"What do you mean?" cried Micheline. "I cannot feel the slightest stirring of affection for any man I have met here, beyond that of simple friendship—including the king! Surely he is perceptive enough to realize that!"
"I would guess that it is that challenge that intrigues him, ma chere. Don't fret, though. Francois is a gentleman at heart, though used to having his own way. You simply must continue to show only respect for him. Any encouragement at all would only heighten his desire... and determination."
Micheline paused to pick a sprig of mistletoe and gazed at it pensively. "I've begun to think that Bernard's death killed something within me. There are moments, when I talk to someone who is handsome, charming, and accomplished, and I marvel at the total absence of feeling in my heart." She met Aimée's concerned gaze with teary eyes. "I doubt I'll ever be attracted to a man again."
Aimée opened her mouth, then closed it, aching for her friend. She yearned to repair Micheline's heart, but lately she had realized that only God could perform such a miracle. Aimee could only wait and pray.
Chapter 5
London, England
February 5, 1533
Dawn had scarcely colored the eastern sky when the noise of the River Thames coming awake disturbed the slumber of Iris, Lady Dangerfield. She frowned slightly, still half-asleep, forgetting for the moment that she lay in the Marquess of Sandhurst's bed. His town house was fashionably situated on the Strand and overlooking the river, but this daily commotion on the water could become tiresome.
Iris opened one eye to find her bed partner still sleeping a few inches away. Clearly, Sandhurst was used to the clamor. Her irritation melted away as she gazed at him, lost in the spell he cast so effortlessly, even in his sleep.
Andrew Weston, Marquess of Sandhurst, would become one of the wealthiest men in Britain upon the death of his elderly father. Not only would the coveted title of Duke of Aylesbury be his, but also vast estates in Gloucestershire, and Aylesbury Castle in Yorkshire.
The mere thought of such riches and prestige made Iris ache inside, for she had married Timothy, Lord Dangerfield barely two months before meeting Sandhurst at Hampton Court. She'd been satisfied with Timothy until then, but the instant she glimpsed that proud head across the garden and felt the heat of his compelling brown eyes even from a distance, Iris lusted for him. Then the Marquess of Sandhurst had slowly, casually, made his way to her side. When he reached out with strong, agile fingers to lift her hand to his mouth, she'd burned for him, nearly fainting.
That had been four years ago, and the force of her ardor seemed almost to amuse Andrew. He was fond of her, but Iris knew that even if Timothy should die Sandhurst would not marry her. He did not seem to want to be bound to anyone except himself. Naturally he would have to marry one day to produce an heir. Iris tried not to think about that. The idea of another woman having what she burned to possess was torture.
Longing to touch him now, she stared instead. Her gaze lingered on his tousled hair, which curled slightly against his brow and along the nape of his neck. As a child, Sandhurst had been fair, but he was thirty-two now and his hair had darkened to a rich deep brown. Iris thought him the most splendid, masculine creature alive, and there were few women who would disagree with her. His face could have been sculpted, particularly the cheekbones and aristocratic nose. Just above his upper lip, on the left side, was a scar that cut down into the firmness of his mouth—this obvious flaw made him doubly captivating.
"My dear Iris," he murmured suddenly in a voice husky with sleep, "you are a woman of breeding. Were you never taught that it is rude to stare, especially at this uncivilized hour and at such length?"
There had not been even the flicker of an eyelash to betray his consciousness. Iris blushed, but whispered, "Forgive me, my lord. I only was staring because I could not touch...."
"Why not?" One side of Sandhurst's mouth quirked slightly, brown eyes opened lazily, and he was turning on his side to reach for her.
Even in winter his skin was golden brown against Iris's pale flesh. Leisurely he traced her breasts with one fingertip, smiling as he gathered her closer and breathed the scent of roses in her