She knew she was awake, but it seemed a dream she inhabited as she stared at the lady before her.

It was the finest mirror, with so little distortion she wondered if she had truly seen herself before. The pond she had not visited since before Clarice’s birth had offered the truest reflection, but she had never presented as clearly as this.

She did not think herself beautiful, but she was quite fair, especially after a month beneath the queen’s eye and that woman’s sighing over all that must be done to transform her cousin from disagreeably delicate to agreeably desirable.

Desirable. Laura detested the word. It told of things that happened in the dark whether a woman wished it or not.

“Milady?”

She blinked, looked to the maid beside her. “Am I ready, Tina?”

“Oh, lass.” She patted her lady’s cheek. “More ready than ever I have seen ye. And it has been six years since Lady Maude gave ye into me care, eh?”

Six years—following the visit to Simon’s half-brother whose wife had nearly suffered the same as Laura.

How she adored Michael and Lady Beatrix. How she wished she could accept their offer for Clarice and her to live at Castle Soaring. The temptation was great, but were she to agree, she would not fully awaken. And she was determined not to be a burden to anyone again—excepting whomever she wed, but he would have payment enough in the bedroom.

She almost smiled at the realization her throat did not burn with bile. She was growing accustomed to the idea of violation. That was good, for a poor marriage it would be—and of detriment to Clarice—if the man whose ring Laura wore discovered how she felt about what he did to her.

Still no bile.

“Six years, Tina. I pray we have many more.”

Blessedly they would, Maude’s stepson having agreed the maid could leave Owen, and Queen Eleanor concurring that Laura’s husband would accept Tina’s services.

“’Tis time,” the maid said.

Laura slid her palms down the skirt of one of a dozen gowns gifted her by Maude over the years.

The queen had been pleased with the quality and colors of Laura’s wardrobe, surely having expected the royal coffers to bear the cost of clothing her cousin in finery needed to capture a husband. Though a few gowns were no longer fashionable, a seamstress had been engaged to alter their fit and design.

Were I happy, Laura thought, I would feel like a princess.

“I am ready,” she said and followed Tina to the door of the luxurious apartment that had been hers these past weeks. Soon she would leave here, collect her daughter from Michael D’Arci and Lady Beatrix, and journey to wherever she would spend the remainder of her life with the man to whom she must give herself to provide her daughter a good future.

Now to see which lord so badly needed funds he would pay the price of a used lady newly awakened.

* * *

Which one was she?

The tall lady whose eyes rushed about the hall as if in search of someone? The freckled lady twisting a tress of glorious red hair? The elegant blond lady of an age several years beyond his own? What of the lady with hair the color of burnished bronze?

Lothaire looked nearer upon the latter. She stood in profile, but there was no denying she was lovely, albeit thinner than he liked.

He grunted. Though given a choice, he would pick a wife pure of body and passing pretty, he grudgingly accepted that what mattered was she possess dowry enough to return Lexeter to the prosperity it had enjoyed before his father’s murder over twenty years past.

He pushed that remembrance aside. Though determined to learn where Ricard Soames was buried so the old baron could be moved to consecrated ground, Lothaire was here to secure a wife.

He looked to the queen who had yet to grant him an audience though he had arrived at Windsor last eve. Likely, she remained displeased with him for wedding Lady Beata Fauvel without her permission, forcing her to arrange an annulment of the unconsummated marriage before she could see her favorite—Sir Durand Marshal—wed to the lady.

As Lothaire started to move his gaze from Eleanor, she settled hers on him. And smiled.

That he did not expect. Though he did not like her, he returned the smile.

She inclined her head and pointedly looked toward a gathering to her left.

Then it was to be the lady with the burnished bronze hair, she who had added another nobleman to her audience.

Lothaire was not averse to the queen’s offering. Of all those whose unveiled hair proclaimed them unwed, she was among the few with whom he would have sought an acquaintance. Young enough to bear children, but not so young he would suffer the foolishness of a girl who believed her maturing body made her a woman. Though more pleasing to the eye than he liked, he would simply have to be vigilant. As for her weight, once she knew he did not find half-starved women desirable, she would eat more.

