Page 16 of The Favourite

“Jane,” Osanna murmured in her ear.

Jane gave a start. “Yes?”

“We are leaving.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” She rose hastily from the bench and filed out after the others. As she passed through the hall, the murmured conversations grew considerably in volume.

Osanna slipped an arm through hers. “Pay them no heed,” she recommended.

“They could at least have waited until Jane had left the hall,” Lady Millicent Everidge commented loudly in a carrying voice. She glanced about the hall, seemingly enjoying the moral high ground.

“So ill-bred,” Patience Stanhope agreed loftily, conveniently forgetting that Jane had overheard her gossiping on the subject only two hours previously.

Strangely, the show of solidarity from her fellow ladies-in-waiting did comfort Jane a little. Once they returned to the east wing, the other ladies tentatively suggested Jane join them a while, but they quickly accepted when she demurred, pleading tiredness. Jane tried not to think they likely had much to discuss in her absence.

Osanna sent their shared servant in to attend to Jane first. The fire was speedily lit in her room and water fetched for her to wash. She was helped out of her court dress and trappings and soon Jane was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, exhausted yet unable to find sleep. Something nagging at her mind prevented it.

With a sigh, she let herself admit just what it was. Viscount Bardulf. She needed to face up to cold, hard facts. Unless she did something drastic, then in the not-too-distant future, she would end up his wife. The breath froze in her throat. She simply could not imagine it. Wife to the one man at court in whose presence she always felt gauche, however much she strove to hide it.

She did not care how attractive he was and, in any case, his looks were not the kind Jane admired. If pressed on this point, she would say a man who was modest and neat in manner was superior in every way to an ostentatious peacock such as Viscount Bardulf.

His height was generally admired, but Jane did not care for it. It made her feel at a disadvantage when addressing him. She did not like men with imposing physiques, and while it was true, Viscount Bardulf was not bursting out all over with muscles like some of the knights she could mention, he was not a slight man. No, she thought frowning, he was not slight. He was lean. There was a difference.

When he wore hose, especially with a short doublet, Jane had often thought he looked more than a little indecent. His thighs were not those of a boyish squire but of a man. Displaying muscular thighs even in a discreet black velvet did not seem like nice behavior to Jane, let alone maroon or crimson.

Moreover, she felt sure somehow, that he practiced deceptive arts when it came to his appearance. He was always lounging on seats and leaning against pillars, so you did not notice the true strength and stature of his build. She had often reflected on it.

His hair for instance. He wore it far too long and it curled, making him appear prettier than he really was. When you took a good look at him, his eyes, which so often gleamed with irreverent mirth, were merely an indeterminate shade of hazel. His smile, which she had heard called charming, was more often than not, cruel.

He drew your eye, quite deliberately in her opinion, to his pretty rings and beaded sleeves, so that you almost failed to notice the bejeweled dagger at his hip. When he laughed, if the jest was not directed at her, she could admit he was almost handsome. Oh, very well, he was handsome.

He was extremely handsome. She could admit it when alone in the quiet of her room. It was just not the sort of handsome she personally cared for. Once, she had noticed with surprise that he had quite extraordinarily beautiful hands. Then he had teased her mercilessly for a half hour, speculating that she must covet his ruby ring.

If Jane could cross a room to avoid him, she would, but as he was so frequently found in the Queen’s presence, she had come to view him almost as a necessary evil. A man of whom she had always heartily disapproved. A frivolous, insincere, and vain man, who cared only for his own hedonistic pursuits.

Of course, she had only the vaguest ideas of what those pursuits might be, and perhaps that was just as well. She did not approve of the ones she was aware of. She knew he must spend inordinate amounts on his jewels and apparel and his showy horses. He was probably the most elegant man in Aphrany; he was certainly the most fashionable.

None of these things were particularly heinous vices, she told herself bracingly. Many of her fellow nobles were vain spendthrifts. It was his own money he frittered away, after all. It was just that Viscount Bardulf’s manner could be so devastating when it suited him.

She thought of all the times he had casually insulted her, his eyes dancing with malice. That time he had told her that she should never be permitted to read poetry aloud, for she made it sound like a laundry list. How the Queen’s other ladies had tittered. She smarted now even to think of it.

She thought fleetingly of Osanna and Patience, who had flanked her at supper. If she was no longer the Queen’s favorite, then she should probably cultivate their friendship. Maybe she should have all along. Perhaps then they would not have laughed to see her mortified.

Then again, her fellow courtiers did seem to find Viscount Bardulf’s barbed tongue amusing. He was considered quite the wit at court, though Jane did not think the King liked him much. Not that she cared about his opinion. In her present frame of mind, the fact King Wymer disliked him was a point in Bardulf’s favor.

Then of course, there was the fact that he had just now told her that he had no desire to beget an heir … That was certainly worthy of note. She had not been entirely surprised, for she knew he did not admire her remotely. This would be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. A marriage to retain position and status at court.

Jane sighed and rolled onto her side. Even so, was she really going to join her lot in life to his, even if it was in name only? It would mean spending a good deal more time in his appalling company. Shying away from the thought of his handsome, mocking face, she thought instead of Helen, not as she’d been on that awful night, but as she had been throughout their childhood together.

Yes, she realized. She would do whatever it took to keep her promise to her sister. Resigned to her fate, she closed her tired eyes at last and finally found sleep.

6

The next morning, Jane had discreetly joined the other ladies-in-waiting in the Presence Chamber and did not so much as approach the inner sanctum of the Queen’s Privy Chamber, as was her custom. Quite frankly, she was uncertain of her welcome there these days.

Instead, she settled herself on an available seat and concentrated on her needlework, affecting not to notice the speculative whispers all around her. A swift glance told her that Osanna was nowhere to be seen, and without her presence, she felt unsure of the friendliness of the others.

Finally, a discreet cough notified her to the fact Estrilda Rheinholdt was stood directly in front of her. “You honor us with your presence this morning, Jane,” she said, rather too loudly.