This is the first of all days to come, Laura told herself as she halted before the queen. Lord, bless it as much as possible. Above all, for Clarice.

“Rise, Lady Laura.”

She straightened, met her sovereign’s gaze.

“You are prepared to show gratitude for our time, effort, and wisdom by accepting our decision?”

Deep breath. “I am, Your Majesty.”

Eleanor looked past Laura, inclined her head.

Behind, the door opened and closed, then silence as all waited for the lady who had admitted Laura to return with the one chosen by the queen.

They did not wait long.

Laura stopped her breath at the sound of the door opening, suppressed the impulse to peer over her shoulder, hoped it was Lord Benton who drew alongside.

It was Lord Thierry, the last of the three she would have chosen. Not that he was disagreeable—outside of imbibing too often and too much.

But at least he is not Lothaire, she tried to console herself.

More footsteps, and not of the slippered sort. Boots.

She glanced past Lord Thierry, saw Lord Benton halt beside the other man.

Laura looked her question at the queen, but Eleanor’s eyes were on whoever next entered.

Then like a horse at auction, Laura Middleton was to stand before its bidders while the winner was named. Worse, one of those bidders was Lothaire, and without looking to her right, she knew from his long-reaching stride he entered last.

She clasped her hands at her waist, prayed to the Lord to calm her racing heart and still her body that one need not look near upon to know it quaked.

“Let us begin,” Queen Eleanor said. “The decision is made as to who shall wed Lady Laura, and she has agreed to abide by our determination.” She moved her gaze over the five, returned to the man directly to Laura’s right. “Lord Thierry, step forward.”

He gave a grunt of satisfaction and did as bid.

“We thank you for your time and interest in taking Lady Laura to wife, Lord Thierry. But we find you wanting. Too much you drink. Too much you gamble. And so seriously does your behavior compromise your lands, we do not believe what the lady brings to the marriage will save them. Your leave is granted.”

Speaking no word in his defense, he turned and, shame-faced, lumbered opposite.

Eleanor swept a hand toward Laura, and her three remaining suitors closed the gap left by the rejected lord.

Laura glanced at Lord Benton, her first choice of a husband. Was he next to be sent away?

“Lord Gadot, step forward.”

No pattern, then.

“We thank you for your time and interest in taking Lady Laura to wife, Lord Gadot. But we find you wanting. Too indiscreet you are in numbering your mistresses.”

Laura caught her breath. She had guessed that of Lothaire, not this one.

“Too much you boast of past and future trysts, including those you anticipate having with the lady who might have become your wife.”

Laura snapped her chin around, saw color pour into the nobleman’s cheeks. Again, not what she would have guessed of him. Though it was obvious he thought well of himself, he had been attentive and spoke no inappropriate word to her.

“Thus,” Eleanor continued, “too much you deserve that face. A pity it soon heals.”

Laura’s knees weakened. Lothaire had not been trying to frighten away a rival. His knuckles had been battered in defense of her.

“Your leave is granted, Lord Gadot.”

As he pivoted, a hand gripped Laura’s elbow, and Lord Benton said low, “Are you well, my lady?”

She looked up. He was kind, would make a better husband than Lothaire though her heart was pulled past this one. “I am well.”

“Lord Benton, I believe Lady Laura can stand on her own.”

He released her.

“Lord Soames.” Eleanor motioned him to close the space left by Lord Gadot’s departure, then looked to Laura. “You are all surprise, Lady Laura. But we know our subjects, and when we must know them better, we spare no effort to discover what they hide—especially that we might protect those too vulnerable and young to protect themselves.”

“I understand, Your Majesty.”

“Not as much as you shall.” Eleanor smiled. “Lord Soames, step forward.”

I am glad, Laura told herself. As shall he be when he rides away. He will make Lexeter prosperous without me.

“Rather, come stand beside us, Lord Soames.”

Laura stared at the queen.

