"Thank you, my lord." Miranda curtsied. "It is a most generous gift, sir."

"Not at all," he said. "It belonged to your mother. As I see it, it is merely returned to its rightful owner."

"You had it from my father?" Miranda lightly touched the emerald swan, setting it swinging.

"Aye." Henry was suddenly somber. "Your father was my dear friend. He treasured the bracelet after your mother's murder. On his deathbed, he gave it to me in remembrance of that night… as a symbol of all we lost…" Then he added in a voice so soft it was almost to himself, "and of all we must avenge."

There was a short silence, then Henry shook his head, as if dispelling grievous memory. "Come, my lady. Let us walk a little and you shall tell me all about yourself."

Miranda couldn't resist casting Gareth a quick, impish look over her fan at this, but he studiously ignored her, although she could have sworn she'd seen his lips twitch.

"If you would prefer to speak French, sir, I would be quite happy to do so," Miranda ventured to her escort. He seemed to be leading her most deliberately toward the far side of the hall, to where a heavy tapestry hung over what Miranda guessed to be an exit.

"Ah, you speak my language, then?" Henry was surprised and gratified.

"Passably," she replied, continuing in French. "How was your voyage? The Channel can be rough at this time of the year."

"You have crossed to France?" His surprise became astonishment. "Your guardian didn't mention that you had ever returned to the country of your birth."

"No… no, my lord, indeed I have not," she said hastily. "But I've heard tell of the roughness of the sea on occasion."

"Ah, yes." He nodded and picked up his pace again, but there was a slight frown in his eye. "You've been in England since you were a mere infant, and yet you speak my language as if it were your native tongue."

"I had an excellent French tutor," she improvised. "He and I spoke only French for days at a time. Lord Harcourt considered it necessary that I should be fluent in both tongues."

"As indeed he is himself," Henry commented. It was an entirely reasonable explanation and her facility in his language would be a great advantage when she arrived in France. It would endear her to his people as well as to his court.

"But we'll use English while I am here. It is only courteous to adapt to one's hosts, and I could use the practice." He smiled with a touch of self-deprecation.

His smile was one of the most attractive things about him, Miranda thought. She had a feeling he used it sparingly. There was a coiled force to his physical presence that made the smile all the more appealing. Would Maude find him pleasing? Impossible to say just yet.

"Let us see what lies through here." Henry pushed aside the heavy tapestry as they reached it. "Ah, an embrasure," he declared. "A place where we may be private in our discussions."

Miranda glanced over her shoulder. "But, my lord duke, will it not be considered immodest of me?"

"We have Her Majesty's blessing on my suit," he said with a chuckle. "I approve of a modest maid, but have no fear, you'll receive no censure while the queen and your guardian smile." He swept Miranda before him with an arm at her waist and the heavy tapestry swung back behind them.

It was a small window alcove, curtained presumably to keep out the drafts. A plain wooden bench was set against the paneled wall beneath the window.

"Ah, it's so stuffy!" Henry went to the window and flung it wide. "I cannot abide being indoors for long." He turned back to Miranda, again with that somewhat self-deprecating smile. "I am a rough and rude soldier, my lady Maude. Not very domesticated. I'm happier under canvas than slate or thatch."

"Indeed, my lord duke, I prefer the outdoors myself," Miranda said. "There's nothing so…" She caught herself just in time as she was about to launch into a description of the pleasures of sleeping under the stars on a fine summer night.

"So?" he prompted, regarding her with interest.

"So pleasant as a walk in the woods," Miranda said hastily. "But I expect you'd consider that tame, sir."

"But perfectly suitable for a gently bred maid," he responded. "Come, sit down beside me." He sat on the bench and drew her down next to him. "Tell me honestly now. Are you content for this match?" His expression was very serious as he turned her face toward him with a finger beneath her chin.

"My lord, I am obedient in all things," she murmured, veiling her eyes.

"No… no… little maid, that is not what I asked you." He tilted her chin further; his voice was very grave. "I will not pursue a match where the maid is unwilling. I would have a wife who came to me willingly this time, and not at the behest of politics."

