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  THE GAME OF LOVE IS A DANGEROUS ONE IN THE COURT OF HENRY VIII…

  Betrayed by an ambitious father, forcibly betrothed to the handsome yet enigmatic Sir Jon Raemon and soon to be bedded by the covetous King Henry, Virginia D’Arvall is the female pawn in a masculine game of desire, power and lust.

  Ginny is determined to keep her honor, but in these dangerous courtly games, she will need to have her wits about her like never before. Will she realize that in Sir Jon she may just have all the love and protection she needs to survive?

  “So you don’t see it as an honor to be the king’s mistress? Many women would.”

  “His Majesty has a new wife,” Ginny said, “of whom I am fond, sir. I would be shamed, not honored. You, apparently, see things differently. You stand to gain.”

  Sir Jon’s reply was not quite what she’d expected. “Believe it or not, mistress, I am not as eager as you seem to think to propel you with all haste into the king’s bed. I can manage without his rewards. So tell me,” he continued, “is there someone else?”

  Here was the perfect opportunity, Ginny thought, to invent some mysterious and handsome lover to whom she had given her heart, to show Sir Jon she could play the dalliance game as well as he. But for the life of her she could not do it, and the chance slipped away before she could make the slightest dent in his arrogance. “No,” she whispered, looking at the gold aglets on his sleeve. “There’s no one.”

  He lifted her chin to make her eyes meet his. But the shadows were deep and there was little for him to recognize except the blaze of hostility, of which he already knew.

  * * *

  Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded

  Harlequin® Historical #383—July 2014

  Praise for Juliet Landon

  “Landon’s novel is charming, romantic and historically accurate; it’s a feast for the history lover.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Scandalous Innocent

  “Landon’s understanding of the social mores and language of the era flow through the pages of this sweet novel that gives a huge nod to Jane Austen… will please Regency aficionados.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Rake’s Unconventional Mistress

  “Landon has written a titillating and entertaining battle of the sexes, one in which readers cannot help but take sides—both of them.”

  —RT Book Reviews on His Duty, Her Destiny

  Juliet Landon

  Betrayed, Betrothed

  and Bedded

  Available from Harlequin® Historical and

  JULIET LANDON

  The Maiden’s Abduction #132

  The Widow’s Bargain #717

  One Night in Paradise #733

  The Bought Bride #766

  His Duty, Her Destiny #802

  A Scandalous Mistress #836

  Dishonor and Desire #860

  The Warlord’s Mistress #869

  The Rake’s Unconventional Mistress #932

  Scandalous Innocent #1044

  Mistress Masquerade #373

  Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded #383

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  Visit www.Harlequin.com.

  JULIET LANDON’s

  keen interest in art and history, both of which she used to teach, combined with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favorite occupation. She is particularly interested in researching the early medieval and Regency periods, and the problems encountered by women in a man’s world. Her heart’s home is in her native North Yorkshire, but now she lives happily in a Hampshire village close to her family. Her first books, which were on embroidery and design, were published under her own name of Jan Messent.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  Bibliography

  Prologue

  1536

  There were still days that late autumn when the light was so bright and clear that it almost hurt the eyes. Even in England. On this particular morning, only a month before All Saints, the low sun bounced its rays across fields of stubble and flooded the sky with a cobalt blue that made the party of riders blink and shade their eyes against the glare.

  ‘Over there, see?’ said Sir Walter D’Arvall, pointing to a distant mark on the horizon. ‘The towers? Still in place, thank God.’ His voice held a tone of relief and excitement, for the grand and glorious priory towers and their bells were usually the first to be destroyed in King Henry’s purge of religious foundations since his much-publicised rift with his Holiness the pope.

  In the small group accompanying Sir Walter, his second daughter, Ginny, had just returned home after living for over four years with a northern family and, having had enough of her mother’s attempts to count through the linen cupboard once more, had leaped at her father’s invitation to visit Sandrock Priory across the rolling downlands of Hampshire. The prior, Father Spenney, had a good-looking nephew, Ben. He and Ginny had known each other since childhood and, in her absence, they had seen each other only infrequently. There would be some catching up to do. She spurred her horse forwards along the tracks. ‘Is Father Spenney expecting us?’ she said, meaning, Is Ben expecting me? She hoped he had not taken his vows while she’d been away.

  ‘No,’ said her father. He did not tell her, as perhaps he ought to have done, that the other person he expected to meet at the priory was another neighbour, Sir Jon Raemon, heir to much of the land adjoining his own, and proprietor, for the past three years, of Lea Magna while his father was incarcerated in a French prison. At twenty-four years old, the responsibility for an estate the size of Lea Magna was considerable, more than most young men would have welcomed, but Sir Jon was the kind of man to make a good son-in-law, eager and competent. Now Ginny was back home, he might, God willing, be on the look-out for a well-bred, well-trained young woman to ease his path through life, and even if the dowry would not have set his heart racing, her looks, Sir Walter thought, might make up for what the dowry lacked. Although they might not, if Sir Jon turned out to be as pragmatic as himself. At well-turned sixteen, Virginia D’Arvall had an exceptional beauty, and Sir Walter had never believed he would have the slightest difficulty in finding a husband for her. So far, his theory had not been put to the test but today...today, it might be.

