Chapter One
Wolvesley Castle
“Esme, that is the fourth man you have declined to dance with this eve.” Her mother spoke from the side of her mouth so the russet-haired knight walking dejectedly back to his friends would not hear her reprimand. “Are you determined to refuse them all?”
“Not every one of them, Mother.” Esme craned her neck but still could not make out the man she desired to see above all others.
The great hall of Wolvesley Castle was thronged with revelers, all clad in their brightest and best. Pearls and rubies glittered in the candlelight, and the wooden floor vibrated with the stamping and shuffling of so many booted feet.
Esme and her parents were atop the dais, enjoying an uninterrupted view of their guests, from the circling dancers in the center to the groups of chattering knights on the sides.
Crispin is not amongst them.
Esme clenched her hands in frustration, before hastily unfurling them to accept the solicitations of a portly gentleman whose ascent to the dais had brought wine-red pools of color to his jowls. He bowed over her gloved fingers, and she forced herself to smile.
“Lord Ashville,” she chirped. “My father will be delighted to see you.” She had to raise her voice above the troupe of musicians playing a lively jig.
“’Tis not your father’s company I seek, Lady Esme, but your own. Would you care to join me on the dance floor?”
With alacrity honed by several months of practice, Esme instantly demurred.
“Alas, I am in no mood for dancing, milord. Allow me to walk you over to my father.” As she spoke, she took determined steps to where the Earl of Wolvesley was ensconced in his elaborately carved wooden chair.
He raised a bushy brow beneath his thatch of grey-gold hair as she approached.
“Father, I have brought Lord Ashville to see you,” she said sweetly.
Taken by surprise, Lord Ashville could only bow and mutter a greeting as Esme skipped back to her mother’s side.
“That was verging on rude,” the countess stated calmly.
“Rude but necessary.” Esme smoothed her voluminous skirts. “Surely you would not see me wedded to a man old enough to be my grandfather?”
“Your reputation for indifference makes it increasingly unlikely that we shall see you wedded to anyone at all.” Her mother took a deep breath, her green eyes bright with worry.
“Esme, you do not have to marry. But if your life does not have a sense of purpose—”
“I know, I know.” Esme sighed dramatically. “Without purpose, my life will be dull indeed.”
This was not a fate which Esme feared. Her life was brighter and more intricately layered than the rose-pink gown threaded with pearls which she had been laced into earlier.
The countess softened her gaze. She will still an attractive woman, though her thick hair now shone more silver than gold. She wore a well-cut gown of emerald green and her slender fingers flashed with jewels. “We only want you to be happy.”
Esme could have gnashed her teeth with impatience.
If only she could show her mother how very happy she was.
For months now, she had been planning the statement she would make at tonight’s ball.
By refusing to dance with any and all suitors since Beltane, she had intended to cause quite a stir when she finally took to the floor with Crispin.
But Crispin is not here.
’Twas almost as if he had sensed the upcoming twists of her cunning plan.
Where is he?
Esme resisted the urge to pull off her glove and nibble on her fingernail.
She bade herself to stand still and upright, her shoulders back and her lips curving into a smile.
She might be the youngest of the five de Neville siblings, but she was every inch her parents’ daughter; tall, golden-haired, and resolute.
True, her resolve may, outwardly at least, be oriented around fun and frivolity. She certainly wasn’t wise, like Frida her eldest sister. Or strikingly beautiful, like Isabella, who was closest to her in age. But Esme had no intention of allowing her life to drift without purpose.
Purpose pumped through her veins like heady wine. She twirled a loose pearl at the cuffs of her sleeve as her mind raced to put together a new plan. Most certainly she could not stand here idly until the end of the ball. If Crispin would not come to her, she must go and find him.
Esme curtsied to her mother. “May I be excused for a moment?”
The countess gave her a searching look. “Will you return?”
“Of course.” Esme affected surprise.
“Please be sure of it.” Her mother tightened her lips. “This ball is, after all, for your benefit.” She reached out a hand and laid it, hesitantly, on her daughter’s arm. “I would have you know the meaning and joy of true love, Esme.”
Esme smiled.
If my mother only knew the truth!
With a final curtsy, she lifted her skirts and did her best to pass through the busy dance floor without attracting more unwanted attention.
