Secrets at Court
THE THRONE OF ENGLAND IS AT STAKE!Anne of Stamford has long been the keeper of her mistress's secrets, but when Lady Joan marries the King’s son court life becomes ever more perilous. Sir Nicholas Lovayne has arrived to uncover the truth about Lady Joan’s past, and Anne must do something—anything—to throw him off…Longing to escape the intrigues at court, Nicholas hasn’t counted on the way Anne distracts him—her refusal to accept pity for her club foot touches something deep inside him. Will he be able to follow his duty when every fibre of his being tells him to protect Anne?
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You are cordially invited to Blythe Giffordâs
ROYAL WEDDINGS
A hint of scandal this way comes!
Anne of Stamford and Lady Cecily serve two of the highest ladies in the land. And with their close proximity to the royal family they are privy to some of the greatest scandals the royal court has ever known!
As Anne and Cecilyâs worlds threaten to come crashing down two men enter their livesâdashing, gorgeous, and bringing with them more danger than ever before. Suddenly these two strong women must face a new challenge: resisting the power of seduction!
Follow Anne of Stamfordâs story inSECRETS AT COURTMarch 2014
And look forWHISPERS AT COURTcoming soon
AUTHOR NOTE
Royal wedding! Even the words sound magical.
Unlike Cinderella, however, most royal brides enter marriage as an alliance of state, not of the heart. There are exceptions, and two of the most intriguing were those of the children of Edward III, the fourteenth-century English king. His eldest son and his eldest daughter were both allowed to marry for loveâunheard of for a royal at that time, and for centuries after.
This book and my next, WHISPERS AT COURT, are set in the world surrounding those weddings, where the real drama happens behind the scenes. For the bride of the Black Prince has secrets to keepâsecrets her longtime companion Anne must be certain that Sir Nicholas Lovayne never discovers â¦
After many years in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD started writing seriously after a corporate layoff. Ten years and one layoff later, she became an overnight success when she sold her Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist manuscript to Harlequin Mills & Boon>®. Her books, set in Medieval England or early Tudor Scotland, usually feature a direct connection to historical royalty. The Chicago Tribune has called her work âthe perfect balance between history and romanceâ. She lives and works along Chicagoâs lakefront, and juggles writing with a consulting career.
She loves to have visitors at www.blythegifford.com and www.pinterest.com/BlytheGifford, âthumbs-upâ at www.facebook.com/BlytheGifford, and âtweetsâ at www.twitter.com/BlytheGifford
Dedication
To all those struggling to move beyond the past.
Acknowledgements
With thanks for the support of the Hermits and the Hussies, two of my favourite writing tribes.
Contents
Chapter One
Windsor Castleâlate March, 1361
âCome. Quickly.â A whisper, urgent. Disturbing her dreams.
Anne felt a hand, squeezing her shoulder. She opened her eyes, blinking, to see the Countess holding a candle and leaning over her in the darkness.
Closing her eyes, Anne rolled onto her side. She only dreamt. Lady Joan would never rise in the dead of night. That was left to Anne.
Slender fingers pinched her cheek. âAre you awake, Anne?â
Suddenly, she was. Throwing back her bedclothes. Reaching for something to cover her feet. âWhat is it?â Had the pestilence found them? Or perhaps the French? âWhat is the hour?â
Lady Joan waved a hand. âDark.â Then, she gripped Anneâs fingers and tugged. âCome. I need you.â
Anne tried to stand. Awkward, more out of balance than usual. She patted the sheets, searching for her walking stick.
âHere.â It was thrust into her hand. Then, the Countess, putting her impatience aside, offered a shoulder to help Anne rise.
Kindness from her lady, often when it was least expected. Or wanted.
Walking staff tucked snugly under her left arm, Anne hobbled through Windsorâs corridors, mindful that Lady Joan had put a finger to her lips to signal quiet and gestured for her to hurry. As if Anne had any control over either. Between stick and stairs, she could not hurry unless she wanted to tumble to the bottom and risk her only good leg in the process.
Lady Joan led her toward the royal quarters and into an echoing chapel, dark except for a candle, held by someone standing before the altar. A man, tall and strong.
Edward of Woodstock, eldest son of the King, Prince of England, smiling and looking nothing like the stern warrior she, nay, all England and France knew.
Lady Joan was beaming, too. No longer sparing a glance for Anne, she moved swiftly to join her hand with his. âHere. Now. With a witness.â
No. It could not be what she intended. But Lady Joan, of all people, knew what must be done and how important a witness would be.
The Prince took her candle and set them both on the trestle that served as an altar. Wavering flames cast shadows upwards on their faces, throwing the Princeâs nose and cheekbones into sharp relief and softening her ladyâs rounded smile. Then they clasped hands, fingers tight, one on top of the otherâs.