  At Sandrock Priory, Sir Walter and Ginny were escorted into the library, where Father Spenney stood at the top of a ladder handing down books to a team of brown-clad monks. Not being a man of expansive gestures, he merely smiled his pleasure and climbed down, holding out his hands to his friend and neighbour. ‘A sorry state you see us in, Sir Walter,’ he said sadly. ‘I never thought to see such a day. Ah, well!’

  ‘We shall talk,’ said Sir Walter. ‘Then maybe...who knows...?’ He shrugged. ‘But you remember Virginia, Father? She was a lass of twelve or thirteen years when you last met. You see a change?’

  ‘Father,’ said Ginny, ‘we have all changed, except you.’ Her eyes searched for Ben amongst those monks who had begun a discreet exit. Finding a pair of adoring brown eyes, she smiled at the change in him, too. The same age as Ginny
, Father Spenney’s nephew had never been in a position to develop his friendship with Sir Walter’s daughter, but as children there had always been an attraction that they knew could, with more contact, grow into something deeper. Now, with the priory about to be dissolved by Act of Parliament, it looked as if Ben and his uncle might be lost to them altogether unless her father offered them a home.

  Father Spenney’s hand smoothed over the leather-bound volume on top of a pile, his fingertips lingering over the gold tooling and heavy jewelled clasp. ‘We’re trying to save them,’ he said. ‘You know what they’ll do with these, Sir Walter, if they get their hands on them? They’ll sell them to grocers and chandlers for wrapping paper. They’re sending books by the shipload to bookbinders for the leather and parchment. They reuse the metal pieces and the pages they’ll use as rags.’ His voice wavered, balking at the images of destruction. ‘Priceless,’ he whispered. ‘Hundreds of years old. Doesn’t he realise what’s happening to them?’

  A voice from the archway at the far end of the library turned all heads in his direction. ‘When the king makes a decree,’ the man said, striding forwards, ‘it may mean that something suffers in its wake. If he made exceptions for this, that, and the other, there’d be those who would take advantage. It would be chaos, Father.’ The man came to stand beside Sir Walter, removing his cap and extending his hand in greeting. ‘Sir Walter. Well met, sir. I hope I see you in good health? And your lady wife?’ Taller and broader than the two older men, his athletic frame and easy, graceful bearing would have drawn attention in any crowd, for not only was he perfectly dressed in a black fur-lined mantle over a black brocade doublet, but he was also the handsomest man Ginny had ever seen. So good-looking, in fact, that she could hardly take her eyes off the strongly chiselled features and the thick dark hair that showed the imprint of his cap, before he replaced it. The jaw was square and well defined, the neck muscled and frilled by a delicate linen collar edged with blackwork embroidery, with rows of gold aglets to tie all edges together.

  His voice matched the figure, Ginny thought, well modulated and richly dark. And he was working for King Henry VIII to destroy the monasteries. He greeted the prior as though they had already met that morning. ‘My assistants are preparing lists, Father,’ he said. ‘Are you ready for them in here?’

  ‘A few more minutes, Sir Jon, if you will?’ said Father Spenney. ‘But you recall Mistress D’Arvall, surely?’

  Sir Jon swung round to face Ginny and slowly removed his cap again with a graceful flourish and a bow that allowed him to keep his eyes on her until he was upright. ‘Mistress D’Arvall? I thought I knew all your family, Sir Walter. Where have you been keeping this one hidden?’ He made it sound, Ginny thought, as if she was the last of a litter.

  ‘With the noble Norton family in Northumbria until last week, Sir Jon. Virginia, this is our neighbour, Sir Jon Raemon. I don’t believe you ever met, did you?’

  ‘No, Father. Sir Jon,’ Ginny said, making her curtsy. Northumbria, her father had said, where she had been introduced to young and not-so-young men by the score, where not one of them had held her interest for more than a day or so, though she’d had to pretend otherwise out of politeness to her hosts. She had learned how to conduct herself in every situation and was now, in theory at least, supposed to be able to handle herself as a lady should. But there were times, she was discovering, when nothing could prepare one for the heart’s response to this kind of thing, when it refused to obey commands to settle back into its rhythm, to beat less loudly, to give her her breath back. Her eyes were held by his, dark and probing, as if he could see that something deep inside her was already changing, writing that life change on her heart for ever. If one believed in love at first sight, then this must be it.

  ‘Mistress D’Arvall,’ he said, taking in the full picture of her in a pool of bright sunlight. It caught the white-gold mane that fell down her back, lighting up the perfect complexion and the autumn glow in her cheeks and lips. The grey black-rimmed eyes glistened like quartz, incredibly thick lashed. ‘I have met your two brothers often at court. The elder one, Master Elion, assists your father, I believe, in the household offices.’

  ‘He does, sir. He aspires to be comptroller of the royal household one day, but he’ll have to wait a while.’

  Sir Jon smiled. Dead man’s shoes, indeed. ‘And the younger...Paul, is it? What does he aspire to?’

