Page 3 of The Wager and the Wedding

The countess shook her head and smiled. “You read her letter. It says she likes you and thinks he’ll be a good match for you.”

Isabella didn’t believe that for a moment. Lady Eleanor never did anything out of the kindness of her heart. “A good match,” Isabella answered, meeting her mother’s cold gaze. “You must be joking.”

“Do you doubt the word of your mother and your rightful queen?”

The countess smiled deviously. Once upon a time, Isabella had lived for that smile. It meant she was going to have a chance to prove herself. But that was back when she was foolish enough to believe anything would earn her mother’s respect. Over the years, she had learned better.

“Very good,” her mother said, mistaking her silence for acquiescence. “I’m glad we understand each other. I would hate to think you would displease me by refusing the generous gift Lady Eleanor is offering. Now go get dressed and pack up your things, both of you. You leave for Winchelsea tomorrow morning.”

Unable to form words, Isabella turned her back and reached for the door, clutching Adelaide’s hand.

“Goodbye. I’ll see you in the chapel in a few hours,” her mother said, waving them out.

Isabella stormed through the door without replying, pushing Adelaide ahead of her, and slammed it behind them.

For a moment, the urge to cry almost overtook her, but she caught herself just in time. Clenching her fists, she led Adelaide down the echoing halls of the castle to the tiny, windowless chamber they shared and closed the door.

“Are you all right?” Isabella asked as soon as they were alone.

“I will be. It’s not as if we have a choice.” Adelaide sat down on her narrow bed and rested her head in her hands.

“There is always a choice. I’ll find a way out of this for us.”

Rummaging through her trunk of gowns, Isabella considered their options. Could they run? No, that would be foolish. Women couldn’t travel alone through the countryside without risking life and limb, especially not in the midst of a civil war. And where would they go?

Perhaps she could convince Lord Martin not to marry her. If only she could get the man alone for a few minutes before the ceremony, she could try to convince him she was an unmarriageable shrew. Lord knew her parents already thought her one. But would that buy her enough time to come up with a real plan? It was worth a try. She had to dosomething.

Reaching into her trunk, she pulled out the gown folded in the bottom. As she shook it out, a tear dripped down her cheek. Truth be told, Isabella sewed this dress with the intention of being married in it, but the wedding she dreamed of was so very different. She would walk down the aisle of Westminster Abbey to wed a powerful earl with her family and Lady Eleanor, now queen of England, looking on. She would be able to look with equanimity at her parents, knowing it would be the last time she or Adelaide had to see them. After years of faithful service,she had earned her rightful place by the side of a man of high position.

In her daydreams, the man she married would offer her freedom and respect, never making demands and giving her a free hand to manage the household. He would appreciate her mind, be able to match wits with her but never demand to win for the sake of winning. Alas, such a man did not exist outside of fairytales and troubadours’ songs.

In real life, the most she could hope for was to marry for power and influence and make the best of things. After watching her parents’ marriage and Lady Eleanor’s disastrous match with King Louis VII, she knew better than to expect anything but misery from the institution, so she might as well have power and wealth to compensate so that she could have some modicum of comfort and independence. This baron from Winchelsea could offer neither, so she had to find a way out.

Drying her tears and stiffening her spine, she pulled on the heavy velvet gown with sleeves that dripped to the floor. She pinned up her hair in neat side buns and donned a jeweled crespinette that fit her like a crown with circles of gold netting covering the buns.

“Leave it to me,” Isabella said, patting her skirt. “Meet me in the solar after the church bell rings for Terce, and I’ll let you know the plan.”

Adelaide nodded and started packing up her things.

There was no need for Isabella to pack. All her worldly belongings were already folded away in her chest, as she had only just arrived.

Squaring her shoulders and opening the door, she set out to see if she could convince her future husband to call it off before the church bells struck noon.

Chapter Two

Martin needed anintelligent wife. That was his one request during his brief audience with the Duchess of Normandy when he’d paid her a visit in the fall.

He went seeking an arranged marriage. Though he was still grieving the loss of his father, he knew his duty to his people as a newly-minted baron. It had not escaped his notice that he was the only Cinque Ports baron that lacked a bride, and he knew the Duke of Normandy needed loyalty from the ports if he was to succeed in his bid to become king of England. Thanks to his father’s efforts, Martin had strong ties with the other barons, and they were sickened at the civil war that had reigned since King Stephen had taken the throne. Martin was their representative, testing the waters to see how the prospective king might view the ports.

Which was why he was currently dressed in his finest cotte, breaking his fast in the great hall of Ferdinand de Martillac, the new earl of Bamburgh, attempting to tamp down his nerves about meeting his bride. What would she think of him? He wasn’t some handsome paragon. He was the sort of man women looked at and decided they wanted to be friends with—middling height, middling looks, middling social standing. As the daughter of an earl, she’d probably be disappointed to find herself marrying a baron. Fortunately, he had more wit than theaverage man. If she could look past the surface, perhaps he could win her over.

The morning meal was an informal affair with members of the earl’s household and some of his higher-ranking soldiers wandering in and out at their leisure. The hall’s rough stone walls were unadorned, the family having just taken possession of the castle the previous month. But despite its spare décor, the space still had a rugged grandeur. It was at least twice the size of his great hall back in Winchelsea.

Martin sat at the head table beside the earl, forcing himself to pick at the food before him to stay calm. There was no going back now. Lady Eleanor’s letter had been delivered, and the wheels were turning. He would be a married man by sunset, whether he was ready or not.

He’d even shaved off his moustache for the occasion. His upper lip felt naked without it, but he knew his bride wouldn’t appreciate such an unfashionable affectation. He wasn’t what most women would consider a prize in terms of looks, and he didn’t want to make it worse.

“I hear you have been quite successful with shipping investments,” Lord Ferdinand said, taking a bite of fresh-baked bread with a slice of hard cheese on top, a few crumbs falling down the front of his heavy wool surcotte.

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