eward was actually a quite attractive man for his age. He was always so grave and diligent about his duties that she had never really paid attention to his looks before. Now, seeing the shy smile on the seamstress's face, she realized that he actually cut quite a dashing figure in his solemn clothes.
Shaking her head slightly, she stepped past the women and crossed the Great Hall toward the stairs. No doubt the pompous little popinjay wanted to start fittings right away. She really could not blame him for that. There were a lot of clothes to be made in a very short time. However, she suspected his attitude would not have improved in the short time since his arrival and she would have a trying few hours ahead of her.
Emma was not mistaken.
In the two hours she spent cooped up in the small bedchamber designated as the fitting room, she found herself driven to the point of contemplating the benefits of murder several times. None of the fabrics she favored were "quite right" according to de Lascey, nor were the styles she chose. As for her figure, while he had no complaint with her waist and hips, he fretted endlessly over her chest. It was not the fashion to be so buxom, he kept saying. Her "boosums" would ruin any design he chose to grace her with. "Zey would have to be bound."
By the time the nooning hour rolled around and she was able to escape, Emma had been clenching her teeth so hard for so long that she had a pounding headache. The noise and clamor in the Great Hall when she entered to join the midday meal simply aggravated the ailment. Emma briefly considered putting off returning to the fitting room and retiring for a nap after lunch until the ache had gone, but then decided there was little use in that. The ache would no doubt return the moment she returned to de Lascey's presence, and she would have to do that eventually if she wished new clothes for court. It was best to simply get it over with.
The scrape of something heavy being pushed along the stone floor drew Emma's gaze from her lunch to the room around her. Her eyebrows knitted in bewildered surprise as she saw that the men had finished their meal and were on their feet, pushing the long trestle tables against the walls.
"Husband? What happens here?" she asked, frowning over the activity.
Amaury stilled, his tankard halfway to his mouth as he realized guiltily that he had not informed his wife of his plans for the day. He had intended to tell her last night that he planned to hold court. But then she had behaved so oddly and the worry of her being ill had come up, and then the surprising occurrence of her baring herself to his sight had transpired, followed by the torrid interlude when he had finally made love to her. . . .
Frowning at Amaury for his silence, Blake leaned forward to speak around him. " 'Tis for court, Lady Emma."
"For court?"
"Aye." His forehead furrowed at her expression. "Did you not know he was to hold court today?"
"Nay," Emma said heavily.
Amaury frowned at the censure in her voice.
"Why are they clearing the room so?" she asked, unable to keep the anger out of her voice.
Blake glanced at his friend's surly expression, then answered the petite woman himself. "Amaury thought 'twould be better to make more room. The people have been neglected for so long that he is sure there will be many complaints."
"Neglected?" she repeated carefully.
"Aye. Well. We are aware that Fulk was much absent. Doubtless he had not bothered with a court day for quite awhile before his death."
"Nay, he did not. He did not hold court once in the two years after our marriage," Emma admitted grimly, then added, "I did."
Amaury was startled into speech at that. "You?"
"Aye. I ruled in my husband's absence," she pointed out with a distinct chill to her tone. "I saw to the running of the castle, the training of the men, and presiding over court."
Blake raised his eyebrows. "You saw to the training of the men?"
"Well, I saw that they had a proper trainer," she said quickly.
"Hmm." Amaury eyed her silently for a moment, his mind considering that. He had been quite surprised at how well trained her men had been. He had expected them to be lazy and inept. Instead they had been skilled and hardworking. Not as skilled as his own men, of course, but then his men were warriors. The best in the kingdom. Still, they were skilled. She had done well in seeing to their training.
He briefly considered commending her on her efforts, then decided against it. He would most likely embarrass her with such improper praise. Women preferred compliments on their looks and the running of the house hold to praise of their abilities in such manly matters as training for battle.
Emma peered silently at the transformation of her Great Hall. It was the custom for the lord to hold court once a month for his people, to hear their complaints and resolve any differences between them. It was a chore Emma had aided her father with before marrying and then taken over completely after moving here. As they had thought, Fulk had shown as little concern for his people and their problems as he had for his wife.
She supposed that, had she thought about it, she would have expected her new husband to take over the duty. Amaury was not as unconcerned with his people as Fulk had been. Still, she would not have expected him to simply take over the task in such a summary way, and she certainly would not have expected to hear about it like this. It seemed she was the very last to know. Even the servants had been aware of it before her. She found she wasn't just angry, she was hurt. After last night . . .
