An Uncertain Choice(24)

“If you have any, they are most certainly hidden beneath your beauty.”

His praise warmed me to the tips of my slippered toes. It was indeed high praise from one so handsome and schooled in discovering treasures.

“Lest you think me vain,” he continued, heedless of the artists and tents around us, “I believe that you’re made more beautiful because of the sweetness of your inner spirit.”

What was I to do with such compliments? I simply didn’t know. I glanced down at the grass, which had been clipped to form a level plain for Sir Bennet’s art show.

As if sensing my discomfort, he politely held out his arm, his expression once again dignified and calm. “I have a surprise for you, my lady.”

I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm, conscious of his hard muscles beneath my fingers. Sir Bennet matched his step to mine, and we strolled leisurely toward the last tent, one we had yet to visit.

Underneath the canopy, in the middle, stood a painter, his palette already filled with paints, his paintbrush in hand. He bowed to Sir Bennet and then to me. Then he waved at a chair placed in an area of soft light. I was surprised to see that it was my golden chair, the one from the Great Hall. It was elaborate, due to its elegant carvings, but I had no particular fondness for it. In fact, most of the time it only served to remind me of how much I had and consequently how much more I could be doing for my people.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re commissioning a painting of my chair?”

“It is a very fine chair.” Sir Bennet’s ready smile was heartstopping. “But I would much rather have a painting of you, my lady.”

Finally, understanding began to dawn.

“I would be greatly honored if you’d sit for a portrait, one that I might take with me and have forever.”

“Of course,” I said. But what if I didn’t choose him as my husband? Then what would he do with the portrait? Or was he so confident that I’d fall in love with him that he disregarded all else?

“I thought the chair would make a remarkable backdrop.” Sir Bennet led me toward the chair. “Although it could use a bit more polishing.”

At Sir Bennet’s declaration, the painter spoke quietly to his young assistant, a boy not older than ten. The child rushed forward with a rag. It wasn’t until he reached the chair that I saw his fingers — ?or at least what was left of them. Most were nubs of varying lengths, and those left were masses of flaking, peeling skin.

Compassion stirred in my chest, making me all the more ready to sit for this portrait and by so doing provide the painter and his assistant a purse of coins they likely hadn’t encountered in years.

But the moment the boy lifted his rag to the chair, Sir Bennet held out his hand. “Don’t touch it.” The knight’s attention was fixed on the rotting flesh still left on the boy’s few fingers, and his eyes registered first shock, then revulsion.

“I don’t mind if he polishes my chair,” I said, hoping to allay Sir Bennet’s concern.

The handsome knight swallowed hard, looked away from the assistant’s deformed fingers, and then cleared his throat. “I think the chair is just fine after all. It will not require additional polishing.”

Thankfully, Sir Bennet was quiet about the matter for the remainder of my portrait. Mostly he ignored the boy’s presence and focused the whole of his attention on me and on the likeness that was growing on the easel. Nevertheless, I was determined to double the painter’s payment. It even crossed my mind that maybe I should just give him my chair.

But with the growing delight I witnessed on Sir Bennet’s face as the portrait neared completion, I soon lost thought of the chair and couldn’t keep from wondering: What would it be like to be married to a man who adored me heart, body, and soul? Was that man Sir Bennet? He certainly seemed like it.

If I had to pick between him and Sir Collin, how would I ever be able to make the choice? They both seemed like the kind of men who would cherish me — ?unlike Sir Derrick, who hadn’t spoken with me since the night I’d chanced upon him playing chess with the duke.

I frowned at the mar to my otherwise perfect week. Although I’d caught Sir Derrick watching me a time or two, I’d sensed his silent challenge — ?a challenge to stand up for myself and be a stronger leader. At times, I even wondered if he really wanted to be there at all, that perhaps he was simply waiting things out until it was time to leave.

I wasn’t sure why the thought bothered me, except to blame it on my vanity. I couldn’t expect that every man would find me attractive and wish to woo me.





Chapter

9




Sir Collin’s hearty voice rose in the air above the braying of hounds, making me smile. His song was silly and light and cheerful. As the bright noon sunshine glittered through the arches of branches and leaves overhead, I hummed along with him. Our hunting party rode through the lush forest, the coolness of the shade a welcome relief from the heat of the summer day. Our pace had long since slowed, the dogs having lost the scent of the game several times during the chase.

I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt quite as carefree and happy. Perhaps since the Plague had taken my parents, since that last hunting party when my life had changed forever. The beauty of the forest was something I’d missed — ?the dense green, the lush moss, the rushing of the river. But more than that, I’d missed the companionship, laughter, and conversations that were all but a distant memory, as if of another life altogether . . . and I realized how much more I would miss if I chose to enter the convent.