His eyes were shadowed now with anger, his mouth thinned to a bare line. God help them all if this man ever discovered the deception, Miranda thought with a little shiver.

"You've been married before, my lord?" she inquired, moving her head away from his hand, dropping her eyes to her lap. "I was unaware."

"A man of thirty-nine summers, ma chere, does not come without a history," he replied, shrugging his shoulders with an impatient gesture. This doublet fitted him too well, tight across the shoulders and chest, and the silk shirt beneath felt soft and clingy like a snake's skin. He yearned for the easy comfort of his buff leather jerkin and the coarse linen shirt beneath.

"Are you uncomfortable, my lord?" Miranda looked at him in puzzlement. He had the pained air of a man sitting in a nettle bed.

"This damn doublet is too tight," he muttered. Then realizing how inappropriate such a complaint must seem in the circumstances, he returned abruptly to the previous subject. "My wife died."

The cynical lie was easily spoken. At this moment, Marguerite was probably locked in passion with one of her many paramours. But she'd give him her blessing on this endeavor. Marguerite, although loathing the match that her mother and brother had forced upon her, had not known she had been the bait for the massacre at their wedding. She had saved her husband's life despite her unwillingness for the match and they had remained friends over the years. But she would be as relieved to be rid of the burden of their marriage as he would. In fact, he thought, she would probably like this girl.

The demurely lowered eyes and protestations of dutiful obedience were a sham, he was convinced of it. There was a lot more to her character than she was letting him see. He had seen the way she moved when she thought she was unobserved, and he had noted the intriguing glint in the azure eyes. No complete innocent played the coquette with quite the skill of this lady, and he guessed he was being treated to another example of her skill. No, there was definitely something about her that would speak to Marguerite.

He took her hand, played with the fingers. He felt her stiffen and her hand lay limp and unresisting in his." There's no need to be afraid," he reassured, willing to play the game for a while longer. He raised her fingers to his lips.

Miranda tried to withdraw her hand. There was only one person she could respond to as the duke of Roissy so clearly wished her to respond.

Henry felt a stab of impatience. His fingers closed more tightly over hers and he brought his other hand to her throat. He stroked with a fingertip down to the pulse. The skin of the finger was rough and callused against her flesh and she raised a hand in a fluttering gesture of protest. But he ignored it, moving the finger down over the soft white skin of her breasts. The decolletage was low, accentuated by the high collar of the ropa rising stiffly at the back.

His finger dipped into the cleft between the small mounds. Miranda moved abruptly, pushing aside the exploring finger. "My lord duke, you must not."

"Is it too soon for a little loverly attention, ma chere7." He laughed. "But I know full well that you enjoy the game of coquette." He had felt the quickening of her skin beneath his touch, the speeding of the pulse. A swift and delightfully passionate response.

"We have but newly met, sir," Miranda offered.

"But of course, and you would be wooed and gentled as any maid," he agreed with a bluff laugh. But the frown had returned to his eyes. Games were all very well if one had the time for leisurely wooing. He must be back in France within the month and he would have his future bride coming softly to hand before he left. He would be assured that this time he had no unwilling bride.

"Will you take me back to Lady Dufort, sir?" Never had Miranda expected to wish for Imogen's company…

"I would take one small earnest of your consent first." This time, the fingers on her chin were very firm as he turned her face up. She saw his eyes, dark, sharp, and keen as a falcon's, coming closer. The thin-lipped mouth within its neat beard hovered above her. She steeled herself for the kiss, reminding herself that she was playing a part. She was Maude, a shy virgin, obedient to the dictates of her guardian, but not repelled by this suitor, not reluctant for such a marriage.

But when his lips brushed hers, she jumped, jerked her head away. "Your pardon, sir. I… I… am not accustomed…"

Henry stared at her in frustration. Certainly he was taking the game of flirtation a big step further, but the girl knew what was expected of her. And yet he had the feeling that her panicked response had not been feigned, was not part of a maidenly game of sham decorum.

"Very well," he said, not troubling to disguise his disappointment. "Come, I will return you to your chaperon. We shall have other opportunities in the next few days to get to know each other better." He rose to his feet and offered her his arm.