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His heart? Kentigern lowered his goblet. He squinted at Orde. Was this bastard quoting his wife to him now, like she was some kind of expert on jousting? Surprisingly, he knew full well who Orde’s wife was. Everyone knew who Lenora Montmayne was – or had been. The fairest maid in all Karadok.

She had lost that title when the red pox had swept through the capital the summer before, her famous face falling victim to its ravages. Or so popular opinion held forth. Kentigern had regarded the pock marks and reddened skin on her face with skepticism. They were not scars as he knew them.

Still, he held a certain grudging admiration for Lenora Orde, as she was now known. Or rather, the Countess of Twyford. He might go so far as to admit, only to himself of course, that he even felt some measure of fellow feeling toward her. One of his fondest memories was awarding her the winner’s garland at Roget’s Ford early that year, just to piss off her husband who had been first runner up.

He recalled the look of murderous rage in Orde’s eye now and had to stifle a smirk into his wine goblet. In truth, the awarding of the tournament wreath was a mere afterthought to Konrad. He usually bestowed it wherever it would cause the most irritation. He had given it to Vawdrey’s wife in the past too, much to her husband’s ire.

“Heard you’d got married,” Orde commented.

“What of it?”

An uncharacteristic smile tugged at Orde’s lips. “No need to spring to your defense,” he muttered. “It happens to the best of us.”

“What does it have to do with you anyway?” Konrad demanded belligerently.

“Naught,” Orde shrugged, with as close an expression of affability that Konrad had ever seen on that surly bastard’s face. “You’re not the only newlywed here tonight, as it happens.” Guessing he was referring to Renlow, Konrad glanced about for his brother-in-law.

“You seen de Crecy?” Orde continued.

Konrad turned back to Orde in surprise. “De Crecy? I’d heard he wasn’t attending.”

“He showed up today with his new bride in tow,” Orde said, lowering his voice. He cocked his brow and nodded in the opposite direction to the one Konrad had been looking in.

Jeffree de Crecy was sat glowering across at a female in a drab gown of brown wool with a matching brown veil. Even Konrad knew that only veils of crisp white linen were worn at court. She looked like a nun, a plain faced nun moreover, and a total mismatch for de Crecy, who he loathed but had to admit was a handsome bastard, with his short blond beard and piercing blue eyes.

“That’s his wife?” Konrad asked blankly. He couldn’t even make out her hair color, it was scraped back so severely behind the dark veil.

“No one can make it out,” Orde continued in a low voice. “He looks as though he’d like to strangle her, and you should hear the way he speaks to her.”

Catching sight of the angry glance de Crecy flung at her across the table, Konrad felt a strange stirring of pity for the wretched wench. She looked poor as a church mouse. Magnatrude’s gowns were shabby, but you could see that at one time they had been grand enough. De Crecy’s wife looked like she would be more at home on a farm than at a king’s court.

The least that arrogant bastard could have done was buy her a new gown for the occasion, Konrad thought dispassionately. He watched as she lifted her head and met her husband’s furious gaze full on. She lifted her glass to toast her new husband with an expression which Konrad could not quite place. De Crecy turned crimson and rose unsteadily from his seat to fling away, leaving her sat quite alone. For an instant, Konrad could have sworn he saw the woman smile to herself, then she obscured his view by sipping at her wine. Mayhap this time he would award the crown to de Crecy’s bride? That would have the bastard choking on his own spleen.

“Where is she, then?” Orde asked, snapping him out of his observations.

“Who?”

“Your new bride,” he elaborated. “Everyone’s dying for a glimpse of her.”

“Not here,” Konrad responded briefly. It occurred to him that it would make perfect sense to everyone if de Crecy’s bride was Aimee, while his own was that rather homely creature sat by herself.

“You did not bring her to the feast?” For some reason, Orde looked surprised by this.

“It is not obligatory to bring one’s spouse, that I’m aware.”

Orde directed a pitying look at him. “’Tis plain to see you are but newlywed,” he murmured.

As Konrad could think of no reply to this, he merely scowled before glancing around. “I do not see your own wife,” he pointed out. For once.

“She’s seven months along now,” Orde replied promptly. “And long tired by this hour. She should probably have stayed at home, but ...” He shrugged as though he had little say in the matter.

Something about his indulgent expression made Konrad uncomfortable. Orde had gone soft. “Seems to me you should be the one carting Vawdrey’s infant about,” he pointed out snidely. “To grow accustomed to it!”

“Oh, I have,” Orde responded comfortably. “You forget, my wife is first cousin to Vawdrey’s.”

It would be hard to forget something he had not been aware of in the first place, Konrad thought, but did not voice.

Orde drained his cup. “Lenora will be waiting for me to join her me in our chamber.” He clapped a hand to Konrad’s shoulder, startling him. “I’d best be joining her, or she’ll be sound asleep.”