She had discovered at an early age that the best way to do this was to keep her eyes fixed firmly ahead and to walk without hesitation.
In this fashion, she reached the marbled entrance hall of the keep and passed through the high arched doors into the cool night air.
Here she paused. The last of the harvest had been brought in more than a sennight since, and the breeze whispering through her hair carried the first bite of winter, but she did not have the patience to go all the way up to her bedchamber to fetch a cloak.
Instead, she gave her arms a brisk rub and tripped down the stone steps, giving the splashing fountain a wide birth as she took the path to the stables.
Darkness had fallen some hours since and the quiet outside was a marked contrast to the brightness and bustle of the great hall.
Esme found her way by the light of the stars but was still grateful to reach the wattle-and-daub outbuildings which housed the many knights and men-at-arms in her father’s service.
Most of them were inside the keep, dancing, feasting and making merry.
Esme stepped into the glow of the wall-torch and lifted her hand to rap on the door.
But some inner instinct held her hand. She was out here all alone and knew not who might answer her summons. Suddenly unsure, she stepped back into the darkness and gave a sharp intake of breath when she came up against a warm, solid surface.
“Lady Esme.” The voice was gruff and deep. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
She put a hand to her fluttering heart and spun around, exhaling with relief when the man held up a lantern and identified himself as Gerrault, the longtime stablemaster of Wolvesley and a firm favorite of her mother’s.
“Gerrault,” she said weakly. “I am glad it is you.”
The stablemaster smiled, but it failed to reach his grey eyes. “What are you doing out here at such a time, Lady Esme?”
The question was boldly put, but Gerrault had known her all her life; he had taught her to ride and bathed her knees when she fell.
Esme bit her lip as she tried—and failed—to think of a reason why she might have left the gaiety of the ball to pick her way through the darkness and stand outside the knights’ barn.
“I am looking for Crispin,” she said bravely, opting for the truth. “Sir Crispin de Gough.”
Gerrault’s face remained carefully neutral, but Esme imagined a glow of disapproval in his steady gaze.
“I have business to discuss with him.” She lifted her chin defiantly.
An owl hooted overhead, as if calling out her untruth, but Gerrault only heaved a sigh. “If that is the case, I must tell you where he is. You’ll find him in his horse’s stable, getting him ready.”
“Ready for what?” Esme frowned.
“That I cannot say.” Gerrault fixed his gaze on the soft earth beneath their feet. “If you’ll take my advice, milady, you’ll return to the ball. Where you belong.”
Esme folded her arms protectively. “I shall return to the ball forthwith, Gerrault, have no doubt.” She smiled at him but knew by the set of his shoulders that he was not reassured.
“As soon as I have delivered my message to Sir Crispin.”
Gerrault held his lantern out towards her. “You will be needing this then.”
His kindness affected her more than his caution. Esme put her hand over his for a moment. “Thank you.”
He nodded stiffly.
“Gerrault?” She bit her lip once more. “You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”
“I play no part in castle gossip.”
“You won’t tell my mother?” she burst out. “Please.”
“If you return to the ball, Lady Esme, as far as I am concerned, there will be naught to tell.”
She would have thanked him again, but the ageing stablemaster had already turned away and melted into the darkness.
Esme held up the lantern in front of her face and ignored the buzzing of nighttime insects as she found her way to the cobbled stable yard.
Sure enough, a torch blazed beside the stable of Crispin’s destrier.
Her heart thumped inside her restrictive bodice. What was he about?
Esme’s legs turned to jelly, and she clung to the shadows of the barns. Crispin loved her. He had said as much. So why had he not come to the ball as promised?
She stifled a sob as a dozen answers sprang to mind. Her sister Isabella, long since married to the elderly Earl of Felsham, had spoken scornfully to her about men and what they truly wanted from a woman.
And that thing that they wanted, was the only thing Esme had ever denied Crispin.
She swallowed and gripped the lantern harder. Surely that didn’t matter? Not when they had been secretly courting for over a year.
Not when he called her his faerie queen and promised to love her forever.
Esme could have told her mother that she already knew the joy and meaning of true love.
True love was like a fever. It was a racing heart and a mind that could concentrate on one person alone. It was a pair of brown eyes that made her stomach churn.