  ‘To be a gentleman of the king’s bedchamber. The king likes him well.’

  ‘Hmph! And you, mistress? You seek a place at court, too?’

  There were several pairs of ears listening. This was not the moment to be discussing her future and all those clever responses she’d learnt deserted her. ‘No, sir. I am a countrywoman at heart.’ What was she saying? He would think her unlettered and dull, domestic, bovine. She could do better than that. ‘But these books belonging to the priory, Sir Jon. Is there not a better way of disposing of them? Some safe place, perhaps, where they could be kept until...well...I mean, are you not in a position to turn a blind eye to their existence here? Once destroyed, they can never be replaced, can they? As the king’s official, do you condone the destruction of such priceless treasures? Will you allow it?’

  Sir Jon’s eyes widened under the welter of questions, but instead of answering them directly, he spoke to her father. Which she resented. ‘What do you have here, Sir Walter? A bookish daughter?’

  The quartz eyes glittered hard. ‘I am not bookish, Sir Jon,’ she replied, ‘but I know an irreplaceable item when I see one and there are hundreds here. Individually, they must be worth—’

  ‘Mistress D’Arvall,’ said Sir Jon, unused to being lectured by a woman, ‘I am aware of their worth. But when the king gives me an order through his secretary, Sir Thomas Cromwell, I tend not to question it unless I want to lose my job. Which I do not. The priory must be emptied, and Father Spenney understands that it must be done efficiently and quickly. We don’t have time to find buyers for individual items, however precious. As I have said, if His Majesty were to start making exceptions, we should be here for ever. He needs the funds rather urgently, you see.’

  Father Spenney was more resigned. ‘I think you may be on a loser here, Mistress D’Arvall. Don’t pursue it. It’s useless.’

  Sir Walter disagreed. ‘Does Cromwell know exactly what happens to every item, Sir Jon?’ he said. ‘If not, then I have a suggestion that might find favour with you and our beloved prior. Would you care to hear it?’

  The silence in the room, padded by shelves of books and manuscripts, was almost tangible as Sir Jon absorbed the implications of a scheme as yet unspoken, while the noble head turned to look at Ginny with a sweeping survey that she thought he might have used on a piece of prime bloodstock. It both infuriated and excited her. Then, ushering his neighbours to one side for a more personal discussion, he said, ‘Shall we talk about this, Sir Walter? And my lord prior? What exactly do you...?’

  Ginny and Ben remained to draw some comfort from a hurried conversation and a privacy they had not thought likely to happen. How would they manage once the priory was closed down, emptied, sold off, and re-used for secular purposes? Where would Ben go? What could he do? How would he earn a living? Her father, Ginny was sure, would not allow them to be homeless. Ben would not now be taking vows. His pleasant face softened as he drew on that hope, while the thought of seeing more of her than before would mean more to him than food. Even so, as plans were tossed to and fro within Sandrock Priory on that autumn morning, Ben sensed that something had already happened to Ginny that she herself would find impossible either to admit or explain. And although she spoke oftener and kindlier to Ben than to Sir Jon, it was the young gallant with the authority over people’s livelihoods and the manners of an arrogant courtier that held her attention on a knife-edge, as if she would keep every detail of him in her memory to sustain her in the days, weeks, months ahead. His place was
at court. Hers, by her own choosing, was at D’Arvall Hall. They were unlikely ever to meet again.

  Ben, however, was a known quantity, nearby and adoring, the very antithesis of Sir Jon Raemon with his royal connections and ambitions. Not that she and Ben could ever have become marriage partners: Ben’s orphaned state and lack of prospects excluded him completely from her father’s list of potential sons-in-law. Her affection for the gentle, scholarly, young novice would never soften her father’s heart, nor would it be encouraged.

  So when Ben backed away before the approach of Sir Jon, it was with a combination of regret and excitement that Ginny ceased to hear Ben’s last few words to her and instead felt the presence of the man who was already forcing an entry into her heart as Ben had never done. Sir Jon glanced briefly at Ben’s departure, then at Ginny’s wary expression as if to discover the exact depth of the affection remaining in her eyes, a look she felt was too invasive by half. ‘We have known each other since we were small,’ she said before he could ask. ‘I believe he will be a physician one day.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Sir Jon replied, without enthusiasm. ‘So you have spent some time with the Nortons up in Northumbria, your father tells me. I know that family well. Is that where you learned to have opinions, mistress? Or were you always strong-minded?’ His eyes continued to roam at leisure over her, taking in every detail of her face and hair, her slender waist and the hands holding leather gloves, and she wished she had worn her new French hood instead of letting her hair loose like a girl.

  ‘Strong-minded, Sir Jon? Is that what you call it when a woman is able to express herself on matters other than the price of fish? The Nortons, as you should know, encourage the young women in their care to speak for themselves and to contribute to discussions. I thank God I can do more than sew aglets on a man’s points, sir.’ She saw the flicker of a smile tweak at the corners of his wide mouth and knew that her choice of dress accessories was open to more than one interpretation, his points being the cords that kept his breeches tied to his shirt, amongst other places.