Betrothed by Lori Snow Page A

wondered how tightly he clenched her wrist
when Syllba only shook her head in submission.
    Syllba
mustered a smidgen of control as she relinquished the last two bits and pieces.
As Carstairs thanked her for her cooperation, Syllba stared at Isabeau over his
shoulder.
    The
expression of hatred blazing in those iced blue eyes froze any remaining
sympathy Isabeau might have harbored for the other woman. Syllba had no use for
any of the gentler emotions.
    As
Carstairs stepped back to hand the pieces over to Porter, Syllba hissed for
Isabeau alone. “You will pay dearly for each indignity. Wear them well for you
won’t enjoy them long.”
    “Did
you say something, milady?”
    Syllba
exaggeratedly fanned her face with her long fingers. “I am unwell. I must
retire to my chambers.”
    “As
you will.” Carstairs stepped back, clearing a path to the open door, but he
made no offer of assistance as Syllba made her exit. He turned to Isabeau when
she was out of sight. “Are you sure this is all you wish to take?”
    Isabeau
nodded distractedly. She wondered if any color remained in her cheeks. She
would have rather endured another of Simon’s beatings than the drama which had
just occurred. “Even though Simon has no appreciation for such things, I can
hardly take all of Father’s books.”
    She
literally shook herself before she turned to Porter. “I must see to the
kitchens and speak to the housekeeper before I leave.”
    Porter
reached out and gave a couple of reassuring pats on her shoulder. “All will be
well, milady. You see if it won’t. My lord has already promised to look out for
us all. A man of his word, he is.”
    Carstairs
nodded. “That he is. Now, you had best be getting ready for the chapel.
 My lord appreciates punctuality.”
    Isabeau
raced back to her chamber. She discovered Blanche had already laid out a gown
suitable for travel. She had chosen one from Isabeau’s meager wardrobe that was
quite appropriate for a visit to the altar in Olivet’s chapel if not for
Bennington’s stature. Already, Isabeau had cause to regret the earlier
destruction of her amber satin gown. She could have worn the garment at the
ducal castle with pride.
    She
shook her head and pulled the outer dress over her head. No use crying over
spilt honey; at least, the ants would not starve.
    On
the way to the chapel, she stopped in the kitchens to dispense final
instructions and issue farewell hugs. Smiles mixed with tears greeted her. She
tried to ignore the glints of fear reflected in a few eyes. She could do
nothing to ease their anxiety. Afraid she would burst into tears of her own,
she rushed to the chapel.
    Even
with her detours, she was the first to arrive. She sighed in relief and
absorbed the serenity of the holy sanctuary as she took her place on the family
pew. She dropped to her knees on the prayer cushion and of habit, offered up a
litany of prayers. Then for good measure, she added a list of her own.
    She
genuflected, kissed her simple gold crucifix, and returned it safely under her
neckline when the earl’s deep voice washed over her.
    “Will
you grieve for the convent?”
    Isabeau
grabbed the wooden railing for balance as she stood. “My lord?”
    “Only
yesterday, you were bound for the convent. Will you regret making vows to a man
and not to Christ?”
    Isabeau
licked her lips.
    Why do I suddenly feel like I am traveling a cliff’s edge?  
    “Only
God knows if I am now on His chosen path for me. I hope to do His will no
matter the road I take. I promise to work as hard at being a good countess to
your people as I would have served within the walls of the Sisters of Saint
Ignatius.”
    “I
guess we will all see the veracity of your promises,” Donovan commented
quietly. “The priest is here to witness your signature to the betrothal
contract as well as your avowal that you sign without duress.”
    He
held out his hand to guide her to the altar. Before Father Fredrich could begin
the ritual, Carstairs