The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,33

pursing, “—has the most wonderful accent. I never liked the Irish before—uncouth as they are—but he seems different, doesn’t he, Philip?”

Philip had quietly followed his sister through the nursery door and leaned against the hearth. His fair hair had been cut shorter, the dark blonde bangs barely sweeping his forehead. “What are you reading, Cordy?”

“The Iliad.” She said, opening the cover and turning a page.

“Haven’t you read that before?” Elisabeth made a grab for the book but Cordaella held on to it.

“I can read it again, can’t I?”

“It wasn’t that good the first time.” Elisabeth tapped her foot against the floorboards, her expression dreamy. “Anyway, the party was lovely, and better yet, he’s going to stay here for a few days. Can you believe it? He was to have journeyed back to London to join the prince, Thomas, you know, the Duke of Clarence, but instead Sir Bran will remain here. He has something to discuss with Father.”

“It’s actually the King’s business. More trade talk.” Philip bit his fingernail down low, sucking the skin where it bled. “Damn all.” He looked at the small tear, “that hurts.”

“You shouldn’t chew your nails. It’s not becoming.” Elisabeth held out her own hands to admire them.

“And I,” the nineteen-year-old answered firmly, biting a second nail, “do not care.”

“But you will,” Elisabeth retorted, “when you’re married.”

Cordaella set the book down. “Are you going to be married, Philip?” The thought hadn’t ever crossed her mind. She wasn’t sure she even liked the idea. Philip, married?

“No,” he said crossly.

“We will all eventually marry.” Elisabeth sat up, too excited to sit still for long, the bells on her gown tinkling gaily with every flounce she made. The pale yellow of her houppelande cast a golden glow across her face, the neckline round, the yoke heavily embroidered. She wore a string of folly bells draped across one shoulder that she played with “Philip will marry first, then me, then Eddie. And Cordaella last.” Elisabeth smiled as she shook her bells. “Cordaella will be lucky to marry at all.”

“Maybe not. Cordaella could be the first.” Philip said, turning from them to the window. The guests were all gone; only the servants remained, tidying the lawn and packing the canvas tent.

“I don’t care if I ever marry,” Cordaella answered. “It is not something I look forward to.”

“I can’t wait to be married. I want a husband now.” Elisabeth shook her bells, listening delightedly as they jingled. “I would marry Sir Bran if Father would consider it.”

Mrs. Penny shot them all reproving looks. “It is not up to you to decide when you marry—or whom. I don’t see why you waste your time with silly talk, considering suitors who aren’t possibilities.”

“Who is to say that Sir Bran—” Elisabeth protested before Philip cut her off. “Well, what, Philip? Why isn’t he?”

“Come on, Beth, let’s change the subject. This is a waste of time.”

Elisabeth tossed her head. “Everything is meant to waste time. What else is there to do?”

“Too much in your cups, that is what I think,” the nanny said suspiciously, her needle working in and out of the linen, the red thread crossing the brown pattern. “This is the last thing you need, Lady Elisabeth.”

“And don’t you be crabby,” Elisabeth retorted, sweeping up from her chair with a luxurious stretch, the embroidered hem of her gown trailing the scuffed hardwood floor. “I don’t want my mood spoiled.” Elisabeth twirled, enjoying her new gown. “You should have come, Cordy. I can’t believe you’d rather stay in here.”

Eddie threw open the door, bounding into the room with an oath and a toss of his riding crop. “It is bloody hot for April!”

“You’ve been for a ride already?” Philip asked with some surprise.

“Why not? I was tired of waiting for something interesting to happen at the party. That Irishman didn’t say much, did he? I found the whole thing rather boring. I had hoped to see a good joust or fight. Not even a single fencing match today.”

“The party wasn’t meant for dueling,” Elisabeth said, “it was a luncheon, games on the lawn. Thank God for Hocktide. The festivities needn’t end.”

“Please, no more of that music.” Eddie grimaced, his pug nose pulling up. “I’ve never heard such an awful lot of musicians in all my life.” He sidled up to Cordaella’s chair. “And you, Cordy, what did you do all day? Read poetry to Mrs. Penny?” She ignored him, turning another page in the book. “Father said you didn’t come because you weren’t feeling