Tears stung at her eyes. “How I shall miss you!” she said, surprised by the strength of her feelings. “Surely it will take a good deal of time to settle the marriage contract. And then we must wait for the banns to be posted.”
He touched her cheek. “If the king wishes it to be done quickly, it shall be.”
“But suppose I do not like him? What if he is a hateful man?” The words tumbled out of her in a rush. “What if he is a traitor? Would the king still make me—”
“Hush, hush,” Robert said, enfolding her in his arms. “Let us meet the man first.”
She rested her head against his chest, crushing the velvet of his beautiful tunic, but he didn’t seem to mind. Having Robert hold her like this reminded her of how her father used to comfort her when she was a little girl. Her stomach tightened with unexpected longing for the father of her childhood.
“I am glad you will be with me,” she whispered.
Robert leaned back and held her at arm’s length. “Your new husband cannot help but adore you,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I predict your new life will be one of love and grand adventure.”
A short time later, they were ushered into the Great Hall of the Exchequer. Isobel clutched Robert’s arm as he led her to the far end of the room, where King Henry sat on a raised chair. No one would mistake the king for a monk today. For this occasion, he wore an ermine-trimmed robe over a tunic emblazoned with his royal herald, the lion and fleur-de-lis, in gold, red, and blue.
They halted a few paces behind a man with whom the king was speaking. As they waited for the king to acknowledge them, Robert squeezed her fingers resting on his arm. When she raised an eyebrow at him, Robert tilted his head toward the man and nodded.
This, then, was the man who would be her husband for the rest of her days. Even from the back, she could tell he was young and strongly built. He was well dressed, from his colorful silk brocade tunic and matching leggings down to his magnificent high black boots. Beneath the elaborate liripipe hat, his hair was almost black. He wore it long, fastened with a bloodred ribbon.
She leaned to the side and craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. Warts. Boils. Pox. Blackened teeth. She tried to prepare herself. It simply was not possible that he could be wealthy, well connected, young,andhandsome.
The king’s next words jarred her from her observations.
“We are pleased, Lord de Roche,” the king said, sounding anything but pleased, “that you have seen fit to heed our summons. At last.”
“I apologize for my delay, sire.”
De Roche did not sound any more contrite than the king sounded pleased. This did not bode well.
“I assure you, I spent the time on your behalf,” de Roche continued. “I’ve devoted myself to persuading the men of Rouen of the wisdom of recognizing you as our sovereign lord.”
“They should not need so much persuasion.” The king gave him a hard look and added, “You must tell your compatriots not to try my patience—or God’s.”
“Of course, sire.”
De Roche’s complacent reply did not sound as though he took the king’s warning as seriously as Isobel thought he should.
“I assume,” the king said, the sharp edge still in his tone, “you are prepared to enter into a marriage contract?”
Isobel dropped into a low curtsy as the king shifted his gaze to her.
“Lady Hume,” the king said, signaling for her to rise. “May I present Lord Philippe de Roche.”
When the man turned, Isobel drew in a sharp breath. God’s mercy! He was a vision of masculine beauty. An Adonis—an Adonis with a mustache and trim goatee that matched his dark hair. She snapped her mouth shut and forced herself to drop her eyes.
“ ’Tis good to meet you at last,” de Roche said in a deep, rumbling voice as he stepped closer to greet her.
Blushing fiercely, she risked another glance as she held her hand out to him. Cool gray eyes swept over her from head to toe before fixing on her face.
“An English rose,” he said as he bent over her hand.
A nervous ripple ran through her as she felt the warmth of his breath and the tickle of his mustache on the back of her hand. Oh, my.
“You are more beautiful than I had hoped,” he said in a low voice meant for her ears alone. “And I assure you, Lady Hume, my hopes were high.”
Though it was midwinter, she suddenly felt so warm she wished she had a fan. This handsome man was looking at her with the intensity of a hungry wolf. A good sign, surely, in a future husband. Aye, she was flattered. And pleased. A little breathless, too.
She managed to murmur a greeting of some sort.