He looked back at Eleanor who gestured for him to approach the lady.

Wishing he had a name by which to call his future wife, he strode forward. As he neared, he studied her face in profile and revised his opinion. Given a choice, he would not make this lady’s acquaintance. Too much she resembled the first woman to whom he had been betrothed, albeit more mature. But he dare not further displease the queen, and he must wed a lady who brought a good dowry to the marriage.

He was several strides distant when she tapped the air between her and a nobleman of middling years and said, “Fie on you, Lord Benton.”

Now he had a name, one that stopped him and blew warm breath into his cold places. But it could not be her. She had no dowry, her father having disavowed her.

At what did the queen play? Eleanor had to know that once he had been betrothed to this lady. Might this be punishment for his defiance?

Feeling his chest and shoulders rise and fall, hearing blood thrum through his veins, he looked to the queen.

She raised her eyebrows, motioned for him to resume his approach.

Dear Lord, make me stone, he silently beseeched. Open wide a path to sooner see me away from here.

Continuing forward, he altered his course and inserted himself between Lord Benton and another nobleman. He had only a moment to take in the lady’s lovely face before shuttering his own against her gaze.

Lids fluttering, breath catching, she stumbled back and dropped her chin.

“Lady Laura?” Lord Benton gripped her arm.

“Forgive me! The heel of my slipper has failed.” She put its toe forward, providing no evidence of what remained hidden beneath the elaborately embroidered skirt of a gown that bore little resemblance to the simple gowns she had worn ten years past.

She sighed, looked up. As if Lothaire were not a flicker of the eyes away, she smiled at Lord Benton. “Pray, excuse me. I shall remedy the situation as soon as possible.”

“Do not forget your promise to sit with me at meal,” said a short, attractive man to Lothaire’s right.

“I shall not, Lord Gadot.” She swung away and, absent a hitch in her step, moved toward the stairs.

Lord Benton looked to Lothaire. “You are?”

“Baron Soames.”

The man’s brow lowered. “Another rival? Or just passing through?”

“Rival?”

“For the lady’s hand,” Lord Gadot said and winked. “Quite the surprise she is so lovely, hmm? I was certain she must be the freckled one, else the lady nearing the end of her child-bearing years, but the Lord is kind. I would very much like Lady Laura in my bed.”

For a moment, Lothaire did not know himself. But a reminder of who the lady was—a Jezebel from the top to the bottom of her—kept his hand from his dagger.

“Ah, but whoever wins her must needs watch her closely,” said the third nobleman who, were he capable of wielding a sword, would find his swing hindered by excessive weight. “I have no wish to be made a cuckold.”

As the others murmured agreement over the comment surely meant to discourage the other suitors, Lothaire ached that Laura’s sin should be so well known. And resented her for it. Blessedly, none looked upon him in any way to indicate they knew he was a victim of her cuckolding.

“Are you a rival, Baron Soames?” Lord Benton asked again.

“Just passing through.” Lothaire pivoted away from the three who sought to wed the woman he had once wanted. But no more. Not ever again. As soon as he gained an audience with the queen, he would make it known Laura Middleton was unacceptable. If Eleanor insisted on finding him a wife, it would have to be another.

Upon reaching a sideboard, he accepted a goblet of wine from a servant. Once his face was composed as much as possible, he turned.

Though the queen remained seated and conversed with one of her ladies, her eyes were on him.

She liked this game—wanted to watch the players dance on their twisted and knotted strings. But he would not, and eventually she would weary of her sport and summon him.

Unless she had another lady able to raise Lexeter out of its financial difficulties, he would depart on the morrow, ride for Wulfen, and make good out of bad by sharpening his sword skill with the anger coursing his veins.

Abel Wulfrith’s opponent would prove worthier yet. Mayhap near deadly.