leave, complete with a venomous glance that went unseen by her hostess, than Cicely was on her feet.
"How dare you wear my mother's dress?" she cried. "This is outrageous!"
"I only dare because your brother bade me do so," Micheline replied as quietly as she could.
"You'll never take her place!"
"Cicely, my only intent is to be Andrew's wife. As for your mother, I revere her memory. I would never think to replace her. I can only be myself and do my best."
The girl seemed not to hear. Eyes blazing, she vowed, "You may think you love Andrew, but you barely know him! I've known him for thirteen years! You'll never understand him the way I do!"
Micheline was saved from losing her temper, or answering at all, by the timely appearance of Patience Topping. She seemed to assess the situation immediately, and gave Micheline a sympathetic smile.
"The guests are arriving," she announced. "Cicely, dear, you'll have to leave our new sister so that she can complete her preparations."
The girl stamped across the chamber, pausing in the doorway to declare, "I have no sisters!"
* * *
The nuptial mass was held in the chapel, located in the castle keep, which boasted a barrel-vaulted nave, stained-glass windows, and wall paintings. Despite the fact that the bride and groom cared little whether anyone else was present besides themselves and the priest, the wedding guests were the finest England could offer. King Henry and Anne Boleyn, glittering with jewels, were seated next to the Duke of Aylesbury and his family, and behind them were ranged the cream of British nobility. Every seat in the chapel was occupied, for friends and villagers had flocked from the countryside of York at Andrew's invitation.
As Micheline walked down the aisle, however, she saw none of the sumptuously garbed guests. All her attention was focused on the man she loved.
Even from a distance she basked in the loving warmth of Sandhurst's gaze, and thought that he had never looked so dazzlingly handsome, not even the night they met, when she had thought him more attractive in his plain fawn garb than any other man at the French court. For his wedding he wore a doublet and haut-de-chausses of dove gray and blue velvet sewn with silver thread. White silk showed through the slashed sleeves and made a snowy fraise against Sandhurst's tanned jaw. His dark hair shone in the shafts of sunlight that poured into the chapel. He wore a smile, too, which grew more irresistible as Micheline neared.
As the bride drew closer to altar, the guests beheld Micheline's beautiful face and her gleaming cognac-hued locks, pinned up softly yet freeing curly wisps to frame her face and brush her bare shoulders. The garland of bird's-eye primroses and buttercups encircled her hair like a crown. To Sandhurst however, most lovely of all was the joyous smile that lit the face of the woman he loved. It called up all manner of fierce emotions within him, ranging from intense love to the burning ache of desire.
Currents of warmth flowed between their bodies when Micheline put her slim fingers in his strong hand. They were both oblivious to the crowd that filled the chapel, and Micheline was only dimly aware of the priest's voice. She knelt beside Andrew, trying to pray, but all she could think of was the nearness of his hard body.
At length they rose, and Sandhurst's gaze held her near.
"I, Andrew, take thee, Micheline, to my wedded wife," he said, his whole heart exposed in the tone of his voice.
"I, Micheline, take thee, Andrew, to my wedded husband," she vowed softly.
Sir Jeremy Culpepper, grinning from ear to ear, stepped forward to present a band of solid gold to his friend. Sandhurst held it deftly between two fingertips. In a voice so intimate that it seemed they were alone together, he told Micheline, "With this ring I thee wed. This gold and silver I thee give. With my body I thee worship." He paused to smile almost imperceptibly. "And with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father"—he slid the ring partway down her thumb, then withdrew it—"and the Son"—now Micheline was staring at his masculine fingers as they tantalized each of her fingertips in turn with the golden band—"and the Holy Ghost." Reaching her wedding finger, he gently slid the ring down to its proper place and concluded, "Amen."
Moments later, after a benediction from the priest, Micheline gloried in the sensation of being gathered into Sandhurst's