Mistaken for a Lady Read Free Page A

her?
    Or had she gone because she couldn’t bear to live on in her beloved Fontaine knowing it would never be hers?
    It had hurt that Francesca had left the duchy rather than wait for him to complete his duties. So many months had passed and she’d not answered a single one of his letters. That hurt too. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, surely he shouldn’t feel this way?
    Now, with Francesca continually ignoring his letters, Tristan refused to waste more time. He needed to apply for an annulment. He needed a sound political marriage. He needed heirs.
    He hardened his heart. The plain truth was that Francesca hadn’t taken refuge in his castle at des Iles as he had invited her to. She had fled the duchy. Her silence was yet more proof that she wanted nothing to do with him. Silence was a form of desertion. And desertion was definitely grounds for annulment.
    Somewhere in the depths of his memory a pair of candid grey eyes—Francesca’s eyes—smiled back at him. Her smile had been warm and genuine. Or so he had believed. A knife twisted, deep inside.
    He set his jaw. It was time to have their marriage dissolved. Francesca wasn’t an heiress. Their marriage had brought him nothing but grief—the confusion he’d felt at their parting refused to dissipate. At times it felt very much like pain. Perhaps that wasn’t so surprising. He had liked Francesca very much; her lack of response to his letters really rankled.
    Bastian was staring at the gatehouse outside Count Henry’s palace. ‘Is that the palace, my lord?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    Bastian gave him a troubled look. ‘What will you do for a mask, my lord? Didn’t Sir Ernis say a mask was obligatory?’
    â€˜Never mind, Bastian, I have the very thing.’
    * * *
    Francesca’s mask was green to match her gown. Standing in a stairwell just outside the palace great hall, she held her veil to one side while Mari tied it into place.
    â€˜Thank you. Are you ready, Mari?’
    â€˜Yes, my lady.’
    Giving her veil a tweak to ensure it flowed neatly over the ties of her mask, Francesca stepped into the hall. A wave of noise and heat rolled over her. Unprepared for either the press of people or the warmth, Francesca recoiled so swiftly that Mari—who was following close behind—walked into her.
    â€˜I’m sorry, my lady.’
    Francesca’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Saints, half of Champagne must be here. It would be hard to imagine there’s room for anyone else.’
    A manservant bearing a tray of goblets shot past the doorway faster than she could have believed possible, he nimbly sidestepped a small child playing with a grizzled wolfhound and narrowly avoided an upturned bench.
    Behind her mask, Mari’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, my lady, isn’t it exciting? May Day always is the best of the festivals.’
    â€˜It’s a pagan celebration,’ Francesca said. ‘It’s not an official one, it’s not sanctioned by the Church.’
    â€˜All the better, we can really enjoy ourselves.’ Mari nudged her in the small of her back. ‘Well? Don’t you think we need a goblet of wine?’
    Straightening her spine, Francesca pushed into the throng. The twanging of a lute floated down from the minstrel’s gallery. A drum beat softly in the background.
    Truth be told, Francesca had no wish to take part in the revel, she wasn’t in the mood. She’d only come to please Mari, who had been talking of nothing else since Sir Ernis had so foolishly mentioned there was going to be a masked revel at the palace.
    Mari was more of a companion than a servant and, despite her outspoken manner, she was a loyal supporter. It would have been churlish to deny her and Francesca had known Mari wouldn’t dream of coming without her. So, despite not being in the mood for frivolity, she’d been persuaded to come.
    Mari’s mask made her smile. It was a