She raised her eyebrows. “As Lord Gadot learned, the Baron of Lexeter is not always in control of his temper.”

Laura watched him stiffly cross the apartment and position himself alongside the queen and in front of the knight who stood guard over her. Did Eleanor fear he would attack Lord Benton when the other man was awarded what Lothaire had boasted would be his?

“Lord Benton, step forward.”

Laura felt his eyes upon her. And uncertainty she only now realized had been certainty a moment earlier. Why did the queen make him suffer? It was cruel, and Laura had not thought her bent that way.

“We do not thank you for your time and interest, Lord Benton, for we find you wanting in the extreme.”

Of a sudden, Laura was in greater need of a hand to hold her upright. Beyond the implication Lord Benton’s character was more warped than the other two, was the shock of who was to be her betrothed. Again.

Stiffening her legs to keep them from folding, she swept her regard to Lothaire. Before he blinked, she glimpsed relief in his eyes—and something akin to happiness. Was it possible? If so, surely for being the victor and making good his promise she would depart Windsor with him.

“Too much appetite you have for very young women, Lord Benton.” Eleanor’s upper lip curled. “Or should we say girls? We should. Therefore, Lady Laura is too old for you and her daughter too young.”

Her meaning slammed through Laura, sent her thoughts spinning back through the encounters with Lord Benton. Often he had asked about Clarice. And unlike Lothaire, he had very much wanted to know of the girl’s appearance. Laura had revealed little, but only because she feared he would probe further, trying the doors behind which lay the circumstances of her daughter’s conception.

“Your leave is happily granted.”

He turned, but rather than shame-faced like Lord Thierry, his countenance was marred by anger. Narrowing his eyes at Laura, he strode past.

Feeling light of head, she lowered her gaze to the rug beneath her feet whose fleur de lis pattern was not as distinct as before.

“Lord Benton!” the queen called when he reached the door.

“Your Majesty?”

“We are thinking a pilgrimage would be of great benefit—a long one, mayhap to the Holy Land. Confine yourself to your chamber. We shall send a priest to you.”

He did not answer, and the door closed moments later.

“Lady Laura, I present your betrothed, Baron Soames.”

Boots across the floor. The fleur de lis rising to meet her and yet no clearer than before.

“God’s arms!” the queen exclaimed as night drew its curtains across day. “We did not mean to frighten her so.”

* * *

Only because Lothaire saw her sway and did not request permission to leave the queen’s side did he reach Laura before she hit the floor. He caught her around the waist, swung her into his arms, turned to the queen.

Eleanor’s smile was all satisfaction. “Would she could have seen how you flew to her side.” She gestured to the sitting area. “Best she recover here rather than grease squeaky tongues by you carrying her to her chamber.”

Discovering Laura was not much heavier than ten years past, wondering if she might be lighter out of her heavily embroidered gown, Lothaire conveyed her to one of the couches.

As he lowered her, her lids fluttered and she met his gaze. “I am going home with you.”

Was it a question? Or did she merely acknowledge what she dreaded?

He settled her head on a cushion, slid his arms from beneath her, impulsively hooked a tress off a cheek as smooth as he remembered.

“You are going home with me,” he said low. He thought it relief in her eyes, but it was so soon replaced by regret it could have been imagined. Or wished for.

“Why?” she breathed.

He owed her no answer, but he said, “You are my somehow.”

She frowned, gave her head a shake as if to clear it. “You think you have won, but I fear not.”

“We shall make the best of what we have been dealt,” he said gruffly. “You and I.”

“Clarice?” she said with such desperation he was ashamed he had not included her.

“And Clarice,” he forced the girl’s name across his tongue and drew back. “Rest now. We depart on the morrow.”

She stared a moment longer, then lowered her lids.

And Lothaire was struck by how little it had taken for his heart to pick up where it left off. But then he remembered he was no longer fewer than a score of years aged. That Laura Middleton had made a cuckold of him.