Sighing, she drew her eyes away from the men before her and peered at her hands as they twisted in her lap. Last night had been exciting and even beautiful. Emma had thought that they had shared something . . . special. She had felt that they were closer now. She had hoped that they would talk more, get to know each other better, discuss things. It seemed her husband did not feel the same way, she realized disheartenedly. She glanced toward him now, only to find that he no longer sat there. He and Blake had moved to stand by the fire while she was caught in her thoughts.
Rising, she moved to join them. "My lord?" She paused in surprise at the anger on his face as he turned to her, then took a breath and forced herself to continue. "I thought that since I am already apprised of the problems and past complaints of the villagers and servants, mayhap you would like my assistance."
"I need no interference, wife," Amaury snapped irritably. " 'Tis insulting for you to think that I might."
"I merely thought--"
"Have you so little faith in my abilities as lord?"
"Nay," Emma said quickly, trying to soothe his hurt pride. "But--"
"But nothing, wife. You see to your business and I shall tend to mine." Amaury turned to walk away, but got only halfway to the head table before stopping. He had not meant to be so short with her. In truth he knew he should have told her himself, and the fact that he had forgotten to had made him angry with himself. It had not helped that Blake had dragged him off into the corner to lecture him for not telling her and hurting her tender feelings. Again. Amaury was heartily sick of being told how to take care of his own wife. He turned back now with the intention of apologizing to her, but she was no longer by the fireplace where he had left her. She was mounting the stairs to return to her fittings.
He started to follow her to apologize, but just then the first of the villagers and servants with complaints to present before him began to file into the room. Sighing, he decided to leave it until later, and turned to begin court.
"Finalement!" Hands propped on his hips, de Lascey glared as he sashayed across the fitting room to confront her when she stepped through the door. "How do vous expect moi to get anyzing done when you are not available for zee measuring?"
For zee torturing, more like, Emma thought grimly, but pasted a penitent expression on her face and offered her apology. "My apologies, Monsieur de Lascey. I was delayed."
"Hmm." Pursing his lips, he eyed her doubtfully, then gave a dramatic sigh and turned to strut across the room. "Gytha, bring me zee gold cloth!"
Two hours later, Emma was standing on a sto
ol in the center of the room, her gown discarded and her shift hidden beneath yards of a gold cloth that was draped and pinned about her body. Her back was to the door of the room. She did not see her husband enter, so when he called her name from behind, she nearly fell off the stool in her surprise.
Smiling gratefully at Gytha, the seamstress who had grabbed her arm quickly to steady her, Emma turned carefully on the stool to face her husband.
"I . . ." He paused, his eyes widening incredulously at the sight of her swathed in gold. It was the first time Amaury had seen his wife in anything other than black. Even when she'd been naked, it was in the bedroom with a backdrop of black linens on the bed. Damn, but she looked lovely, he thought admiringly. Like an angel. Beautiful . . . Ethereal . . . Glowing . . . Flat . . .
Flat? Blinking, he focused his gaze directly on her chest, or where her chest used to be. "God's wounds, where be they?!"
Emma frowned in confusion. "Where be what, my lord?"
"Your . . . Your . . ." Lifting his hands, he held them before his own chest as if cupping two invisible melons to his plate mail.
"My lord!" Flushing deep red, Emma glanced askance at the others in the room. The women were rather wide-eyed, but the tailor looked as if he were about to burst out laughing. That expression was replaced by one of dismay when Amaury suddenly crossed the room and lifted him up by the front of his collar.
"What did you with my wife's b--"
"Bound!" the man squawked at once.
Frowning, Amaury cocked his head. "Bound?"
"They are still there, my lord. I simply bound them up. Gytha did it," he added quickly when Amaury's expression darkened. His accent was noticeably absent. "I, of course, would ne'er lay a finger to her--"
"Well, have her unbind them!" Amaury roared, interrupting him.
"Of course, right away."
"Nay, husband," Emma protested. "They will simply have to bind them again after you leave." Though she would have been grateful for the chance to be able to really breathe again, her breasts had just finally gone numb. It was painful to have your chest squished so flat. She did not wish to go through that again.