Here he is, come to claim my hand.’

      ‘My lady!’ Jonty, approaching at a fast lope, was deliciously decorous. ‘Will you partner me?’

      With a gracious smile I inclined my head and joined my hand with Jonty’s, who led me through the steps with lively skill and some well-practised exactitude, during which I did not once glance in John Holland’s direction.

      ‘Am I getting better?’ Jonty asked at the end, only a little breathless. His energy was prodigious.

      ‘Marginally. You only trod once on my foot.’

      Jonty grinned. ‘I must leave you now, madam.’

      ‘And why is that?’

      ‘My lord the Duke has need of me to take a message.’

      ‘Then you must go.’ I straightened the fur at the neckline of his expensive tunic. ‘It would not do to keep the Duke waiting.’

      ‘No, madam.’

      I watched him go, darting between the crowds, not so much to take a message, I decided with a wry smile, but to join a group of equally furtive pages up to no good. Wives did not figure highly in the Earl of Pembroke’s plans. I wondered who had sent him to dance with me. I knew enough about Jonty to doubt it was of his own initiative.

      For a moment I stood alone, conscious of my aloneness, which was ridiculous since I knew every face at the gathering. And yet in that moment I felt isolated, a little sad, as if I had lost my secure footing on the path to my future. Yet why should I not be secure? I was Countess of Pembroke with an income to fit my status. Soon I would have my own household. Until that time I could enjoy my days at Richard’s court. By what right was I forlorn?

      Because, I acknowledged, I needed someone who could stir my blood with passion. A man who could make my heart sing. Jonty would never do that for me, so I was destined to live a half-life, without passion, without knowing the hot desires of love.

      And I was forlorn because the man I had painted as my hero had feet of clay and a place in another woman’s bed.

      My heart sank even lower.

      And there was John Holland with malice in his twisted smile.

      ‘Will you dance with me, Countess?’

      Having no excuse this time, and because that smile made my heart jolt just a little, I curtsied and complied with impressive serenity.

      ‘It would be my pleasure.’

      The glint in his eye told me that he had acknowledged the repetition of our courtly exchange, but he made no comment as we joined the circle and began the slow movement to right and left. No one had sent John Holland to dance with me. He had done it of his own free will, and probably, if I read him aright, to make mischief.

      Yet my spirits lifted and danced with the music.

      ‘Was the Princess warning you to keep your distance from me?’ he asked.

      ‘How should she? There is no need to so warn a wedded woman.’ I moved away in the pattern of the dance, to return with neat steps to hear his reply.

      ‘How true. You are the perfect married couple. Your eye will never stray.’

      His sardonic expression disturbed me. How well he read my situation. How well he read my mind. For a moment I was struck by the thought that we were kindred spirits, both moved by impulses, both driven by strong emotions.

      Which was of course nonsense. I was nothing like John Holland.

      ‘Unlike your own eye, Sir John,’ I observed.

      ‘Unlike mine. But I have no wife to keep my eye secure on its prime objective.’

      I moved beneath his arm, lifting my skirts so that the silk damask slid and gleamed, close enough to my partner for me to remark, ‘no, but the lady who took your eye today has a husband.’

      ‘Ha! The Duke of York is nothing but a bag of wind!’ His scorn coated us both. ‘Of course she is bored, looking for entertainment.’

      ‘Which you provide, Sir John? I’m told you have intimate knowledge of her.’

      ‘Passing intimate. Enough to know she has a voracious desire for entertainment.’

      Again we parted, giving me time to replenish my armoury, as I was led on from hand to hand, to return to accuse: ‘So it is the Duchess’s fault that you are lured into an affair of the heart with her?’

      ‘I doubt her heart’s involved. Are we speaking of blame?’

      ‘Certainly not.’

      ‘Are you jealous, Countess?’

      ‘Not I. I have a care for my reputation.’

      ‘And you would never contemplate endangering the purity of that reputation by embarking on an intimate affair with a man who took your interest.’

      ‘Certainly not,’ I repeated, meeting his eye with what I hoped he read as indifference.

      With warmth rising to colour my cheeks, I was not as certain as once I had been.

      Sir John raised his hand to lead me round, stealing a quick kiss against my wrist as our bodies came close.

      ‘I can feel your blood running hot,’ he whispered.

      ‘Because I am dancing, perhaps?’

      ‘I wager it did not do so when your husband danced with you.’

      Our parting in the dance meant that I need not reply.

      And