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But Henry wasn’t listening. He did not need to hear anything about Lord Baldessare. Henry knew him. Twice Jenova’s age, warstruck and truculent, how could such a man attract the attention of the Lady Jenova, let alone her affection? For, aye, there was affection in her voice.
It was beyond his comprehension.
“’Tis all very well, sweeting,” he said patiently, interrupting the flow of her lilting voice, “but isn’t he a little old for you?”
Jenova stopped, blinked and stared. And then she laughed aloud. “Oh Henry, you fool! No, no, not the father! I am thinking to marry the son. Alfric. He is not too old, in fact he is younger than me, and very amiable. I am certain we will get on very well together.”
“You mean he will never forbear you anything you ask for, and you will boss him about unmercifully,” he retorted.
Jenova had the grace to look a little ashamed. “Well, mayhap. But I would not want a man who ruled me, Henry. I am too used to my own way, and more so now, when I have run Gunlinghorn for so long, alone. I fear I would not take kindly to interference.”
That last sounded like a warning. Had she asked him here because she wanted him to say “aye” to everything she asked of him? Well, he thought with a sudden spurt of anger, he’d be damned if he’d come all this way just to flatter her.
“My sweet Jenova,” Henry began, careful to sound as friendly and helpful as he could. “I do not mean to criticize, but to marry with the expectation of treating your husband like one of your serfs does not bode well for your future happiness.”
Jenova smiled coolly and narrowed her intriguing eyes. “And of course you are all knowledgeable when it comes to marriage, Henry.”
“Nay, you know I am not, but I have witnessed many others falter, or end in misery.”
“Henry, I do not marry for love,” she explained to him in a patient voice. “I honestly do not expect to find anything more than companionship, and if I wed a man who bows to all my wishes, I will certainly be the happier for that.”
But Jenova deserved so much more, Henry thought, and felt sadness for her sake. She seemed to believe herself unworthy of genuine happiness. Unworthy of the sort of love that Henry’s friends had discovered. Perhaps, he thought, she didn’t know such a love was possible? Perhaps, like Henry, she had never experienced it? But no, that could not be, for she had loved Mortred, or at least the man she had imagined Mortred to be. Henry had made very sure that she never learned the sordid truth about Mortred, and he believed he had succeeded—after all, Jenova had sworn not to remarry when her husband died.
So what had changed her mind?
He opened his mouth to ask her and then stopped himself. It was not his business. He was here to give Jenova practical advice, not to take on the role of bridegroom finder. She would laugh at him, or mock him, and deservedly so. Jenova, he reminded himself firmly, was a clever and intelligent woman. She knew what she wanted, and if she wanted young Baldessare for her husband, who was Henry to deny her her heart’s desire?
And perhaps it is her heart’s desire. Perhaps, despite her protestations, she has fallen in love with him.
The thought slipped slyly into his head. He gave Jenova a searching glance. Her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes glowed, her lips had curled into a sly little smile…. She looked well, very well indeed. But was she a woman in the throes of a lusty love? Henry did not think so, but mayhap that was because he didn’t want to think so. He admitted it to himself. There was something about believing Jenova in love with Lord Baldessare’s son that turned him unpleasantly cold.
Jenova tried to hide her smile. Henry looked grumpy. He didn’t approve of her marrying again, but he was trying to hide it. Had he and Mortred been close friends, she might have understood his lack of enthusiasm. But they hadn’t been. Henry must have
been well aware of the lie that was Mortred.
Jenova’s smile faltered. Why had he never told her? Why had he let her wallow in her grief never knowing the truth? For two years! Had Henry kept her in ignorance because he saw naught wrong in Mortred’s behavior? Or because he sought to protect her from a knowledge that would wound her?
Knowing Henry so well, Jenova favored the latter explanation. Aye, she had known him since they were children and he had been sent to live with her family, claiming some tenuous kinship with her father. “Henry has been abandoned by his own mother,” Jenova remembered her father saying, as if it had been a serious fault in Henry’s character. As if the abandonment had been entirely Henry’s doing.
Sometimes, now, the boy that he had been still crept into her heart like a little ache, and sometimes the man he had become irritated and yet intrigued her in equal measure. Most of the time she tended not to take him too seriously—she had known him for too long—but he did offer good advice some of the time, and some of the time she was inclined to take it.
As for her possible bridegroom, Jenova admitted to herself that Henry was partially right. She had chosen Alfric because he would deny her nothing, and she was well aware she could order him about. A woman would be a fool to give herself to a man who would not put her first.
But there was more to her sudden decision to remarry.
Vengeance. Aye, there was that, if one could take vengeance against a husband who was dead. The fact was, Jenova felt foolish for mourning so long for a man unworthy of her grief. But over and above these things, there had grown a strong sense of lacking, of loss, of loneliness….
Aye, she was lonely.
What would Henry know of that? Jenova asked herself irritably. It was doubtful he was ever lonely. From the rumors Jenova had been privy to, and her own observations, she knew that Henry didn’t lack for female companionship. He would not understand her loneliness, her taking the weight of Gunlinghorn upon her shoulders and making a success of it, and then having no one with whom to share her triumphs. She had no one to laugh with, to weep with, no one with whom to spend the long nights, to hold her in the darkness, and to wake with in the morning light.
More than anything, though, Jenova knew she missed the companionship and the closeness she and Mortred had once shared. That was what she wanted from Alfric—someone to smile at her and hold her hand and lead her to the table, someone to kiss her and hold her when she was feeling low. It didn’t need to be wild passion; she didn’t really think she was capable of wild passion. Jenova just wanted someone who cared—or did a good job of playing the part!
She shook off her melancholy thoughts. Usually she had no time for such self-indulgence—the running of Gunlinghorn left her with very little time to ponder her solitary state. And if she wed Alfric, there would be no need to ponder it at all.
“I hope you will treat Alfric with courtesy,” she said, giving Henry a long, censorious look. “I do not want him to feel as if you are judging him.”
Henry cast up his bright blue eyes, and the smile he gave her was a touch mischievous. “I won’t intimidate him, sweeting, if that is what you mean.”
