Page 43 of Lord of Loyalty

Will’s eyebrows shot up, and he gazed at Maybury. Surely the man wasn’t contemplating…?

“Are you considering remarrying?” He knew Maybury’s wife had died in childbirth in the spring of the previous year, and that the child had been lost as well.

Maybury shook his head. “I know not if I could put myself through that again. We were all much shaken. Her mother took it so hard, she barely lasted until the summer.”

“It must have been terrible.”

“It would have been worse had it been a love match. But I believe those are rarely come by. And not necessarily for the best. I say, love thy mistress and honor thy wife. You’re less likely to break your heart that way.”

Will would never have expected to be discussing affairs of the heart with any man, let alone Aloysius Maybury. “Perhaps I can introduce you to a few suitable ladies, once I’ve won my place at court. ’Tis the least I can do for my noble rescuer. Shall I find you a lady who plays delightfully? I recall you always enjoyed good music.”

“I certainly do. I’m particularly partial to the harpsichord. An instrument at which Mistress Marston is accomplished, I understand.”

Was that the way the land lay—Maybury was interested in Isobel? Will surveyed his friend in silence, battling to ignore the sudden feeling of panic that clutched at his chest. Maybury had a great deal to recommend him, besides his standing and his wealth. He was well-built, in florid good health, with startling blue eyes that seemed to take in everything they saw and more besides. He was of the same age as Will, and his bulk was accounted for by muscle, not fat. He appeared to have all his own teeth, and there was no sign of thinning in the neatly curled dark hair that framed his brow. Apart from a ready temper, his heart was in the right place, and he was not—as far as Will knew—a philanderer. He would be just the kind of husband and protector Isobel needed.

Will immediately began extolling the virtues of Paulina Mathieson, and every other lady of his acquaintance. The idea of Isobel in the arms of any man but himself was appalling. She was angry with him now, for chiding her, but he’d do what he could to win her forgiveness.

Then it struck him, with a blinding clarity that obliterated all else, that it wasn’t her forgiveness he needed at all.

What he needed, above all things, was to win her love.